Chapter 3, Mira
I wake up slowly to the soft light filtering through the blinds. The apartment is quiet—almost too quiet. I swing my legs off the bed and sit on the border, my feet meeting the cool floor.
The discomfort from yesterday has not faded, the echo of someone watching me, although the rest of the apartment is empty.
I glance at Julian, oblivious to the tornado brewing inside me, the constant loneliness even when surrounded by the people I cherish the most. He would not understand anyway. He never does and kind of always takes things I say very personally.
Sighing, I make my way to the kitchen, hoping the routine of making coffee will calm me. The familiar smell fills the room, grounding my head. I almost feel normal.
Suddenly, the image of that man flashes in my mind again—the way he stood in the shadows, so still, so silent, so… commanding. I shake my head, trying to brush it off even if the thought stays, refusing to fade.
I close my eyes, breathing through the tension in my chest—and lower. No matter how much I tell myself to stop, there is a part of me that clearly does not want to. Because, in some strange and perverted way, that memory alone makes me feel more alive than I have felt for so long.
I open my eyes and pour the coffee, my hands steady despite the whirlwind in my head. I focus on the small, casual motions—the clink of the mug, the swirl of steam—trying to drown out the sensation of danger that still inhabits my mind.
Maybe today will be different. Maybe this feeling will finally fade.
Deep down, I know it won’t.
I take a sip, trying to concentrate on the warmth of the beverage in my hands. The fridge is the only sound breaking the room. For a brief moment, I almost convince myself that everything is fine—normal, even.
That’s when I hear it. A faint creak.
It surely is nothing… You’re turning more paranoid than a chihuahua on espresso.
Just the apartment settling. Still, my grip on the mug clutches, I look toward the hallway. I set the cup down and force myself to check, you know, just in case. I walk through the apartment, opening closets and wardrobes. There is no sign of anything out of place.
When I return to the kitchen, a subtle knock makes me jump. My heart pounds as I glance at the clock—it is too early for visitors. Not that I ever actually have visitors—thanks to my sparkling social life and magnetic charm, of course.
I debate ignoring it, but the knocking continues, now sharp and insistent. Taking a deep breath, I walk through the hallway and peek through the peephole.
No one’s there.
I open the door cautiously to find a package on the floor. It is small and meticulously wrapped in plain brown paper, with my name written in cursive letters in the middle, in dark crimson ink.
My stomach knots as I carry it inside. Setting it on the counter, I stare at it, half-expecting it to explode or to scream at me like the howler envelope did to Ronald Weasley in Harry Potter.
Julian’s voice breaks the silence, groggy and muffled from the bedroom.
“What’s happening?”
“Nothing, nothing,” I call back, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Just a delivery.”
I notice at the top—my name in clear, clean handwriting, the ink almost too perfect. No return address, no sign of who sent it. I ordered nothing. And I sure as hell do not remember asking for something, as if Julian Beckett would get it for me anyway.
My curiosity pushes me forward. I reach for the package; the paper crinkling under my fingertips as I carefully peel back the tape with the small green knife I keep in the drawer. I work my way around the edges, keen to see what is inside, the blade sliding smoothly under the surface. It is almost as satisfying as those ASMR carpet cleaning videos I tend to watch late at night, trying to quiet the recurring nightmares that haunt me.
Without warning, the knife hits something unexpected. I hesitate, thinking it is just the cardboard, but with a sudden sharp motion, the blade gives way, and I feel a hot sting across the side of my hand to my wrist.
“Damn it!”
The knife clatters to the floor as I pull my hand back. My skin is sliced open, a trail of blood immediately pooling at the surface. The cut is shallow, but it hurts and bleeds like hell. I pull my hand to my chest instinctively, my heart pounding.
“What in the actual fuck was that?” I mutter under my breath, my mind racing with frustration and confusion.
The sensation of the blade biting into my skin seems deliberate, as if the package was meant to hurt me. I grab a paper towel from the counter, pressing it against the wound to staunch the bleeding. My fingers shake slightly, my annoyance building.
I return to the package, the thought of what is inside suddenly feeling a little more ominous. I finish cutting the tape with more caution, but as I peel back the last flap of paper, I cannot help but feel a nagging suspicion that this container is wrong.
The box is full of crumpled tissue paper. At first glance, it seems harmless, even mundane. But while I dig through the soft layers, I pull out a folded sheet of paper—something is weighing it down beneath it.
I reach deeper and pull out a small, sharp object hidden among the tissues. It’s a razor blade, its edges gleaming in the light. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
What kind of crazy sickos would do something like this?
My hand pulses with a dull ache as the sense of being watched grows back again. I push the paper and the blade aside to find…
A sketch.
A detailed drawing of me in the gallery, the faint reflection of myself in the window capturing the exact moment I stood there the day before, lost in thought, right before closing.
I inspect the drawing, my pulse quickening for reasons I cannot entirely explain. The scene is too accurate, too precise to be a coincidence. That is when I notice it—scrawled in faint pencil along the bottom corner:
Nice view, huh? You should see the original.
Here’s some advice, Ginger—don’t paint yourself into a corner.
P.S.: Here are some tissues for your hand.
X -
My chest contracts as I stare at the message. The pain in my hand suddenly seems secondary to the icy chill creeping up my spine.
Who the hell is X?
How do they know about me?
I consider for a second scream for Julian. Oh no. He will call the police and keep me hidden in my apartment forever.
I stare at the memo again, trying to make sense of it. The words feel like a warning, but for what? My mind flashes back to last night—the man in the shadows, his presence invading my head and body long after he had disappeared.
Could it be him?
I grab my phone, take a photo of the sketch and the note before tucking everything back into the box. My fingers hover over the screen, debating whether to call someone—Zoey, my best friend and coworker maybe? Instead, I set it down.
Whoever sent this knows me, knows where I work, where I live. They wanted me to see it, to feel it. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s working.
I quickly grab a clean paper towel, pressing it to my palm to stop the bleeding. My hand trembles as I feel the burn of the cut, the skin still warm where the blade has sliced through it.
I run to the bathroom, pull open the medicine cabinet, and grab a big plaster. My fingers fumble with the small adhesive strip, and I curse under my breath as I press it to the cut.
The coolness of the bandage against my skin is a slight relief, still as I examine it in the mirror, something startles me. The sight of that fresh cut, the blood that has stained the white paper, suddenly feels like more than just an accident.
It is a reminder that someone wanted to get close enough to hurt me.
I stare at my hand, the weight of that reflection settling in my heart. A weird feeling pulses in me—I cannot quite explain what. It is almost as if I’m… grateful for it.
Someone wanted to make me feel something, to make me real, regardless of whether it was in the form of pain, which I do not normally enjoy.
It is twisted, I know. As I stand there, looking at my new mark, part of me feels a deranged sense of satisfaction. For a second, I feel noticed, alive, excited, and maybe even… loved. It feels like a window opening in my brain, revealing a still-dark room filled with echoes and possibilities of new experiences.
I realize there is a slight tension brewing in my lower body, a vibration that subtly shakes my inner thighs, an irresistible pull that stirs my desire to understand, to feel more. I study at my reflection in the cabinet mirror intently, trying to find some clue about what the hell is going on with me.
Without warning, the searing sensation of my injured hand sliding into the blue-laced panties completely takes me off guard. I maintain eye contact, surprised, as if that reaction might somehow release me from any guilt. I silently laugh.
The shame of complete arousal as my fingers penetrate my pussy, the blood creating a perfect lubricant. It’s soft and velvety, almost like sinking into a thick cloud. While I move my hand with a gentle, smooth resistance, my insides slightly quiver as I go deeper.
The instant I proceed to a quicker, rhythmic pace, the mysterious, black-hooded stranger consumes my mind once more. I grab my breast, my nails piercing my chest, imagining it is gloved and big. My eyes roll and a stifled moan slips from my muttering lips.
“You good out there?” asks Julian from the bedroom next door.
Holy crap.
I completely forgot he existed—that he was just beyond the wall, blissfully unaware of what was happening here. How could I do this to him?
He has been patient for months now while I stand here, masturbating with my fucking blood when I could have saved this rare instant of excitement for the man I am trying to build a life with.
I raise my head and profoundly examine my face with disgust in the mirror, taking in every detailed reaction, showing how eager I am to come. I know fully well that what I am doing is not right, yet I am so desperate for any escape, and for one brief, selfish moment, the sharp guilt is a reprieve from the dullness of everything else.
My hands still tremble as I go through the motions, a quiet voice in the back of my mind screaming for me to stop.
There will be no turning back.
Instead of listening to the voice of reason, clearly conscious of the precedent this could create, I carry on fantasizing about that enigmatic outsider who has nothing to do with my current situation.
What do I know about this guy? I almost crashed into him at the street corner.
Here go the wedding bells, am I right?
Damn, I am such an idiot. Getting caught up over some passing figure like a teenager with Edward Cullen. For all I know, he didn’t even notice me. Just a brush of shoulders, a fleeting second in the city's madness.
The only thing I reckon is his smell. A scent so intoxicating, a complex blend of raw masculinity and subtle sophistication. It carried hints of cedarwood, smoky leather with a faint trace of something darker—remembering the embers of a smoldering fire. The aroma wrapped itself around me, warm and compelling, making it impossible to contain my orgasm any longer.
At last, a soothing feeling, comforting as the scarlet liquid mixed with my arousal floods onto my wrist, soft enough to feel like a luxurious embrace.
It is so delightfully wrong, as though the devil himself were attempting to worm his way into my soul, showing me just how every forbidden desire deserves to be explored.
When I finally pull my fingers out, the sanguine fluid slowly drips from my hand, leaving a contrasted trail of red drops on my white ceramic floor. It’s a tactile, indulgent feeling.
Like my blood finally belongs to me.