Page 40 of Bound to the Bodyguard

The realization sent a chill down my spine. The Phantom, as this stalker was being called, wasn’t just a random predator. They were a collector of sorts, seeking out the thrill of control over those who shone the brightest.

“Let’s get these patterns cross-referenced with social events where all the victims attended,” I suggested. “There’s a link here, and I’m going to find it.”

“Will do.”

The stalker had made a game of hunting the stars, but I was about to change the rules. “I’ve got some other things to look into. Let me know what you find.”

The tidbits of information would all go together in the end, but it was my job to find and collect them. Here we go.

Leo’s fingers danced across the keyboard, the glow of the computer screen casting an eerie pallor on his face. He had navigated through layers of cybersecurity, bypassing digital tripwires with the practiced ease of a seasoned detective who had seen too much yet still hungered for justice.

Come on, show me something.

He was deep in the bowels of the dark web now, a place where legality blurred into obscurity and the most depraved of human activities found their willing audience. My stomach churned with distaste, but my eyes remained fixed, unflinching as he sifted through the forum after anonymous forum.

Nothing is random. There has to be chatter; there always is.

Then, a break in the pattern. A forum unlike the others, its interface rudimentary, almost intentionally archaic. The header read simply: “Admirers of The Phantom.”

The threads were filled with twisted accolades and disturbing confessions. Users spoke of The Phantom with a mix of reverence and envy, dissecting each known move with the meticulousness of scholars studying ancient texts.

“Raven Fields will never see it coming. The Phantom’s work is art,” one comment read.

“Art?” I scoffed under my breath. To glorify terror as art—it sickened me.

I continued scrolling until one user’s posts caught my attention. The handle ‘AMacho’ appeared consistently, their insights too intimate, their knowledge too precise.

Could you be our guy?

I jotted down the list of the victims with the same M.O. and left them a message to see if they would meet with me. Any information they could give me could help me with Raven. I needed to keep her safe.

The next day. I was in front of a coffee shop where the woman asked to meet.

Focus. They’re victims, not suspects.

A woman with cautious steps approached the car. Her gaze flitted about nervously before landing on me. She gave a tentative wave and walked to the passenger side.

“Ms. Carter?” I asked as the woman got into the car.

“Call me Lucy.”

“Thank you for meeting me. I know this isn’t easy.”

“Anything if it helps stop him.”

“Can you tell me about your experiences? Any detail could be crucial.”

Lucy recounted her tale, her words punctuated by shivers that had nothing to do with the cool air. I listened intently, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as patterns began to emerge. The letters, the phone calls—always escalating but never crossing a line into physical violence.

“Did he ever reveal what he wanted from you?”

“Control,” Lucy whispered. “To make us dance like puppets on strings.”

“Did he ever mention any specific goals? Anything he was trying to achieve?”

“Only that he wanted us to feel his presence... always watching, always there.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll reach out if I have any more questions.”

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