Page 24 of Can't Stop Watching
What am I becoming? Guardian angel or just another predator?
I unzip my duffel, pulling out equipment I've used countless times for surveillance jobs. The high-powered directional microphone comes out first—military grade, not the cheap shit civilians can buy online. I mount it on a compact tripod, angling it toward Lila's apartment through a crack in the window. Rain interferes with sound quality, but the software compensates, filtering out ambient noise.
Next comes the night vision scope with digital recording capabilities. Five grand of tax-free income spent on government-surplus tech that officially doesn't exist in civilian hands. The scope's familiar weight feels comforting as I secure it to anothertripod, adjusting the focus until Lila's apartment windows sharpen in the green-tinted display.
Wireless transmitter. Battery pack. Laptop. Earbuds. The ritual of setting up feels mechanical, practiced. Like fieldstripping a rifle blindfolded.
"You're a fucking creep, Wolfe," I mutter, connecting cables with practiced efficiency. The fact that I've done this dozens of times tempers my guilt, however.
The directional mic picks up sound as I slide the earbuds in. Rain hitting her windows. Water running through pipes. The hum of her refrigerator.
I adjust the night vision scope, bringing her apartment into crisp focus. Modest studio. Bed against the far wall. Small kitchen area. Desk cluttered with books and a laptop. Everything within my view.
Lila walks into frame, wet hair dripping onto a towel draped around her shoulders. She's changed into an oversized sweatshirt and shorts that reveal shapely legs. There's a delicacy to her movements, like someone who's learned to move quietly through the world.
She peels off the wet sweatshirt, standing in a thin tank top, unaware of my intrusion. My throat tightens. I should look away, but I don't. Can't. The scope reveals a small tattoo above her heart—something I can't quite make out at this distance.
"Jesus Christ," I whisper, disgusted with myself but getting turned on fast.
Through the earbuds, I hear what sounds like muttering. I adjust the gain. Her voice comes through clearer now.
"—stupid rain. Stupid Uber driver. Stupid broken umbrella."
She's talking to herself, moving around the apartment, gathering items from various shelves—a notebook, pens. She sits at her desk, opening her laptop.
I watch as she types, her face illuminated by the screen's glow. She touches her ear cuff, rotating it nervously. The microphone picks up the faint metallic sound.
"Okay, Veritas. Show me what you got," she says to her screen.
I make a note on my pad to search the name 'Veritas' later. She pulls her hair into a messy bun, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. The light catches water droplets still clinging to her skin.
This is wrong. So fucking wrong. I'm no better than Marcus Colton. Different methods, same violation.
Through the mic, I hear her phone ring. She answers, voice brightening.
"Hey Tess... Yeah, just got home. Soaked to the bone... No, he didn't show up again."
My stomach tightens. Is she talking about me?
"I don't know why I even care," she continues. "I turned him down, right? But it's for the best. He… I don't know… he could be bad news."
Fuck. Sheistalking about me!
She pauses, listening. "I know he's not Mr. Colton, but he still seems dangerous. Maybe not predatory but…."
If she only knew what I'm doing right now.
"Anyway, I have prep to do for all the interviews I'm going to get. Ha!... Yeah, I'll call later. Night."
She hangs up, refocusing on her laptop. I watch her fingers fly across the keyboard, her profile etched against the soft light of her apartment.
My father would be so proud of what I've become. That thought alone should make me pack up and leave. But I don't. I stay, watching. Listening. Becoming the type of monster I've hated for years.
Maybe what I was always meant to be.
I settle in, scope trained on Lila's apartment like it's an enemy position I'm marking for an air strike. She's been at her desk for over an hour now, switching between furious typing and staring at her screen like it holds the secrets of the universe. At some point, she retrieves a pizza box from the fridge, eating cold slices while still glued to whatever's on her laptop.
There's something mesmerizing about watching someone when they think they're alone. The masks come off. The performance ends. This is Lila stripped of her bartender smile, her careful distance. Just a woman in her apartment, chewing absently on pizza crust while highlighting text on her screen.
