Page 93 of Stalker's Toy

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Ah, of course. Another time, perhaps."

His gaze drifts to my exposed collarbone, lingering a beat too long.

I shift uncomfortably, tugging my shirt higher.

The silvery scars on my chest seem to burn under his scrutiny.

I long to disappear into the shadows of my drawing, to become one with the ash and embers.

"Well, carry on," Hastings says at last. "I look forward to seeing the finished piece."

As he walks away, I release a shaky breath.

My hands tremble slightly as I pick up the charcoal again.

I lose myself once more in the act of creation, trying to shake off the lingering unease.

The kneeling figure takes on new layers of anguish.

I darken the hollows of his eyes, deepen the creases of pain etched into his face.

Flecks of ash swirl around him, carrying pieces of his essence away on the wind.

In my mind, I can hear the crackle of flames, smell the acrid smoke.

Memories threaten to overwhelm me—screamingsirens, shattering glass, the choking heat as my childhood home burned around me.

I channel that visceral terror into my art, pouring my pain onto the page.

Time slips away as I work.

The studio gradually empties as other students pack up and leave.

Soon I'm alone, the only sound the scratch of charcoal and my own measured breathing.

"Mia? It's nearly 9 pm."

I start at Professor Hastings' voice, my charcoal skittering across the page.

How long have I been working?

The windows are dark now, the room lit only by harsh fluorescents.

"Oh. I lost track of time," I mumble, hastily gathering my supplies.

I can feel Hastings hovering nearby, too close for comfort.

"You really throw yourself into your work," he says. "It's admirable. But you mustn't neglect your own needs."

I stuff my sketchbook into my portfolio, eager to escape. "I'm fine, Professor. Just focused."

"At least let me walk you out," he insists. "It isn't safe for a young woman to be alone oncampus this late."

My skin crawls at the thought, but I can't think of a polite way to refuse.

"That's...not necessary," I try.

But he's already retrieved his coat, holding the door open expectantly.

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