1. Prologue #2
“I have surgery early. I should be out by noon.”
Ah. That explains the aloof attitude. She’s a surgeon. “Perfect.” I hang up without saying goodbye. The need to get home and watch what she does is increasing and I struggle to keep the monster under wraps.
I return the next afternoon after four. She got home around three, stripped herself of her scrubs and went to shower.
The view through her plain glass shower door was immaculate.
She takes care of herself, that much is obvious, but perhaps the most enticing part was the way her fingers worked her body until she orgasmed around them.
Fascinating that a surgeon masturbated after getting off what I assume to be a bloody shift.
That image stays burned in my brain as I drive to her apartment complex, the city still bright but the shadows on the building already stretching toward evening.
The doorman greets me with a nod this time, the briefcase and toolbox a kind of uniform.
The elevator is empty, its walls mirrored so I can observe my own posture, check the precision of my tie and the arrangement of my hair.
Every appearance is a weapon, if properly honed.
At her door, the sensor glows in anticipation of my touch.
Julianna doesn’t know it, but I programmed it to accept my prints.
Instead of using them, I knock lightly. She opens it and steps back, standing in the same place, but today she is dressed in charcoal, her hair knotted at the base of her skull, not a single strand out of place.
She stands aside, wordless, as I step in.
The condo is unchanged. I note the temperature, two degrees colder than yesterday, and the subtle shift in scent, less floral, more chemical.
The kitchen counters are bare except for a poured-glass carafe and a single cup.
The dining table is set for one, place mat squared to the table’s edge, cutlery aligned to the nearest millimeter. I log the change in my mental ledger.
“I want the extra security,” she says, eyes flicking to the briefcase in my hand.
“Prudent,” I reply, not bothering to wonder why she needed it. A bad ex, perhaps. Maybe she’s just a paranoid little kitten. “The blind spots are not where most would expect.”
She gestures at the living room, and I set my case down on the table, just as I did yesterday.
Today’s payload is two micro-cameras, a pair of thermal sensors, and a set of flush-mounted motion contacts for the hallway.
I begin with the first camera, holding it between thumb and forefinger to display its lack of visible lens.
“This goes here,” I say, indicating the corner shelf that holds a kinetic sculpture of copper and brass.
“It can see the entryway and the entire living space, but the angle is such that anyone unfamiliar with optics will never find it. Even if they sweep.” These were my own doing.
Not connected to the company. I just wanted more access to her.
She didn’t need to know that there was no partial or full packages and she was already hooked up to emergency services.
No. I just want to monitor her every move. Her breath belongs to me now. My cock stirs, fighting for dominance as I try return to my task. There’s nothing more I want right now than to wrap my hands around her neck and watch as I slid myself inside her.
Fuuuuuck.
She watches as I extract the adhesive patch and set the camera, perfectly flush, between two arms of the sculpture.
I explain the field of vision, the transmission latency, the encryption protocol.
She asks about battery life, I tell her it draws from the building’s own current, disguised as a dead loop.
The second camera goes in the bedroom, inside the hollow of a decorative glass orb. She follows me down the hall, arms crossed, silent but not disengaged.
“Most people assume the most secure space is their own bedroom,” I say, slotting the camera into its nest. “But the greatest vulnerabilities occur when the subject is at rest.”
She does not ask what kind of vulnerabilities. I watch her reflection in the dresser mirror as I set the device, her expression calm but her eyes tight with calculation.
I install the thermal sensors in the ceiling corners, explaining as I go.
“These will track heat signatures in the event of power loss or smoke cover. The software can distinguish between a person and, say, a large dog or even an open oven.” I glance at her, noting the absence of any pet. “False alarms are rare.”
She picks up on it. “You noticed.”
“I notice everything, Ms. Whitmore.”
Instead, she walks back to the kitchen, pulling out the information packet I left yesterday. She flips through it at the counter, her movements brisk but precise, never bending the corners or creasing the spine.
I finish installing the motion contacts in the hallway, then rejoin her at the counter.
She has marked three lines in the manual, two with pencil, one with a fine-tipped black pen.
I admire the order of it, the intentionality.
She pauses with her hand on the edge of the page, brushes her thumb along the margin.
Her other hand runs through her hair, just above the knot, a repetition of yesterday’s gesture.
“You said the cameras could be monitored from anywhere,” she says, not looking up. “How do I know you’re not also monitoring them from somewhere else?”
“You do not,” I say, matching her candor. “But the answer is, I am. That is what you paid for.”
She considers this. I can almost hear the calculus in her head, the weighing of threat versus benefit. She nods once, satisfied. “And if I want you to stop?”
“You call and ask me nicely.”
She smiles, the corners of her mouth tightening but never softening. “You’re very literal, Creed.”
“I find there is less margin for error that way.”
She stands, the packet still in her hand. “Show me the feed.”
I do. I link my tablet to her phone, the app opening with a password I enter in plain view.
Downloading the app and connecting the feeds, her phone is now fully connected to the system The four quadrants populate: entry, living, bedroom, hallway.
All in real time, all in grayscale. She steps into the bedroom and lifts her hand.
The camera catches the motion, overlays a blue outline onto her silhouette.
She comes back, leans over the tablet, and reviews the footage.
There is no sign of discomfort, only clinical interest.
I explain the escalation protocols. If a breach is detected, the system sends a push notification to her and to me.
If there is no response, it notifies the authorities.
If the authorities are delayed or unreachable, the system switches to lockdown mode.
Every detail is spoken with the same tone I would use to discuss weather.
She asks about tampering. I demonstrate by touching the sensor in the entryway, within seconds, her phone vibrates, the alert immediate and impossible to ignore.
“Impressive,” she says, and means it.
While she reviews the packet again, I make a survey of her space.
There are no photographs anywhere, no trace of family or friend or pet.
The only personal item is a small dish of white stones on the bathroom counter.
Even the towels are stacked in order of length, like vertebrae.
This is not a home, but a gallery, each object in its place, curated, untouchable.
She returns, sets the packet on the table, and sighs, a slow exhale, almost a release, as if the finality of surveillance has taken some invisible weight off her shoulders.
I mark the sound, file it under “resignation.” Her hand lingers on the packet for a fraction of a second too long before she pulls away.
“You said before that blind spots are not where most people expect,” she says. “Where are they?”
I point, tracing the perimeter of the living room. “Here, behind the sectional. Here, under the kitchen counter. The cameras see, but not through solid objects. The sensors will pick up movement, but there is a two-second lag if the space is narrow.”
She paces the room, mapping the blind spots for herself. I watch the feed on the tablet as she does, her body moves through the space like a deliberate shadow, always aware of the angles.
“Will you watch me all the time?” she asks, stopping in the direct line of the main camera. There’s a hint of curiosity in her voice. Almost like she wants me to.
“Only when there’s an alert,” I lie. “But the system will record regardless.”
She turns, studying me, as if seeing me for the first time. “How did you get into this line of work?”
I consider the question. “Security is important, no?”
She laughs, low and sudden. “You’re good at this.”
I incline my head. “I am.”
She nods, satisfied. “Thank you, Creed.”
I gather my tools, snapping the cases shut.
As I do, I watch her in the reflection of the glass wall.
She stands at the window, hands clasped behind her back, hair perfect, posture rigid.
The city unfolds beneath her, infinite and indifferent.
I see her through my own eyes, and through the new eyes I have given her home.
Every movement, every sigh, every habitual gesture, mine now, to catalog and observe.
At the door, she turns to face me. “You said you notice everything. Did you notice the new lock on the patio door?”
“I did. Digital keypad, randomized PIN entry. Good choice.”
She smiles again, this time a little softer. “You’re the only person who ever noticed it.”
I pause, hand on the exit panel. “Goodbye, Ms. Whitmore.”
The door closes behind me, and the corridor’s hush is absolute.
I leave with the satisfaction of a completed job, the subtle thrill of a new subject perfectly enclosed.
Her isolation was obvious before, but now it belongs to me, her privacy an artifact.
There is no sanctuary in this place that does not belong to me.
I am content.
For now.