He was prepared for her. Studied. Focused. Dangerous in his devotion.
But he wasn’t ready for me. Not for my chaos or my unpredictability. I’ve been stalking the stalker with no afterthought. And now—seeing all of this laid out in black and white—I finally understand just how much I’ve derailed his plan.
How many hours, days, lives I’ve bent off course with one reckless move.
But I press on. I need to know what happened to his wife—what really happened. Not the scraps I’ve been fed.
I trawl through files, drawers, even risk rifling through his underwear like some desperate spy with no moral compass. All in the name of truth,obviously.
Then I open the walk-in wardrobe.
It’s not clothes I find.
It’s a dungeon.
Dark wood panels frame a scene straight from a secret life—whips, cuffs, ropes, padded restraints. Toys I don’t have names for. Gear that looks less like pleasure and more like surrender.
It’s… a lot.
And strangely, not surprising. He never struck me as the flowers-and-candles type. If anything, thisfits.
I’ve played before—fluffy pink handcuffs, and the odd spanking. But this?
This is a whole new universe. One with rules and safe words and consequences I haven’t earned the right to imagine.
And maybe—just maybe—a part of me is curious.
But it doesn’t matter.
I won’t be here long enough to find out. Our relationship is platonic. Professional. Strictly guarded.
No more hiccups. No more slip-ups.
Before my mind can run too far down the path of speculation, I shut the door—closing that room of pain back into darkness.
A glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes left.
One final shot.
I stretch my arm across the top of the filing cabinet, fingers sweeping blindly. I can’t see anything, but maybe—just maybe—there’s more up here than lint and regret.
Though who am I kidding? There’s no dust. He’s meticulous. Obsessive. Every surface wiped clean, every secret tucked neatly away in his overly organised life.
Except this.
A single file, yellowed with age. No label beyond a name scrawled in faded ink.
Kyla.
No surname. No date. Justher.
Let’s see what demons you’ve got hidden in your closet.
But what greets me isn’t scandal or revelation. It’s grief.
Not mine—his.
Surveillance clips, dozens of them, stitched together like a visual eulogy. Footage from the moment she vanished. Nothing before. Only the aftermath—obsessively catalogued. Timeline estimates. Street cams. Still frames frozen mid-panic. Crumpled notes scribbled in frustration. Maps. Dead ends. Red string without resolution.
