The city lights flickered through the rain-smeared window, casting ghostly shadows across the dimly lit room. Damien Blackwood leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the wooden armrest in a steady, deliberate rhythm. His sharp eyes, dark pools of something unreadable, were locked onto the laptop screen in front of him.
Ava Sinclair.
He had expected her to pick up the call—curiosity was a predictable trait, especially for someone like her. But the way she had responded, the tension in her voice, the way her breathing hitched ever so slightly—it intrigued him. The game had begun, and Ava was now a player.
A slow, deliberate smile crept across his lips. He lifted the glass beside him, swirling the deep amber liquid inside before taking a measured sip. The whiskey burned down his throat, but he barely registered it. His mind was already elsewhere—thinking, planning.
Nathan Cole had been a mistake. Not in the act, but in the aftermath. The call had not been part of the plan. But the dead had a way of lingering, and now, so did Detective Sinclair. Damien exhaled through his nose, his fingers tightening slightly around the glass.
He rose from his chair, walking toward the large corkboard pinned against the wall. Newspaper clippings, photographs, notes—his web of control stretched across it. Ava's face was there now, a fresh addition, her eyes staring back at him through the grainy ink of a surveillance photo.
A chuckle rumbled low in his throat as he ran a gloved finger over her image.
"You should've ignored the call, Detective," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Now you're part of the story."
He reached for a red marker and, with slow precision, drew a circle around her face. The ink bled into the paper, bright and final.
Then he turned, retrieving his coat from the chair. The night was young, and there was work to be done.
And Ava Sinclair had just become his next obsession.
---
Damien stepped out into the cold night, the scent of rain-soaked pavement filling his lungs. The city around him pulsed with life—people moving in and out of bars, taxis splashing through puddles, neon signs flickering in the darkness. But for him, the world had narrowed down to a single point of focus.
He slipped into the shadows, moving with practiced ease. Surveillance cameras dotted the streets, their blinking red lights unnoticed by most. But Damien saw them. He always saw them. He knew how to avoid them, how to become just another face in the crowd when necessary.
He had studied Ava Sinclair long before this night. A competent detective, but flawed. She carried herself with confidence, but he had seen the cracks in her armor. The late nights at the station, the empty takeout containers, the barely-there social life. A woman who had built walls around herself, yet still let curiosity lead her into dangerous places.
And now, she was walking straight into his world.
Damien reached the alleyway behind a small café—one he knew Ava frequented. He had been here before, watching from the darkness as she sat inside, sipping coffee, scrolling through case files on her laptop. Tonight, he wasn't here to watch. He was here to make sure she knew he was watching.
Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a small envelope, sealed and marked with a single, red inked 'A.' Inside, a photograph—Ava, taken from outside her apartment window. He had been there, close enough to hear the soft hum of music from her speakers, close enough to see the flicker of candlelight against the walls.
With careful precision, he slipped the envelope into the café's mail slot. He imagined the moment she would find it—the sharp inhale, the quickening of her pulse. Fear was a beautiful thing when it was carefully cultivated.
A low chuckle escaped him as he turned away, pulling his coat tighter around himself. The night was just beginning, and there was so much more to do.
He walked, his thoughts drifting back to Nathan Cole. The man had been desperate in the end, pleading, screaming. But the moment of death had been silent. That was what Damien liked best—the silence. It was in those final moments that people truly understood their own fragility.
Ava would understand too, in time.
For now, he would let the fear sink in, let it fester. He wanted her on edge, questioning every shadow, every unexpected sound. He wanted her to feel his presence before she ever saw him.
Because when she finally did, it would be far too late.
---
Hours later, Damien sat back in his apartment, watching. The laptop screen before him displayed a live feed of Ava's apartment door. He had set up the camera days ago, hidden in the hallway light fixture.
She wasn't home yet, but soon she would be. And when she found his message, the real fun would begin.
He poured himself another drink, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass. The hunt was always the best part, the slow, deliberate unraveling of control.
And Ava Sinclair had no idea just how close she already was to the edge.