Chapter 20
Him
I position myself outside her flat building early in the morning, feeling that familiar sense of purpose that keeps the boredom at bay. It has been a week since the incident near her house with that worthless drunk.
I have been patient, observing her from various vantage points without drawing attention to myself. Patience is key in understanding someone fully, and she requires that level of care.
I have finally made up my mind to kill her today because the observation phase has yielded enough data, and ending it now will provide the closure that maximizes the high. Prolonging beyond this point risks dilution.
From the window, her movements unfold exactly as expected. Moving through household chores with a routine that I have mapped out over the days.
She begins with laundry, sorting clothes methodically, and I note how her posture remains slightly tense, as if the fear from that alley lingers in her muscles. It interests me because it shows resilience mixed with vulnerability, a combination that heightens my fixation on her.
I decide to test her perception early, slipping into the building quietly when a neighbor leaves the door ajar. I move to the flat next to hers, which I know is empty, and create a small disturbance by shifting the curtains in her line of sight through a shared vent.
There is no wind, but the fabric moves just enough to register in her vision. I feel a quiet satisfaction in this subtle manipulation because it plants doubt without overwhelming her.
She pauses her dusting and stares at the curtains.
I observe how quickly she dismisses it, telling herself aloud that it is nothing.
"It’s just my imagination." She says, her voice carrying a tremor that reveals her underlying fear.
That denial pleases me because it makes her predictable, allowing me to control the pace of her awareness.
I retreat silently and return to my position outside, but the high from that small test lingers, a psychotic thrill in knowing I can influence her without any direct contact. She is mine to study, and each reaction confirms that ownership.
She turns on the vacuum next, the noise filling her space, and I use the opportunity to create faint footsteps from above. I pace deliberately, timing it so the sounds are just audible over the hum.
When she switches off the machine and listens, I stop immediately, leaving her in silence. I feel intrigued by her response, noting how confusion turns to suspicion in her expression.
The boredom that plagued me earlier is gone now, replaced by this steady high of observation and control.
She moves to the kitchen, scrubbing the sink, and that watched feeling I have cultivated returns to her, making her glance over her shoulder repeatedly.
I feel a sense of justification in this because it sharpens her focus, preparing her for what is to come.
She continues with her chores, noting how she gravitates to rooms where she feels safest, like the bedroom, when anxiety peaks. It is valuable information because it reveals her patterns of retreat.
Throughout the afternoon, I stay close without being obvious, tracking her movements from room to room. I know where she feels safest and where she hesitates, like near the windows. It is mapping, not stalking, because understanding her fully justifies every step.
The awareness I have instilled grows heavier. Desperation fills her tone, feeding my high because it confirms my dominance over her emotions.
As evening approaches and the light fades, I decide it is time to stop observing and introduce myself properly. I enter the flat silently, positioning myself near the doorway where she will see me fully.
I stand unmoving, feeling that certainty as she turns from the kitchen counter. Shock hits her first, then recognition, then pure fear. I note the progression with interest because it reveals how her mind processes threat.
She screams, the sound short and terrified, echoing in the space. Panic floods her features, making her tremble.
I lift a gloved finger to my mask immediately, the gesture commanding. "Shh." I say sharply, cutting through her fear with precision.
She freezes, her breath hitching, but the terror intensifies in her eyes. I feel satisfied because obedience comes quickly, even if driven by fear.
I do not rush toward her, understanding that stillness holds power. I start walking slowly, each step deliberate to let her fear build naturally.
She backs away, her hands shaking violently. Her heartbeat is almost audible, thundering with panic. "Who are you? How did you get in here?" She cries, her voice breaking as tears stream down.
I shush her again, firmer. "Shh." I repeat, and she freezes completely, her body obeying despite the internal scream.
The knife rests steady in my hand as I get closer to her, the weight familiar in my grip. I wait before I touch her, so her fear grows bigger and darker.
"Please, don't come any closer." She begs, sobs escaping. "I don't know what you want from me. Please just leave. I won't tell anyone."
I stare at her for a while, watching every twitch and tear. "You look beautiful when you're scared, Little Prey." I say, loving how it twists her mind inside the fear.
I raise the knife, and she jerks back. I drag it slow across her cheek, just a thin cut that burns right.
She gasps, pain blending with panic, her body shaking as she looks at me. “Why are you doing this to me?” She whispers. The words are thin, fragile, almost useless.
I don’t answer her.
There is no reason to. Answers are for people who feel regret or doubt. I feel neither. What I needed from her wasn’t a conversation. It was a reaction. And she gave me exactly what I wanted.
I lower the blade after I’ve seen enough. Her fear is complete now, layered with confusion and something she doesn’t yet understand. I step back on purpose, not because I have to, but because I can. Distance proves control better than violence ever could.
Leaving feels easy. Calm. I walk out slowly, retracing my steps without hurry. My heart doesn’t race. My thoughts don’t scatter. Everything inside me feels settled, almost quiet.
As I move away, the truth becomes clear to me. She was never a prey running from instinct. She was something observed, measured, and judged. A subject placed in front of a decision only I could make. And the fact that I chose not to kill her doesn’t mean I’m being kind. It means I’m certain.
Because now I understand what power really is. Not taking her life, but deciding that she gets to keep it. For now.