Chapter Three - Damien
Three days since the garage, and she hasn’t run. She goes to work, powers through late nights, keeps her head down, and tries to disappear. I watch her try, and I watch her fail.
Her name is Emery Johnson. Twenty-three, American, financial analyst, middle tier, but her files read like a prodigy. I see her personnel record before the sun rises the morning after our encounter.
A few keystrokes and my men have everything: her address, her schedule, her social media, even her regular bodega order. That’s how you survive in this world—know your enemy before she even learns your name.
I place Anton on her building. He doesn’t look like security; he looks like another bored doorman with a newspaper and cheap coffee.
From 7:00 a.m. until well after dark, he logs her every movement, noting how she glances over her shoulder, how she lingers near the subway entrance before deciding to walk home. He tells me she flinches at sudden noises, but she never takes the same route twice. Smart. Paranoid.
I watch her office from afar, cameras pointed at the lobby, at her window, at the line of desks where she spends her hours.
Her routine is precise, nearly monastic: arriving early, leaving late, never stopping for lunch. She checks her phone every twenty minutes, but rarely texts back right away. When she does, her messages are clipped, practical, nothing that gives her away.
Each night, she sits hunched over a glowing screen, spreadsheets illuminating her face. I learn her tells—the way she bites her lip when something doesn’t add up, the way her fingers drum lightly on the desk before she catches herself and folds them in her lap.
Emery hides her nerves well, but I see the tension in her shoulders, the way she locks her jaw when someone interrupts her flow.
I have access to her computer, courtesy of a favor owed and a promise delivered. I see the late-night emails she sends—firm, clear, a little defensive, always with a layer of apology.
I watch as she untangles fraudulent expense lines and quietly exposes gaps in internal controls. Her brain is relentless. She doesn’t gloat when she’s right, but she doesn’t let things slide, either. She pushes back when necessary. She’s not as invisible as she thinks.
She never talks about the garage incident. Not to her roommate, not to her colleagues, not even in her most private digital notes. The only hint is a new wariness—a lock double-checked, a glance held a second too long at the elevator doors.
It should make her easier to break, but instead it makes her more interesting.
Most people panic or hide. Emery adapts. She watches the world, catalogs threats, calculates risk with the discipline of someone twice her age.
Anton notes her habits. She drinks her coffee black, extra sugar, never cream. She reads business news on her phone, then scrolls through three minutes of mindless videos before locking the screen and shoving it deep in her bag.
She wears the same coat all week—navy wool, a button missing. Practical, not showy. She rotates two pairs of shoes, always flats, never heels. She’s cautious, careful, but not scared enough to freeze.
I track her social media. She’s not reckless. Her accounts are private, curated. A handful of photos—graduation, one beach trip, a birthday with her roommate Clara. No attention-seeking, no loose ends.
Her posts are rare, mostly quiet affirmations or the occasional photo of a skyline.
Every now and then, she lets something slip: a sharp retweet about corruption, a late-night “some days I hate this city” post that vanishes by morning.
I collect every deleted message, every photo, every scrap she tries to erase. Patterns reveal themselves in the gaps.
Killing her would be simple—one phone call, one unmarked van, and the world would move on. I know too much about loss to waste something valuable. Letting her go would be the real risk. She’s seen too much, but she doesn’t fold. Her mind is as dangerous as her silence.
I watch her handle office politics—the microaggressions, the men who try to claim her work as their own, the managers who hover too close, women who see her curvy body and feign concerns about her health.
Emery endures it all. She doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t escalate. She sidesteps, redirects, outthinks. She lets them underestimate her, and it works in her favor.
Some nights, I watch through a camera as she leans back in her chair, eyes closed, music playing through cheap headphones.
She hums under her breath, some old Motown or soft rock her generation shouldn’t know. She smiles to herself, small, private.
She has no idea I’m watching. It should make me feel powerful. Instead, it makes me restless.
My fascination grows. I start to linger too long on her image, replaying the tilt of her head as she reviews a spreadsheet, the way she studies people in the hallway without letting them notice.
She’s not afraid of work, or even of the truth. What unnerves her is power—real, raw power, the kind that doesn’t answer to anyone.
I listen as she argues with her roommate about rent, about groceries, about which one left dishes in the sink.
I watch her settle disputes with quiet logic, never letting emotion lead.
I read her lips as she mutters at her laptop, frustrated by a formula that won’t balance, or by the arrogance of a boss who signs off on something she knows is wrong.
After three days, the urge to act grows harder to suppress.
Her routines are familiar now. Her face is in my mind when I close my eyes—those wide, dark eyes that never quite settle, that restless mouth she bites when thinking, the curves she hides under conservative clothes.
Her presence lingers, sharper for the fear she tries to mask.
Letting her live is dangerous. I tell myself it’s about control, about keeping loose ends tied tight.
Each hour that passes, my reasons slip, and something older, more primal, takes their place. She is not just a threat. She’s a puzzle, a temptation—a problem I have no desire to solve quickly.
I know how this ends. I’ve seen it before. I’ll keep her close, closer than is wise, until her fear transforms into something I can’t predict.
I’ll watch—hungry, patient—until I decide what I want more: her silence, or her surrender.
***
Lutz’s disappearance saturates every headline by morning. His face, waxy and artificially cheerful, is splashed across news feeds, financial blogs, and scrolling tickers in the lobby of my own building.
The city feeds on scandal; the bigger the fall, the hungrier the crowd. I watch the news segments on mute, studying the footage of his townhouse, the perfunctory concern of his wife, the practiced disappointment of board members.
Not one of them knows the truth. They never do.
I monitor the situation from my office—high above the noise, untouchable in glass and steel. My phone vibrates with a coded alert: Anton, keeping pace with protocol.
The message is simple: Police. They’re talking to your analyst.
I don’t need to ask who. Emery Johnson is the only one who matters now.
It’s remarkable how fast the machine turns. The feds comb through security footage, badge records, time stamps. They always start broad, looking for that one error, the outlier who lingers after hours.
Emery’s name surfaces. She worked late, too late. She becomes a person of interest. Not a suspect—yet. Just another loose end in a city built on unraveling threads.
I watch as she’s summoned—first a call from HR, then an official email, then a knock at her cubicle as she packs her laptop away. I see her reaction on camera, the faint tightening of her mouth, the stillness in her hands.
She’s tense, but she doesn’t lose her composure. Not in front of anyone. The police are polite, all bland smiles and soft threats.
I read their lips on the grainy footage: “We just have a few questions. This shouldn’t take long.”
She’s ushered into a conference room, two floors below her office.
I follow the feed, seeing her sit across from a man in a rumpled police uniform.
I know his name, his background, the kind of pressure he’s trained to apply.
The second agent, a woman, stands by the window, silent, observant, taking notes on every tic and hesitation.
My pulse remains steady. I’ve prepared for this. What I can’t predict is Emery’s reaction. She’s more than cautious; she’s methodical, careful with every word. When asked about her hours, she answers simply: end-of-quarter audits, tight deadlines, a boss who expects results.
She keeps her eyes level, hands folded. She doesn’t volunteer anything. She doesn’t ask for clarification. She gives them nothing but the truth—her version, anyway.
They pivot. Did she see anyone in the halls? Hear anything unusual? She pauses, just a fraction too long. I see it—the calculation, the memory of blood on my sleeve, the garage, the command I gave her. Her fear is almost invisible, masked by the careful precision of her answers.
It’s there, a slight tremor in her voice when she says, “I didn’t notice anyone. It was late. I just wanted to go home.”
The agents trade a glance. The man leans in, lowers his voice, tries to build trust. “We’re only interested in your safety, Miss Johnson. If you remember anything, now is the time.” She nods, face unreadable.
I watch this unfold with a tightening sense of inevitability. I know how these things spiral. One misstep, one contradiction, and her life will never be the same. The FBI doesn’t let things go. If they sense weakness, they press. If they sense secrets, they dig until only bones are left.
It’s no longer a question of if I’ll intervene, but when. My patience has its limits. Letting her be exposed—letting her become a target for law enforcement or, worse, a tool for my enemies—is unacceptable. I can’t control every piece on the board from a distance.
I start making calls. Quietly, surgically. Anton receives the first instructions. “Double coverage. Eyes on her at all times. Prepare extraction if necessary.”
There’s no confusion in his response. “Understood.”
I task another man to plant himself at the federal building’s entrance, disguised as a courier. If she tries to leave, if she looks rattled, he’ll report. I want every second covered.
I review the live feeds, tracking the subtle tells in Emery’s posture. She sits straighter when she’s lying. She taps her thumb against the table when she’s nervous. Her gaze never drifts to the door, never betrays a wish to run. She is terrified—but she will not give them what they want.
She signs something before she’s released. Standard non-disclosure, the illusion of formality.
The interview lasts forty-eight minutes. When she emerges, she doesn’t head straight home. She detours to the restroom, is gone for ten minutes before slipping back into the hall.
I feel a strange satisfaction. The world thinks it can swallow her whole, but she refuses to break.
I find myself wondering how far that resolve will hold, if it’s defiance or just stubborn hope.
I watch as she leaves the building, moving quickly through the revolving doors and into the street. My car is already idling at the curb. Anton watches from across the avenue, phone pressed to his ear.
“She’s out. Alone,” he reports. “Looks shaken.”
I look at the city, the thin thread of Emery’s life weaving in and out of my control. For days, I watched her because I had to. Now I move because I want to. Observation is no longer enough. She’s become a variable I can’t tolerate—not just a threat, but a temptation.
I text Anton a final instruction: Ready the penthouse. Bring her in. Tonight.
No more waiting. If Emery Johnson wants answers, she’ll get them—from me.