Page 3 of Stalker's Toy

That's my firecracker.

The raw energy emanating from her is intoxicating, even from this distance.

I want to capture that fire, to immortalize it on canvas.

Mia's voice rings out, clear and sharp in the night air. "Go fuck yourself!"

I can't suppress a chuckle, my admiration for her growing exponentially.

The heat of her defiance warms me more than my coat ever could.

"Marvelous," I whisper, drinking in the sight of her retreating form. "Simply marvelous."

My fingers twitch, itching to hold a paintbrush.

I long to recreate this moment, to translate her fierce spirit into vibrant strokes of color on a stark white canvas.

I continue to follow Mia at a distance, my eyesnever leaving her slender silhouette as she navigates the dimly lit streets.

The silvery scars on her arms catch the occasional glint of streetlight, like constellations etched into her pale skin.

My mind races with possibilities, imagining the stories behind each mark.

"What secrets do you hold, my dark muse?" I murmur to myself, quickening my pace as she turns a corner.

I know precious little about Mia beyond her name and the fact she’s an art student.

Yet the mystery only fuels my obsession. Her haunted green eyes, the way she loses herself in her charcoal sketches—it all speaks of a depth I'm desperate to uncover.

As we near her flat on Whitfield Street, I hang back, watching her fumble with her keys.

"You will be mine, Mia," I breathe, the words a promise to the night air. "Your pain, your passion—all of it."

Once she's safely inside, I linger for a moment, savoring the anticipation of our next encounter.

Then a familiar itch crawls beneath my skin.

The night is young, and there are other... pursuitsto attend to.

I turn away from Mia's building, my mind already shifting to thoughts of flame and retribution.

"Time to paint the town red," I mutter, a wicked grin spreading across my face as I disappear into the shadows of London's streets.

There are people who need to be reminded of the power I hold.

People who need to be reminded I am not the man you want to fuck with.

Leaving Mia safe at home, within an hour I’m in front of a modest townhouse, dousing gasoline around the perimeter.

My hands, protected by thick gloves, work with practiced efficiency.

Each splash of accelerant is a brushstroke, the house my canvas.

"This is for you, Mrs. Holloway," I whisper, thinking of the elderly widow whose life savings this wretched man swindled. "Justice comes in many forms."

I pause, listening.

From inside, I hear the faint sound of a television, proof my target is home.

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