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angel-calypso · 1 month ago

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What the Night knows

Summary: The reader lives a lie — a respected officer by day, a calculating killer by night. Her methods are clean, her rituals perfect, her secrets buried under the polished badge she wears so convincingly. No one suspects the monster hunting among them. But then comes the Ice Truck Killer, tearing open a case too close to her own darkness, and a prosthetics specialist named Rudy Cooper whose practiced charm hides something dangerous. When Y/N begins receiving messages from an unknown number — someone claiming to see her, to know her — everything starts to crack.

Notes: This is my first time publishing a series. I honestly will make up things as I write. I usually write a 4am, so don't expect this to make a lot of sense.

Also English is not my first language, so I apologize for some mistakes!

Im not sure how many chapters there will be, but i am so excited about this and I dont want this to end haha

Enjoy! ;3

This is for all the 10 Brian fans that are still out there xx

Word Count: 5,7k

Warnings: blood, smut, explicit language, slow burn, female serial killer, masturbation, brian moser :D, stalking

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CHAPTER ONE

The light above your head was buzzing, casting a dim light on you and the table. Your chest rising and falling from that post kill high.

What could be better that this?

You inhale. The air immediately hits you. The smell of metal, blood and sweat. You wipe your gloved hands on the towel that’s already streaked with red, with blood. You toss the towel on the floor and turn around. You get the black back that’s sitting on another table, waiting. Waiting to be filled up with the body parts that you just cut up, separated. With such care and joy.

Craftsmanship. That’s what you call this. Because in a way — it is.

You open the bag up and carefully take the dead man’s left arm and slide it into the bag making a thud as it falls in. You seal the bag up, carefully pressing out the air before tying a neat knot. Precise and clean. Just as always.

You put the bag down and reach for the label you’d prepared earlier — a small, crisp tag with your own neat handwriting that reveals what kind of body part is in this bag.

Then you take a new bag, where you put another body part — the right arm. Repeating the same process all over again. This might seem like a lot of work, but honestly? This is relaxing to you.

You reach for the legs next, severed at the knee. Another bag, another label. Before putting the right leg into the bag, you lift it up and admire it. It’s clean, a neat cut, no sharp edges, nothing sloppy. You smile at yourself and put the leg into the bag.

The head you leave for last. Always. There’s something about it that feels final, like the punctuation at the end of a perfect sentence. You cradle it for a moment, studying the slack features, the frozen expression of shock that still clings to what’s left on the face. It’s almost funny, how they all look surprised in the end.

You put the head down and reach for another bag. A different kind of bag, not the cheap plastic ones you’d used for the limbs, but a thicker, darker vinyl. Sturdier. Special. This one deserved a different treatment. You spread the bag open with a certain reverence, almost like laying out a burial shroud. With careful hands, you lower the head inside, arranging it so the face stares upward, as if still witnessing your work. You pause, letting the moment settle. You smile and then seal the bag shut, putting on the last label, that’s revealing that there’s a head inside.

After this, you always leave the body parts in different locations. It’s part of the ritual, part of the fun. A breadcrumb trail only you know how to follow. The left arm might end up half-buried on a quiet stretch of beach, the right leg stuffed behind a trash bin in a supermarket parking lot. Sometimes you leave a piece in the park — right where children might stumble over it.

And the best part about this — you’re with the police. You can watch it all unfold. You stand behind the crime scene tape with your badge clipped to your belt. You watch and nod, how your colleagues are speculating all this, voices shaky, theories pathetic.

You take notes, look for footprints, blood patterns. They think you’re brilliant. They bring you photos, evidence. And you nod, tilt your head, say something smart like “precision like this suggests planning, maybe even experience.” And everyone scribbles it down like gospel.

You take off your gloves and flex your fingers. You check the time, it’s already 3:47AM. You wipe down the table, spraying bleach in steady, practiced lines, making sure every drop of blood is scrubbed away. You can’t leave mistakes behind. Not in your work. Not in your life.

Once everything is back in order, you slip out of the room, flicking the light off behind you. The place sinks into darkness, silent except for the echo of your footsteps as you leave. By sunrise, you’ll be Detective Y/N again, coffee in hand, badge on your hip, greeting your colleagues with a tired smile. They’ll see a dedicated cop working herself half to death chasing this so-called monster. And you’ll play along.

You get into your car, putting the last bag into your trunk. The night is thick and quiet. You pull away from the warehouse with your windows rolled down. The city is starting to wake up again. A flicker of life in the distance. Miami never really sleeps, true, but it’s calmer at night. And that is the best time for you to move.

After you finish disposing bodies, you check the time again. 5:32AM. Enough to go home, shower, and change. You smooth a hand over your hair, catching a faint trace of bleach on your sleeve, then start the car. The dull thrum of the engine feels almost comforting.

You drive home, shower, scrub the scent of bleach and blood from your skin. Dress in a tailored navy blazer. Let your hair out. Apply just enough concealer under your eyes to hide the late night.

You look at yourself in the mirror and smile. It’s almost unsettling how normal you appear — polished, composed, the picture of a hardworking detective ready to chase monsters. Monsters just like you. You slip your badge into place, check the holster on your belt, and smooth down your blazer. By the time you walk out the door, there’s no trace of what you were hours ago. No blood, no fear, no evidence.

By the time you reach the station, the place is already in chaos. Phones ringing, uniforms pacing, voices tense. You catch Debra’s frantic silhouette at the edge of your vision, waving you down.

“Y/N!” she calls. “We gotta go — Tucci’s awake.”

The name cuts through your thoughts. You’d read the case file, of course. The Ice Truck Killer had left him alive, missing limbs but alive. Messy. Strange. Unlike what you would have done — you would have finished him.

You fell into step with Debra, keeping your voice steady. “What’s he saying?”

“He’s rattled, but talking,” Deb replied, keys jangling as she pulled you toward the car. “They’re getting him a prosthetic today, trying to keep him stable. Some guy from Miami Central Prosthetics is already there.”

You nodded, tucking that detail away. Prosthetics, you thought. Someone who puts people back together. It almost made you laugh.

“You sleep okay? You look fucking tired.” Debra asks as she opens the driver’s side of the door.

You laugh at her putting on your sunglasses. “You know me, Deb. Sleep is overrated.”

Deb snorts. “You and me both.” She drops into the driver’s seat, coffee sloshing dangerously in the paper cup. “Captain wants us in there before the shrink scrambles Tucci’s head even more. See if he remembers anything.”

You nod, sliding into the passenger side, steadying your badge as it bumps against your hip. The engine rumbles to life, vibrating through your bones, grounding you in a weird, welcome way. As Deb pulls away from the station, you stare out the window, letting the city blur past. Neon signs dying in the morning light, wet asphalt streaked with red brake lights.

“Hey,” Deb suddenly speaks up making you glance at her. “You think he saw the guy?”

“We better hope he did.”

Deb huffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, well, part of me hopes he didn’t. You see the look on his face? He’s wrecked.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug, eyes drifting back to the sunrise slicing between buildings. “If he saw him, maybe we’ll finally have something to go on.”

She sighed, pressing harder on the gas. “I just don’t want him to break down. He’s our best shot.”

You nodded faintly, but your mind was elsewhere — on the clean, deliberate amputations, the patience it took to leave someone alive. It was a message, you were sure of it. But what kind?

Your jaw tightened. If it had been you, there’d be no message left behind. No voice to talk, no victim to piece together. Only silence.

The hospital finally came into view, its glass walls reflecting the pale Miami dawn. Deb pulled up to the curb and threw the car into park. You noticed Masuka’s car already there.

“You good?” she asked, giving you a searching look.

“Yeah,” you replied easily, adjusting your blazer. “Let’s get this over with.”

The hospital air was cold, antiseptic. Familiar in its own way. You moved through the lobby, scanning every face, every uniform, looking for any sign of weakness. Debra led you to Tucci’s room, her boots squeaking on the polished floor. Inside, Tony Tucci looked like a broken doll, propped up on hospital white sheets, eyes wide and glassy. And next to him, crouched and steady, working to fit a prosthetic with the calm of someone who’d done it a hundred times before — was a man you didn’t know.

He looked up when you entered, polite, careful.

“Detectives?” he greeted, voice warm. “I’m Rudy Cooper, here from Miami Central.”

You stepped forward, holding out your hand. “Detective L/N. This is Detective Morgan.”

He shook your hand and then shook Debras hand.

“And I’m Masuka, ” Vince chimed in behind you, earning a small, amused glance from Rudy. “Forensics. Don’t mind me, I’m just here for the blood.”

“Pleasure,” Rudy chuckled politely

“We’re here to talk to Tony? Think he’s up to it?” Debra asks as she shakes his hand giving him a smile

“He’s a little shaken, but he’s strong,” Rudy replied, giving Debra an encouraging nod. “He should be able to answer a few questions.”

You watched the way Debra’s cheeks colored faintly when he looked at her. Noticed the small shift in her shoulders, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. It was subtle, but you caught it instantly.

Interesting. You let a small smile flicker across your face, pretending not to notice, pretending to focus on Tucci. You watch Rudy now going back to Tucci, adjusting the prefab prosthetic.

“We’ll start you off with a temporary prefab,” Rudy explained in that warm, careful tone, “and then make adjustments as we go.”

Tucci tried a smile. It trembled, but held. “Rudy here’s gonna put me back together again, good as new.”

“Half the battle is attitude,” Rudy agreed, then smiled at Tucci. “And you have a great one.”

Tucci laughed weakly. “Well, I’m alive. Didn’t see that happening, but here I am.”

Masuka leaned closer with a grin. “Yo, pretty boy, you’re stealing my thunder, and I got a hottie waiting on me, so I might have to fight you for this one.”

Tucci smirked, weak but good natured. “We’ll arm wrestle later.”

You folded your arms, eyes on Rudy. “He seems like he’s in good hands.”

Rudy offered a polite smile.

Debra chuckled. “Watch out for this guy,” she teased Rudy, tilting her head toward Masuka, “he’s a dog.”

“Guilty as charged,” Masuka shot back, giving a mock bow.

You sighed, shifting your notebook in one hand. “Alright, Tony,” you began evenly, slipping right back into detective mode, “can you tell us anything? Anything at all about the man who took you?”

Tucci swallowed hard, fingers twitching against the stiff hospital sheet. “I didn’t see much,” he admitted, voice small. “He came up on me from behind. Put a mask on me when he... made me put the things on ice.”

You narrowed your eyes but kept scribbling stuff in your notebook.

Debra leaned forward, gentle but focused. “Did you hear anything, Tony? An accent maybe?”

Tucci’s eyes darted around the room, scared. “He didn’t talk much. And when he did… it was a whisper.”

Masuka piped up, trying to break the tension. “Any idea if he was white, Black, Latino? Anything?”

Tony hesitated. “White, I think. Average height. Not fat, not skinny. Just… average.”

You leaned in, voice calm. “When he started working on you, you were blindfolded?”

Tony nodded quickly, shivering. “Yeah. And there were rats, you know? Crawling up on the bed. I had to shake them off.”

Your pen stilled for half a second. Rats. A cruel detail. Purposeful.

Debra softened her tone. “You’re doing good, Tony. You’ve given us a lot.”

Tony laughed, a sad, shaky laugh. “Yeah? Feels like nothing.”

Debra offered a warm smile. “Hey, sometimes when I’m trying to remember something, I close my eyes. Maybe even a blindfold—”

But Tony flinched, shaking his head. “No. I’m tired. I just… I just want to rest.”

You nodded, stepping back. “That’s fair. We’ll check back later.”

Tucci sank into the pillows, relief and exhaustion washing over his battered face.

Rudy gave Tucci’s shoulder a reassuring pat, then stood up, catching Debra’s gaze with a quiet steadiness that made her cheeks flush all over again. You couldn’t help but clock it — the softness in her eyes, the way she leaned in his direction even unconsciously.

“Thanks for making this easier,” Rudy told her with a warm, polite smile, like he was born to play the hero.

“Yeah,” Debra said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “you’re, uh, really good with him.”

He shrugged modestly, flashing that charming grin. “Just part of the job.”

Masuka clapped his hands together awkwardly, breaking the moment. “Well, I’m gonna go check out the, uh… evidence samples,” he announced, backing toward the door with a grin that was half nervous, half inappropriate. “Catch you guys later.”

You watched Masuka go, then turned your focus back on Tucci, who was already slipping into uneasy sleep, his bandaged stumps twitching slightly as if even his dreams wouldn’t let him forget

You walked out of the room, letting the door close quietly behind you, the faint click of the latch somehow too loud in the sterile hallway. The air outside felt cooler, easier to breathe without the mix of antiseptic and fear that clung to Tucci’s hospital bed.

Deb was still in there, hovering close, drawn to Rudy like a moth to a porch light. You knew that look on her face. You’d seen it before, in other places, on other people. That soft, subtle tilt of her body. The eyes that wanted to trust. It made something in your chest tighten, but you smoothed it away with a breath.

You started down the corridor, passing nurses who nodded politely, the sharp scent of hospital cleaner biting at your nose. Halfway to the elevators, you paused, glancing back toward Tucci’s room. A small window in the door gave you a glimpse — Rudy leaning in toward Deb, that practiced, gentle charm on his face, and Deb laughing at something he said.

The elevator chimed, snapping you out of your thoughts. You stepped inside, pressing the button for the lobby, and watched the doors slide shut. As they did, your own reflection caught your eye in the mirrored panel — polished, professional, a hero to everyone who didn’t know better.

A hero. That word felt almost comedic, considering what your hands had done only hours ago. You tilted your head at your own reflection, studying the smooth skin, the calm, clear eyes. No one would ever suspect. You’d built the illusion too well.

The elevator hummed, descending floor by floor, and for a moment, you let your mind drift back to the warehouse — to the careful cuts, the steady rhythm of your breathing as you dismembered a man like a puzzle you’d solved a hundred times before. That was the place you felt honest, real. Here, you were only an echo of yourself, a role you played to perfection.

Once the door to elevator opened, you headed straight out of the hospital to the car. You waited outside for Deb. You leaned against the side of the car, letting the soft dawn air touch your skin.

Finally, you saw Deb emerge. She was talking to Rudy, her face soft, open, more vulnerable than you’d seen her in months. She laughed at something he said, then tucked her hair behind her ear, that same little tell. Your eyes narrowed just a touch, then you smoothed it away with a shallow breath.

She gave Rudy a wave before jogging over to you, keys jangling. “Sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “Had to get his contact info, in case Tucci needs more help.”

You raised an eyebrow. “His contact info, huh?”

Deb gave you a playful shove. “Shut up.”

As she fired up the engine, you let your eyes drift out the window again, the city’s morning glare making you squint.

“Where to?” she asked, glancing over.

You flipped open your notebook. “Back to the station. I want to look over Tucci’s statement again. There’s something about the blindfold, the rats — doesn’t feel right.”

Deb nodded, pulling away from the curb, leaving the hospital and Rudy Cooper behind.

Later that night after work, you walked into your apartment. You kicked off your shoes, flexing your toes against the hardwood floor before massaging your aching feet for a moment. The silence wrapped around you like a familiar blanket.

You stepped into the kitchen, reaching for a glass from the cabinet, the movement almost automatic. The water from the tap ran cold, leaving condensation trailing down your knuckles as you filled the glass.

You took a slow sip, letting the chill settle in your chest. It was grounding, in a way — something human, something simple. You leaned against the counter, staring into the darkened room. The faint hum of your fridge was the only sound.

Outside, the city was moving on without you, streetlights blinking, engines rumbling, lives being lived. And you stood here, alone, a glass of water in your hand and blood still on your mind.

A run. That’s what you need right now. Maybe a run to the beach.

You set the glass down with a faint clink on the countertop. You went to your room, grabbed your leggings and a t-shirt. You pulled your hair back into a quick tie, grabbed a pair of worn running shoes by the door and slipped them on. You tied the laces tight, almost relishing the bite of the fabric against your fingers. It felt like a ritual: armor, in its own small way. You stepped outside, locking the door behind you with a quiet click, and drew in a deep breath of the night air.

The street was calmer now, shadows stretching long beneath the flickering streetlights. You took off at an easy pace, letting your muscles warm, the steady rhythm of your footfalls syncing with your heartbeat.

Block after block, the city fell away, the chatter, the sirens, the lights, until you reached the beach, where the sand was cool and the ocean whispered against the shore. You stopped and took of your shoes, grabbing them in one hand and letting your feet sink into the damp sand, breathing deep. Out here, the world felt distant, as if the waves could wash away every sin you’d ever committed.

You looked around you and started to undress. You took of your shirt, then your leggings. For a while you just stood there like that. Letting the wind hug your body, giving you goosebumps. Then you took off your bra and your panties.

Then you stepped forward, toes sinking into the cold sand, your muscles tense as you approached the water. The surf lapped against your ankles first, a shock that made you shiver, then deeper, up to your knees, thighs, until you plunged forward and let it swallow you whole. The ocean wrapped around you, bracing, heavy. You kicked out, strong strokes carrying you past the break, letting the waves knock against your shoulders. Every nerve felt awake. You floated for a moment, letting the current pull at you, the salt stinging your lips.

You broke the surface again with a gasp, hair slicked back, water streaming down your face. The night sky stretched overhead, vast and uncaring, a canvas of stars blinking far away from your tiny world. You treaded water, feeling the steady pull of the current wanting to take you somewhere, anywhere.

Then you turned and started swimming back to the shore with decisive strokes. When your feet finally found the sand again, you stood up. Goosebumps rose instantly as the night breeze cut across you, but you didn’t rush. You took a moment to look back at the dark ocean, letting its rhythmic sounds calm the echo of violence still humming somewhere in the back of your mind. You stepped onto the beach, gathering your scattered clothes, tugging them on one piece at a time, still dripping. Each movement was methodical, deliberate.

“Detective?” a voice called making you freeze with your damp shirt hallway over your head.

You yanked it down quickly, heart pounding, scanning the empty stretch of beach until you spotted a man. You couldn’t quite figure out who it was at first. Then it hit you. It’s the prosthetics guy. Rudy or Rider Cooper. You couldn’t remember and you didn’t even try to.

“You’re the prosthetics guy from earlier,” you took a breath.

He smiled taking a step closer to you, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants. Sleeves rolled up.

“Rudy Cooper, that’s me.” he clarified.

You let out a breath, your shoulders stiff. “What are you doing here?”

Rudy lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, as if he’d just wandered onto your private moment by accident. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said smoothly. “I come here sometimes to clear my head.” His eyes flicked to the ocean, then back to you, lingering. “Didn’t expect to see you, though.”

You crossed your arms, the damp fabric of your shirt clinging to your forearms, cold now that the breeze was cutting through it. “Yeah, well. Long day,” you muttered.

He tilted his head, studying you with that same steady calm you’d seen in Tucci’s hospital room. “Rough case,” he said lightly, like an invitation.

You stared back, guarded, trying to read him. His smile didn’t falter.

“Yeah,” you finally answered. “Something like that.”

“You come here often?” he looked at you and then looked behind you at the beach

You hesitated, following his glance back to the dark, rolling surf. The beach at night was your secret place, a place no one was supposed to see.

“Sometimes,” you admitted, voice carefully neutral. “Helps clear my head.”

Rudy nodded thoughtfully, as if that made perfect sense to him. His eyes lingered on you just a beat too long, like he was picking apart the edges of your words.

“It’s a good spot,” he said, shifting his weight in the sand. “Quiet. Private.”

“Yeah,” you agreed slowly. “That’s the point.”

Rudy’s lips curved just a little, a knowing sort of smile that somehow made your pulse hitch. He didn’t look away from you, even as the breeze tugged at his rolled-up sleeves.

“I should get going.” You slowly leaned down to take your shoes that were lying in the sand.

“Let me walk with you,” he started giving you a soft smile. “It’s not safe for a woman to be alone in times like these.”

His words made you pause, your fingers curling around your shoes, sand sticking to your damp skin. You looked up at him, meeting that calm, pleasant face, so polite, so careful, but there was something beneath it that felt off, like a blade hidden in velvet.

“I can handle myself,” you said evenly, slipping one shoe on, then the other.

Rudy’s smile didn’t budge. “I don’t doubt that,” he replied smoothly, voice warm. “But still.”

He took a half-step closer, hands still in his pockets, studying you with that steady, unblinking gaze. “Humor me?”

A muscle twitched in your jaw, but you forced a shrug. If he wants to walk, let him walk, you reasoned. Better to keep him in sight than have him lingering behind you in the dark.

“Fine,” you sighed, brushing a strand of damp hair out of your face. “Let’s go.”

He nodded once, almost pleased, and fell into step beside you as you began walking up the beach.

For a while, you walked in silence, the distant roar of the ocean filling the gaps. Rudy watched the horizon, as if he were content just existing in your presence, but you could feel the subtle tension there, the sense that he was studying you, cataloguing you.

And you tried to study him too. The thought startled you, hot and electric, cutting through the cool night air. You pictured him on the table, those calm, polite eyes gone wide with panic, his measured voice cracking as he pleaded. You wondered how easily his skin would come apart beneath your blade, how neatly you could separate the practiced steadiness from the raw, honest terror underneath.

The thought almost made you smile, but you didn’t.

“Beautiful night,” Rudy commented, breaking the moment.

You nodded stiffly, trying to steady your voice. “Yeah,” you managed, even as your thoughts still played at the edges of violence.

You both fell into the same silence again. The only sound coming from cars, sirens and your shoes crunching across the scattered shells and sand. The breeze whipped a strand of your hair into your mouth, and you brushed it away with a tense, deliberate motion.

“This is me,” you both stopped at a random building. You don’t live here, of course you don’t

Rudy paused beside you, studying the doorway with a polite, unreadable expression. “Nice place,” he remarked, like he believed you, or at least chose to pretend he did.

“Yeah,” you replied, smoothing the lie without missing a beat. “Thanks for walking me.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, like he was trying to see past the calm, past the surface you wore so carefully. Then he smiled — soft, reassuring, practiced. “Anytime, Detective.”

You nodded, heart still thudding with a strange rush of adrenaline. “Goodnight, Rudy.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed, turning back toward the city with that same unhurried ease.

You waited until he was out of sight, until the darkness swallowed him completely, before you stepped away from the fake doorway and moved toward where you actually live.

You moved quickly once he was gone, cutting across side streets and alleys until you reached your real building. The key scraped against the lock, your hands still faintly trembling from the encounter, though you’d never admit that.

Inside, the familiar smell of your home hit you. You took off your shoes and stay by the door, immediately took of your damp clothes leaving you in just your underwear. You headed straight to the bathroom.

Hot water hammered against your skin in the shower, steam wrapping around you. You stood there for a long time, letting the water drum over your scalp, willing it to wash away the night, the memories, even the phantom touch of Rudy’s polite smile.

He is interesting, and you’re interested to find out what his insides look like.

Would he beg?

Would he fight?

Or would he stay calm all the way to the end?

You shut the water off and stepped out, steam clinging to your skin. As you toweled off, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror — clean, polished, composed.

You went to your bedroom and turned on the dim light by your bed. You took your phone a saw a notification from an unknown number.

‘You looked beautiful in the ocean’

Your fingers hovered over the screen, then tightened around the phone until the casing creaked. A chill bled through your freshly showered skin, sinking into your bones. A thousand scenarios ran through your head, each one sharper than the last. Rudy? Some creep on the beach? Or worse — someone who knew you?

Slowly, carefully, you typed out a reply.

‘Who is this?’

The message sat there, blue bubble against black screen, taunting you. You watched the typing dots blink on and off, your breath caught in your chest.

Then the reply came.

‘Just a fan.’

You took a deep breath, feeling your pulse thrum in your throat. A fan? The word felt oily, wrong, sticking to your skin in a way that made you itch. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, mind racing, trying to dissect every possibility. Was it a joke? A mistake? Or something much, much darker?

You swallowed, forcing your breathing to steady, then typed, slow and measured:

‘Do I know you?’

A pause. The typing dots reappeared, vanished, reappeared again.

Come on, you thought, tension ratcheting tighter in your shoulders.

Then, finally, the screen lit up with another message:

‘I think you’d like to.’

Your skin went cold, a shiver crawling down your spine. You exhaled, slow, steady and typed back a reply:

‘That’s not an answer, sweetheart.’

You stared hard at the screen, jaw tight, but a small smile playing on your lips. Excitement?

‘Patience. I’ll make it worth your while.’

Your pulse jumped, sharp and eager, even as something darker twisted in your gut.

‘And how do you plan to do that?’

A pause.

‘By showing you how perfectly I understand you. How perfectly we match.’

You typed, slow and deliberate:

‘You think you know me?’

The reply came quicker than you expected, like they’d been waiting for the question:

‘I do know you. I know what’s under the badge. I know what you crave when the city goes quiet. I know what you dream about when no one’s watching.’

Another message came:

‘I know you dreamt about slicing up that pretty boy walking you home today.’

So maybe it’s not Rudy. But you can never be too sure.

‘And you look beautiful wrapped in that towel right now.’

You froze for a second. The fuck? And you started typing:

‘Then maybe you should knock on my door instead of spying on me through my window.’

There was no reply at first. Just the hollow, ringing silence of your own breath as you turned, almost against your will, to glance at the window, the curtains half-drawn, the night pressing close.

‘Maybe I will. But where’s the fun in that?’

You swallowed hard. You should feel fear, but instead you feel excitement. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, breathing shallow, pulse thrumming like a drumbeat inside your throat.

You took a steadying breath, letting the tension coil through you, sharp and electric. The excitement burned through the thin veil of logic like acid. You should block the number, report it, lock the windows, but that part of you, the part that understood the thrill of the hunt, leaned closer instead.

Your thumbs moved carefully, deliberate:

‘Is this a game to you?’

A pause. The typing dots teased you, flickering in and out.

‘Only if you want it to be.’

Your chest tightened, heart pounding hard enough to make you feel dizzy. You drew the towel tighter around yourself, a shiver racing down your spine.

‘What do you want?’

There was no hesitation this time.

‘I want you to see me. The way I see you.’

Another chill slid under your skin.

‘Look out the window.’

Your throat clenched. Slowly, pulse roaring in your ears, you turned toward the half-drawn curtains, the night beyond suddenly a thousand times darker.

You stepped closer to the window, the towel clinging damply to your skin, heart hammering in your chest. One part of you screamed to stop, to pull the curtains shut and call it in, but another part, the part that thrived on danger, needed to know.

You inched the curtain aside, peering into the night. The street below was nearly empty, just a few parked cars and the dull glow of the streetlights. Nothing moved. Nothing obvious. But you could feel it — someone watching, patient, hidden, seeing you.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you nearly dropped it. A new message.

‘Perfect. Stay right there.’

Your breath hitched, a strange thrill pulsing through your veins, sharp and dangerous.

‘What do you mean?’ you typed, fingers trembling but steady enough.

A pause.

‘I want to watch you. Unwrap yourself.’

A flush burned through you, your mind a blur of warnings, wants, and something that felt like a dare.

‘And if I don’t?’

Another pause, longer this time, the typing dots appearing and disappearing.

‘Then I come in.’

Your pulse spiked so hard it hurt. You swallowed, eyes scanning the dark, searching for any sign of movement.

And then you slowly loosened the knot of your towel, the fabric falling apart, your body bared to the shadows, to whoever was out there.

Your phone buzzed again, so quiet it almost seemed apologetic.

‘Beautiful.’

A shiver crawled over your skin, half from the night air sneaking through the window, half from the message itself. Beautiful. The word sank into you like a needle, threading something dark and electric through your veins.

You swallowed hard, breathing slow, forcing the pounding of your heart to steady. You refused to flinch, refused to pull the towel back around yourself. Instead, you stepped closer to the glass, letting the night see you.

Your phone buzzed once more, breaking the hush.

‘Do you feel powerful, detective?’

A small, dangerous smile tugged at your mouth, even as your chest tightened with something more complicated, more primal. You raised the phone, thumbs steady, and typed:

‘Maybe. Do you?’

Seconds passed. Long enough to make you wonder if he was gone, if you’d called his bluff, but then:

‘We could be gods together.’

Your lips parted, breath catching on that word ‘gods’. Something twisted inside you, hungry and hot.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you wrote back:

‘Prove it.’

The reply came instantly, as if he’d been waiting:

‘Soon.’

You let the phone fall to your side, your other hand resting against the glass, eyes locked on the dark outside. The city was still moving beyond you — cars, sirens, lives being lived, but none of it mattered. Only this did.

You closed the blinds slowly, a smirk playing on your lips. You moved away from the window, still naked. You went to your closer for some pajama and got into the bed.

You still felt that adrenaline, excitement in your chest. You wanted more, you needed more. And you couldn’t decide if you want this person on your table, or if you want to play with him more.

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