Welcome to New York, where everyone's either a predator or prey. And me? I'm just the guy with the camera, watching it all burn.
The laptop's blue glow cuts through my dark apartment. Milo's data dump hits my inbox, guy's a wizard with anything that has circuits and passwords. He could probably hack the Pentagon with a toaster if he wanted to.
A shell company—Langford Holdings LLC—owns a sweet piece of real estate on the Upper West Side, 72nd and Central Park West. Three bedrooms, panoramic views of Central Park, doorman building. The kind of place where trophy wives get dropped off in black SUVs while their husbands "work late." Claire would never find it in their financial records. Brian's got it buried under layers of corporate bullshit.
I scroll through Brian's social media presence. LinkedIn shows the perfect corporate ladder climber at Rockwell Blackstone Capital. The kind of place that reeks of old money and expensive cologne. Instagram's full of charity galas and couples' photos with Claire, all white teeth and designer labels. Facebook's squeaky clean: family holidays, college reunions, shares from Time Magazine about market trends. Not a single thirst trap like or sketchy comment thread.
"Little too perfect, aren't you, Brian?" I mutter at his smiling profile pic.
Even psychopaths know how to cover their digital tracks these days. They know how to blend in, how to make everyone think they're just another face in the crowd. My father was the same way, a pillar of the community on the surface, rot underneath. You don't see the teeth until they're already biting your throat.
I close the laptop, letting darkness swallow the room again. Outside, a siren wails, someone else's tragedy in progress. This city's full of men like Brian, wearing thousand-dollar suits and million-dollar smiles while they hunt. The trick is catching them in the act, proving what everyone already suspects but can't quite see.
My phone buzzes. Another message from Milo.
Milo: Will send the rest tomorrow.
I grab my beer, drain it. Tomorrow's another day of watching Brian Langford pretend he's human. Maybe this time he'll provide tangible proof, show what's really behind that perfect smile.
I set the bottle down with a grimace, already thinking about the whiskey at The Old Haunt. Real whiskey, not this hipster swill. I don't keep any whiskey at home. Hard rule. Got too many demons that like to swim in amber liquid, and the last thing I need is making that path too convenient. Keeping the bottle store across town is my version of self-control. It makes me work for my self-destruction. My father taught me that lesson without meaning to as I watched him nurse that crystal tumbler every night until he couldn't tell the difference between business and bloodshed.
Besides, my apartment's already crowded with other addictions—closets full of case files stacked like prayer books and surveillance equipment. Some guys get hooked on pills or powder. Me? I got hooked on other people's secrets, on being the shadow that follows the shadow. One obsession's enough for any man who wants to keep breathing.
The thought of whiskey leads to thoughts of Lila. Those quick, efficient movements behind the bar. The way her eyes caught the light when she was sizing me up. There's definitely a story there, the kind that leaves scars. I want to learn it.
My car keys sit on the counter, tempting me. It'd be easy to grab them, make the drive there. Watch her work, maybe get another glimpse of whatever darkness she's running from. Hell, maybe even make her smile again.
"You promised yourself not today, Wolfe," I mutter to the empty apartment.
But the urge doesn't fade. It sits there like an itch under my skin, right next to all the other impulses I try to ignore. Theones that make me follow people home, that keep me up at night wondering about what evil men do.
I pace to the window, press my forehead against the cool glass. Twenty stories below, yellow cabs crawl like luminous insects. Each one carrying someone's secrets, someone's lies. Someone's truth.
This city never sleeps, they say. Neither do the predators. Or the people hunting them.
My reflection stares back at me—ghost-pale against the darkness. Behind those eyes lurks the same hunger I see in guys like Langford. The difference is, I point mine at the deserving. At least, that's what I tell myself at 3 AM when the walls start closing in.
I push away from the window. The keys still wait on the counter, silent and judging. But I won't go. Not tonight. Getting involved with a woman like Lila… that's asking for complications. And those sort of complications aren't for the likes of me.
Still. Those eyes of hers...
I wrench myself away from the window, away from thoughts of the bar. Of her. Catching glimpses of yourself in the glass is a dangerous habit for a man with my history. You start seeing your father's eyes looking back.
The bathroom's stark white tile feels like an interrogation room as I crank the shower to scalding. Steam billows as I strip down, scars mapping the topography of past mistakes across my skin.
Water pounds against my shoulders, but it doesn't wash away the image of Lila from my mind. Those green eyes with their wall of caution. The soft curve of her mouth when she almost smiled. The way she moved behind the bar like she was dancing to music only she could hear.
"Fuck," I mutter, bracing one hand against the tile.
My cock hardens under the spray, and I don't fight it. Some urges you can control, others you just manage. I wrap my hand around myself, stroking slowly at first. I shouldn't be thinking about her like this. But my hand doesn't care about qualms as it picks up speed.
I close my eyes and see her—that expressive face, those delicate wrists. The way she tucked hair behind her ear when nervous. What would she sound like, I wonder? Quiet, I bet. Like she's afraid someone might hear. Or maybe she'd surprise me.
The pressure builds as water streams down my back. My breath comes harder, echoing against the tile. This is pathetic—jacking off to a woman I barely know, a woman who probably crosses the street when she sees guys like me coming.
Doesn't stop me from coming hard against the shower wall, a grunt escaping through clenched teeth.
The release brings no relief, just momentary emptiness. The water washes away the evidence but not the guilt. Or the want.
