I didn't go home that night.
I sat at the bar, nursing a drink that I didn't touch, watching him in
the mirror. The detective. My hunter.
He was patient, calculated—no wasted movements, no sudden
shifts. He didn't order a drink. Didn't pretend he was here for
anything else. He just sat there, watching me. Waiting.
For what?
For me to make a mistake? To bolt?
If that's what he wanted, he was wasting his time.
I had spent years perfecting the art of control. Masking my
impulses, hiding in plain sight. If he thought he could spook me
into running, he was wrong.
But still… he was here. That meant something.
I needed to know what.
The Game That Wasn't Mine
I stood up, stretching out my shoulders as if this was just another
night, just another bar.
Then I walked straight toward him.
His expression didn't change. Not when I stopped in front of him.
Not when I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
For a moment, we just stared at each other.
Then he smirked. "Took you long enough."
So he'd been waiting for me to come to him. Interesting.
I leaned back, resting my elbow on the back of my chair. "You've
got the wrong guy, detective."
His smirk widened, but his eyes remained sharp. "That's funny. I
don't remember saying you were the right one."
Clever.
I shrugged. "Then what do you want?"
He studied me for a long moment, drumming his fingers against
the table. Measuring me.
"Tell me," he said, "do you ever wonder if you're actually in control?"
A chill ran down my spine. Not because of what he said—but
because he was too close to the truth.
I kept my expression neutral. "I'm not sure what you mean."
Miller tilted his head slightly, like a wolf sizing up its prey. "I think
you do. You see, most killers—they have a pattern. A type. An obsession.
But you?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "You're different. You kill
for… art, don't you?"
He was fishing, testing to see what would make me react.
I smiled, leaning in a bit closer. "That's quite the theory, detective."
"It's not a theory," he said. "It's the truth. You and I both know it."
For a moment, I felt something close to admiration. He wasn't just
throwing random accusations. He knew. Or at least, he thought he
did.
But knowing wasn't enough.
Proving it? That was another thing entirely.
I sighed, shaking my head. "Look, I get it. You need a case, a bad guy to
chase. But you're wasting your time with me."
Miller didn't blink. "Am I?"
Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Tell me, what do you
think Brooks would do if he found out you were talking to me?"
That was the moment I knew he wasn't just here to catch me.
He was here to break me.
The Threat That Wasn't Mine
I forced myself to stay relaxed, but my fingers curled slightly
against the table. He was playing a dangerous game.
"You don't scare me, detective."
"Oh, I don't need to scare you," he said casually, leaning back in his
seat. "Brooks already does that for me."
He wasn't wrong.
Brooks wasn't a man who tolerated disloyalty. He saw everything,
controlled everything. If he even suspected that I was speaking to
a cop, I wouldn't get a second chance.
And Miller knew that.
Which meant…
"You're trying to turn me against him," I said.
Miller smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "You say that like I need
to try."
I clenched my jaw. I couldn't let him get inside my head.
I stood up. "Nice chat, detective."
Miller didn't stop me. He just watched as I walked away.
But before I could reach the door, he called out—just loud enough
for me to hear.
"You won't be able to ignore me forever."
The Control That Wasn't Mine
I walked the city for hours, my mind racing.
Miller wasn't just a problem. He was a crack in the foundation.
He had seen the doubt in me. The hesitation. The unraveling.
And he wasn't going to stop until I broke.
I needed to get ahead of this.
I needed to regain control.
But the question was… whose control was I actually fighting
for?
Because for the first time, I wasn't sure if it was mine anymore.
I passed through empty streets, the silence punctuated only by the
occasional sound of distant footsteps or a car passing by. I didn't
want to go home. Home felt like a trap now.
I needed clarity. I needed to think.
So I ended up in the one place I knew would never judge me—my
studio.
I paced back and forth across the floor, my fingers tapping against
my palms as I thought. I had to plan my next move.
But the longer I thought about it, the clearer the truth became.
Miller wasn't just trying to catch me. He was trying to break
me down.
The detective was pushing me—testing my limits. But if I let him
in, if I let him get too close… I'd lose everything.