Page 8 of Stalk Me

“You thought wrong.” I check my reflection in his mirror, fixing my smudged lipstick. “Thanks for the distraction.”

“Come on,” he laughs, swinging his legs off the bed. His boxers sit low on his hips. “It was fun. Let’s do it again some time.”

I slip my feet back into my shoes, the sharp heels making an exaggerated clicking noise on the wooden floor.

“No, thanks. Been there, done that.” The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I’ve gotten good at turning pain into poison. It’s easier to be the villain in someone else’s story than the victim in my own.

The shock and devastation on his face would’ve been hilarious, but I’m more concerned with getting out of his room than laughing. My skin crawls with the familiar mix of satisfaction and self-loathing. Another notch on the bedpost, another brick in the wall between me and everything I left behind. It was a quick fuck, nothing more.

Back at the party, the music seems louder now, or maybe that’s just the blood rushing in my ears. The bass thrums through my bones like a second heartbeat, drowning out the whispers that follow me across the room. Belle spots me immediately, her eyes narrowing at my disheveled appearance. Her perfect mask slips for just a second, revealing something darker beneath the polished surface—jealousy maybe or recognition of a fellow predator in her waters. I flash her my sweetest smile as I walk past.

“Leaving so soon?” she calls after me. “But the party’s just getting started.”

I pause in the doorway, making sure my voice carries. “Sorry, but I got what I came for. Your parties are exactly what I expected—amateur hour with daddy’s whiskey and borrowed condoms.” I wink at Dougie, who’s just emerged from his room looking shell-shocked. “Thanks for the warm welcome.”

The room erupts in whispers as I sashay out. Let them talk. Let them think they know me. It’s easier that way—being the wild child, the slut, the girl who fucks strangers at welcome parties. Those labels are armor, protecting the parts of me they can never see.

Even on the cusp of ruining yet another chance my fucked-up life’s given me, I won’t allow anyone to pry behind my defenses and catch a glimpse of the damage within. Let them see what they expect to see—the wild child, the black sheep, the girl who fucks strangers at welcome parties. It’s safer that way. Because the truth is far more dangerous than any reputation they could give me.

Sharks never show weakness, not even when they’re starving. And I’ve been starving for so long, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be full. But that’s okay—hunger keeps you sharp, keeps you moving. And in these waters, you either keep moving or you die.

The Rules of Engagement

The computer science building looms like a digital fortress, its severe gothic architecture a stark contrast to the cutting-edge technology housed within. As I cross the threshold into Professor Austin’s classroom, the air crackles with unspoken tension and the hum of expensive equipment. Twenty pairs of eyes track my entrance, each gaze weighted with judgment or morbid curiosity. Yesterday, I was just another new student; today I’m Shark Bay’s latest scandal after what happened with Dougie. If I’d known his friend group controlled the school’s gossip ecosystem, I would’ve chosen a different conquest.

Professor Austin is already standing in the center of the room, pacing back and forth and occasionally scribbling equations on the whiteboard as he rambles. The one he just finished is wrong, but no one corrects him. No one would dare. He runs his hand through his unruly dark curls, shooting me a smile when he notices I’ve arrived.

“Okay, let’s begin,” he says as he puts his notebook on the desk and claps his hands. Some girls in the front row laugh softly as he fixes his glasses. “You’ve all grown up in a world where your devices are extensions of yourselves,” he starts, his fingers drumming absently on the edge of his desk. “Your phones know everything about you and your habits. A long time ago, people only knew about technology of the time, but things aren’t as simple anymore.”

He winks at the class. “Our ability to manipulate the environment that surrounds us has taken quantum leaps. Every moment of your life is traceable and recorded, and using some very basic knowledge, one can track and predict where you will go next, who you talk to, and what type of music you like to listen to while procrastinating. Digital media has changed us, and we can no longer avoid those changes.”

I pull out my laptop, pretending not to notice how whispered conversations halted when I walked past, how eyes track my every movement. Let them stare. Let them whisper. I’ve survived worse than their petty gossip.

Professor Austin continues his intro to the class. His voice carries across the room as he paces it, his tweed jacket and wire-rimmed glasses screaming academic stereotype. He can’t be much older than thirty, and there’s an eagerness in his step that suggests he still believes in things like potential and second chances. Poor bastard has no idea what kind of snakes he’s trying to teach.

“In case I haven’t made it clear, today we’ll be discussing network security and digital footprints,” he continues, typing something on his computer. The projector flickers to life. “In today’s world, everything we do online leaves a trace. The question is: Who has access to those traces, and what can they do with them?”

A picture pops up on the screen, showing a series of codes. One by one, the codes start to break apart until the final character transforms into a full photo. It’s still blurry when it stabilizes, but I recognize those shoulders, that posture, that hair.

It’s Alex.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—another message from my parents. The timing is impeccable. I don’t need to look to know what it says. They want me to know that they own everything and everyone. That there’s nowhere I can run. This lesson isn’t for the rest of the class. It’s meant specifically for me, and it couldn’t be clearer that my freedom is only an illusion.

Belle saunters in late, perfectly coiffed hair bouncing as she takes her seat two rows ahead. She turns to whisper something to Nicolas, her boyfriend, who smirks in my direction. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

Behind him sits Max, also smirking, presumably at Dougie’s smug expression. Everyone seems so content behind their wall of privilege, while knowing nothing of the pain waiting on the other side. Watching them act like they’re invincible is both infuriating and amusing. The more haughty they appear, the harder it’ll be when the storm rolls in and their nice, safe illusion finally breaks apart. These aren’t real sharks. They haven’t had to earn their scars.

And then there’s me. I’m just a hunter observing and haunting their perfect world while pretending to smile. They enjoy their power in their protected bubble, while I’ve come to understand what it really costs. Just one small mistake and their ideal life could fall apart. They don’t understand what real danger is.

Belle raises her hand, a coy smile plastered on her bright pink lips. Professor Austin frowns, but he gestures for her to speak. “What’s that icon on your desktop?” she asks, tilting her head and pointing at the wall where the screen’s being projected. “It looks important.”

Professor Austin raises his brows. “I’ve no idea. Let’s check.”

He moves the cursor toward the icon and clicks his mouse. The room goes silent as the icon opens. A video starts to play.

My blood turns to ice as I recognize the dimly lit scene—Dougie’s room, last night. The angle is weird, clearly from a hidden camera, but there’s no mistaking what’s happening. The sound is muted, thank God, but the visual is bad enough.

Everyone cranes to see, their expressions ranging from shock to amusement. Belle’s the only one unruffled. She studies her nails, the very image of casual confidence. There’s something vaguely reptilian in the way she holds herself, and no doubt her skin’s the same temperature.

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