Page 1 of Stalker's Toy

PROLOGUE

Henrik

The gallery's closing bell chimes, echoing through the cavernous space. I stand before my latest piece, a swirling vortex of crimson and obsidian that seems to pulse with a life of its own.

My fingers twitch, aching to add one final brushstroke, but I force them still.

"Closing time, Mr. Lindberg," my assistant calls softly from the doorway.

I nod, not turning. "Just a moment, James."

My gaze lingers on the canvas, tracing the violent curves and jagged edges.

It's not finished.

It's never finished.

But it's time to go.

I shrug on my coat, the weight of it settling heavily on my shoulders.

As I move toward the exit, my footsteps echo in the empty gallery.

I've been spending more time here lately, drawn by an inexplicable force.

The scent of oil paint and turpentine clings to me, a comforting shroud.

"Will you be returning tomorrow, sir?" James asks, holding the door.

I pause, considering. "Perhaps. I'm not certain. Depends how the day goes."

The cool London air hits me as I step outside, carrying the promise of rain.

I turn my collar up against the chill, my mind already drifting to other matters.

Toher.

James calls out, "Goodnight, Mr. Lindberg."

"Goodnight," I reply absently, my feet already carrying me down the darkening street.

I shouldn't be doing this.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should be at home, in my studio, channeling this restless energy into my work.

But lately the mansion feels oppressive, its grandeursuffocating.

Here, in the gathering twilight of London's streets, I feel alive.

I’m free.

And it’s dangerous.

A smile tugs at my lips as I disappear into the shadows, becoming just another anonymous figure in the city's nocturnal tapestry.

The hunt begins and soon enough I’ll find her—my obsession, Mia.

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