~~Luca~~
There are many amusing things I have seen in my life.
Some of them most people would probably find horrifying, but to me they have always carried a strange kind of fascination. Watching someone's life slowly fade away while their heartbeat weakens beneath my fingers can be… interesting.
Seeing the moment when a person realizes that escape is no longer possible often tells you more about human nature than years of conversation ever could.
And sometimes the amusement comes later.
Like when someone manages to slip away after I have spent hours breaking them apart piece by piece, only for me to track them down again days later. The hope in their eyes when they think they have escaped is always the best part. Watching that hope crumble when they realize I found them again is a feeling that is difficult to describe.
It is like a drug.
A quiet rush that settles somewhere deep inside my chest and spreads slowly through the rest of my body.
But right now, standing in this hallway outside Elena's apartment, I realize there is something even more amusing than all of that.
Watching her run.
The image of her rushing out of the car earlier, soaked by the rain while panic pushed her steps faster toward the building, replays in my mind and I cannot help the faint smile that forms on my lips.
She really believes she is trying to escape something.
What Elena does not understand yet is that her situation is very different from the ones she reads about in her psychology books.
She is not a bird flying freely through the sky.
She is more like a butterfly trapped inside a glass jar, fluttering its delicate wings again and again, convinced that if it just tries hard enough it will find a way out.
The sad part is that the butterfly does not realize something important.
Its freedom was never the size of the world outside.
Its freedom was always limited by the walls of the jar.
And the person holding the lid.
My gaze drifts toward the door in front of me, my knuckles lightly tapping against the wood once more.
The silence from behind the door is almost as satisfying as her fear. I can practically feel her pulse racing through the wood, a frantic rhythm that matches the one I've been tracking for a month. She actually thinks a locked door is a boundary. It's adorable, really, the way she clings to the illusion of safety.
For thirty days, I've lived in her shadows, memorizing the choreography of her "perfect" little life. It's a boring existence—sanitized, protected, and predictable—but there's a certain beauty in how fragile it all is.
She was supposed to be a bride in a month, walking down an aisle toward a man who didn't deserve to breathe the same air, let alone touch her. Then the cheating came to light, and her curated world cracked.
Who in their right mind would cheat on Elena? She's a masterpiece of grace and kindness. If she were mine, the world would be at her feet, not crumbling around her.
I give the door one last, mocking knock. I start the countdown in my head. Five... four... three... No movement. No sound of a deadbolt sliding back. She's frozen, a rabbit hoping the predator will just move on.
Two... one.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the master key—a custom-made skeleton that treats every lock in this city like an invitation. I slide it into the keyway, the metal clicking home with a soft, definitive snap.
"Time's up, Elena," I whisper to the wood, and I begin to turn the handle.
The door yields with a heavy, final click, and I step into the silence of her sanctuary. The living room is empty, but the air still carries the faint, sweet scent of her Jasmine perfume.
It's a dollhouse—all soft pinks and plush textures—the kind of cozy space designed for someone who has never known a real threat. My boots strike the floor with a slow, deliberate rhythm, a heavy contrast to the delicate silence of the room.
She's hiding, of course. Bolted herself into the bedroom like a rabbit in a burrow.
I take my time, wandering toward the kitchen with the ease of a man who already owns the lease. I pull open the refrigerator, the clinical LED light spilling over my face as I scan the contents. Tucked in the door is a bottle of cheap wine, barely touched. I twist the cap, the sound sharp in the quiet, and pour a generous glass.
Leaning against the marble counter, I pull out my phone. My lips curl into a slow, sharp smile as I type a single message.
Sent!
Her reaction is faster than I anticipated. The bedroom door doesn't just open; it's thrown back, and she stands there in the hallway, swallowed by an oversized hoodie. She's pale, her knuckles white as she grips her phone, her eyes burning with a mixture of terror and pure, unadulterated loathing.
I meet her glare with a calm, saint-like smile and raise the glass in a silent toast. I drain the wine in one slow, steady gulp, watching her the entire time.
"You're finally out," I murmur. "What a terrible hostess you are by the way."
"What the hell is wrong with you and why can't you leave me the fuck alone!"
Her voice cuts through the apartment. She is angry.
Mostly because of what happened earlier. The bullet that grazed her cop friend's leg and the fact that I followed her all the way home afterward. I cannot really blame her for being upset about that.
I pour myself another glass of wine and take a sip before answering, letting the silence stretch for a moment as if I am actually considering the question.
Something is definitely wrong with me.
That much I already know.
The second question, however, is harder to answer. I do not really know why it is so difficult to leave her alone. I only know that every time I try to walk away, I end up right back here again.
I like being near her. I like drawing reactions out of her. Anger, frustration, annoyance… it does not matter what it is as long as it comes from her. Watching those reactions appear on her face gives me a strange kind of satisfaction that nothing else seems to match.
My fingers tighten slightly around the glass before I finish the wine and place it back on the counter.
"Did you forget about my therapy sessions?" I ask calmly.
I push myself away from the counter and walk toward the living room, my boots sounding heavy against the floor as I move.