Page 92 of Stalker's Toy

I take a long drag, releasing it slowly.

And then I flick the cigar and walk to my car.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mia

The charcoal scrapes across the rough paper, leaving a trail of ash in its wake.

I press harder, deepening the shadows around the kneeling figure.

His anguish takes shape beneath my fingertips—muscles taut with agony, spine curved in defeat.

The studio is quiet except for the scratch of charcoal and the occasional cough or rustle of paper.

Late afternoon light slants through the high windows, casting long shadows across the room.

I'm lost in the world I'm creating on the page, barely aware of my surroundings.

I step back, surveying my work with a critical eye.

The man's body is dissolving, particles drifting away on an unseen wind.

To his left, Mars looms ominously, its surface molten and seething.

Destruction surrounds him—jagged rocks, smoldering embers, a landscape of ruin.

"Ah, Miss Cohen. Another striking piece."

Professor Hastings' voice breaks my concentration.

I stiffen as he approaches, fighting the urge to cover my drawing.

His presence makes my skin crawl.

"Thank you, Professor," I murmur, not meeting his gaze.

I focus intently on smudging a shadow, hoping he'll move on.

No such luck.

He leans in closer, peering at my work.

I can smell his cologne, cloying and oppressive.

"Such raw emotion," he says. "The agony is palpable. One can almost feel the heat from that burning planet."

I nod stiffly, willing him to back away.

My fingers itch to keep drawing, to lose myself again in the familiar dance of light and shadow.

"You have a remarkable gift for capturing suffering," Hastings continues. "I'd be fascinated to hear more about your process. Perhaps over coffee sometime?"

Mystomach churns.

How many times do I need to tell this guy no?

"I appreciate the offer, Professor, but I'm quite busy these days."

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