Page 6 of Stalker's Toy

The studio’s ancient radiator ticks as I scrub out a too-perfect curve in the flames.

Real fire isn’t graceful.

It’s chaos with a pattern we pretend to understand.

“Final pieces go up Friday,” someone calls from the door.

I nod without looking.

My silver ring catches on a fiber in the paper, tearing a hairline rift through the phoenix’s throat.

Fucking perfect.

The studio empties around me.

Footsteps echo in the stairwell—a rhythm that almost masks the memory of cracking wood.

Outside, a delivery van backfires.

Pop-pop.

The phoenix stares up from my portfolio.

I trace its jagged wings.

“You forgot something.”

I glance over and espresso girl is still here.

She holds out my kneaded eraser.

It leaves a gray smudge on her palm when I take it.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” She hesitates. “You okay? You look…”

“Tired.” I zip my portfolio shut. “Just really tired.”

The lie tastes like smoke, but then again, most things in my life do.

I shove the kneaded eraser into my bag, leaving gray streaks on my jeans in the process.

It’s about time to pack up, head back to my flat, and maybe even relax for the rest of the evening.

Professor Hastings’ shadow stretches across my workstation, elongated and wavering like heat distortion.

I don’t turn.

His aftershave arrives first—sandalwood and something medicinal underneath.

“Your composition.” He taps the canvas’s edge with a chipped thumbnail. “It’s exceptional. The chiaroscuro in the lower quadrant...”

“Thanks.” I slide my canvas into the portfolio,clasping it shut.

His palm settles between my shoulder blades.

Warm.

---