Page 165 of Controlled Burn
He told himself it wasn’t stalking.
Just fascination.
Just observation.
His college therapist called it obsessive ideation. Said it came from unmet attachment needs.
Brooks walked out mid-session.
He’d been good with computers. Really good. Got a job in IT out of school—private security firm, high clearance.
One day, he installed a keylogger on a coworker’s laptop. She’d smiled at him once, said he reminded her of her little brother.
The report said he followed her to her car twice. She filed a complaint.
No charges. Just whispers.
He walked.
Fire service was supposed to be a reset.
A chance to be respected.
To wear a uniform.
To be seen.
But then she showed up.
Talia fucking Cross.
Older. Sharper. Still effortlessly pretty in that way that made people orbit her.
She said hi on her first day. Didn’t recognize him. Didn’t flinch.
That made it worse.
She was everything he wasn’t.
And he’d never stopped watching.
The room felt smaller as he worked. His mouse clicked. A new folder opened: CROSS_FINAL.
Inside: video clips. Dozens.
Locker room footage. Bay area interactions. The decon room—blurred, silent, raw. Jake and Talia. Maddox and Talia. Even the confrontation with Watts.
He spliced the audio—Talia moaning from a grainy soundbite, laid over a blurry hallway shot. Added fade cuts. Dramatic lighting shifts.
It wasn’t real.
But it looked real.
He layered stills. Angles. Old social media images.
A manipulated narrative:
Manipulative. Promiscuous. Dangerous.
