Kaien | ALT: Stalker

Just like clockwork.

The phone in his pocket felt heavy, a loaded weapon. He’d sent another one this morning. A picture of his body, still gleaming with sweat and smudged with a little dirt from the site. He’d taken it in the Porta-Potty, the harsh light highlighting the hard lines of his abdomen, the dust clinging to the trail of hair that disappeared into his work pants.

‘Read.’

Weeks of this. A relentless, one-sided exhibition. Pictures of his body. His cock, hard and thick in his grip. His hand, calloused and scarred, wrapped around a chain-link fence. Sometimes, even mundane shit—his lunch, a bowl of rice and meat. A spectrum from boring to blatantly lewd. Had she given up on blocking the endless stream of unknown numbers? He liked to think she’d accepted it. That she looked forward to them. It was a development he clung to.

The foreman barked his name, cutting through the static in his head. Kaien answered with a low grunt, shoving the phone deep into his pocket.

Five minutes. Right on schedule, she’d be walking to work. His eyes, sharp and hungry, tracked her the moment she stepped out of her building. His gaze raked over her body—the swing of her hips, the way her hand came up to shield her eyes from the sun. Their eyes met across the distance. She’d never seen his full face, just his eyes above the ever-present blue balaclava. He never looked away. Instead, he bent down, the muscles in his back cording as he hefted a sack of cement onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing. A silent, physical boast meant only for her.

The memory hit him, sharp and clear. The first time. It was late. She was the last one out of her office, a look of pure, undiluted fear on her face as some drunken fuck trailed her. He wasn't a hero. He never had been. But something in her wide-eyed panic, the way her gaze briefly locked with his in the shadows—it lit a fuse. He’d moved without thought, slamming the drunk against a brick wall with a wet, satisfying crunch. He’d vanished before she could even form a 'thank you,' her female co-worker spotting her and pulling her away. He’d left, but the hook was set.

She became his purpose. His boring, meaningless life suddenly had a focal point. He started saving his money instead of blowing it on gambling or paying for fleeting, empty release. Now, his currency was her. Watching her. Leaving small, anonymous gifts on her doorstep. Sending his photos into the digital void. Protecting her from the shadows.

Tonight. The thought was a drumbeat in his blood. Tonight.

He waited like a predator learning its prey’s rhythm, a ghost in the city's twilight. When her workday ended, he followed, a large, silent shadow ensuring no one else got too close. There’d been a man once, some office idiot who thought he could pick her up. Kaien had followed the man alone on his home, taken a crowbar to the guy’s car and whispered a threat so vile in his ear that the bastard never looked in her direction again. The memory brought a faint, cold smirk to his lips.

Now, he stood under a flickering streetlight, stubbing out a cigarette as he watched her move behind the curtains of her apartment. His breath hitched as her silhouette appeared, the graceful arc of her back as she pulled her shirt over her head. The shower turned on. His cock stirred, a thick, painful ache against his sweatpants, as he imagined the water sluicing over her skin. He could almost taste the steam.

She disappeared, probably into her closet. His thumb moved on its own, pulling the cracked burner phone from his pocket. He swiped open the hidden folder—his gallery. Dozens of her. Hundreds. Her sleeping, her back turned, the curve of her shoulder visible in the moonlight. A photo from last night, so clear he could count her eyelashes.

He was fully hard now, a relentless throb that demanded attention. He shifted, palming himself through the rough fabric with a low grunt. The fantasy was a film reel behind his eyes: his head between her thighs, his tongue tracing her most intimate folds while she slept, tasting her essence, claiming a part of her she’d never given to anyone. All without her ever knowing.

He waited until the last light in her apartment winked out, leaving the street in silence. He was a statue, a part of the night itself. When the only sound was the distant hum of the city, he moved and pulled his mask up.

The climb was nothing. Hand over hand, finding invisible holds in the old brick. Effortless and silent. He was at her window in seconds. Fifth floor. Third from the left.

The lock was a joke.

A quick, precise push with his knife, and the latch gave way with a soft, almost inaudible snick. He slid the window up, the sound a whisper, and then he was inside.

Her room was bathed in the soft, blue-grey gloom of the city night. And it smelled like her. Laundry soap. Perfume. Her. The scent flooded his senses, dizzying, intoxicating.

There she was. Asleep. One arm curled under her cheek, her lips slightly parted. The duvet was tangled around her legs, kicked low on her hips. Her thin sleep shirt had ridden up, exposing the gentle curve of her stomach.

He stood there, motionless, just drinking her in. This was infinitely better than the pictures. This was real, breathing, vulnerable. His chest tightened with a feeling so profound it was almost like pain.

He moved to the edge of the bed, his shadow engulfing her form. The soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing was the most beautiful music he’d ever heard.

Slowly, with a reverence that would shock the men he fought in underground rings, he knelt. The floorboards held his weight without a sound. He was a phantom in her sanctuary.

This was the pinnacle of his obsession. The silence and absolute vulnerability. The total, unconscious trust she had in the safety of her own room. It was the most intimate thing he’d ever experienced.

His hands—hands that could break bone—gripped the edge of the duvet. He pulled it down, revealing her legs. Fuck. Just her panties. Pale blue cotton. He remembered the day she bought them.

His own sweatpants were already pushed down, his cock springing free, fully hard and aching, a droplet of precum beading at the tip. He could take himself in hand and finish right now, the fantasy was so potent. But no. She deserved more than a quick, shameful nut in the dark.

Slowly, reverently, he hooked a single finger into the waistband of her panties. He began to tug them down. He salivated, pulling down his balaclava to free his mouth, licking his lips in anticipation.

She stirred then, a soft, sleepy murmur escaping her lips. Her body tensed slightly.

Kaien froze, every muscle locked. His voice, when it came, was a husky, unfamiliar whisper, laced with a hunger that was both a threat and a twisted promise.

”Shhh... Easy now. Go back to sleep. I've got you.” He licks her slit, he grins, salivating. “Just let me have this.”