Page 48 of The Vigilant

User923X: Send me a live video of yourself.

Where’s the fun in that now that you’ve got me all worked up?

I stretched and clenched my palm over and over, waiting for his reply.

User923X: There is no fun. Not yet. I need to see your body first. I need to know it’s the same as the photos.

My throat tightened.

He sent another message before I could reply.

User923X: Start facing front and slowly turn until your back is at the camera. Then I want you to bend forward onto a bed or any surface and let me see your tight asshole. Count to three. Then, you will straighten again and return to facing forward. Sit down again and spread your thighs, so I can see your full cunt. Again, three seconds before you close your legs and stand again.

My eyebrows rose at the almost mechanical request like I was some car on an assembly line and he was responsible for the final inspection before I was able to be…used.

And then?

I wanted to know what happened after I prostrated myself on camera like sexual chattel for him.

User923X: If you are acceptable, then I’ll bring you to me and enlighten you on the definition of pain.

Acid bubbled in my throat.

The idea of rougher sex appealed to me, but not the way he alluded. User923X was a sadistic fuck. I knew it in my bones as sure as I knew the sky was blue.

Engage the enemy with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment—that which they cannot anticipate.

The art of my modern, personal war was a little different than Sun Tzu would’ve ever imagined, but the tactical beauty of his teachings remained just as valuable.

I can’t wait.

I gave User923X what he wanted: a willing victim.

After sending the message, I dragged the chair out from the corner of the room and propped my phone against it. I tapped on the “Live” button, knowing it activated the camera so I could make sure the frame was lined up the way I wanted before broadcasting.

It wasn’t high enough.

I thought for a second before striding to the closet and digging into my duffel on the floor, finding my worn copy ofThe Art of Warburied at the bottom.

The book had been a gift from Dad for my ninth birthday, codifying so many phrases I’d heard over the years. That was the last birthday he was home for, and he and Mom fought most of the day about the gift anyway. She didn’t want to accept who I was becoming—how I was becoming like him. She tried to ignore all the martial arts classes and how I picked fights at school.

She thought it was a phase, just like she thought Dad continuing to leave was a phase. She could never accept that this was who he was, the very pit of his soul formed from the fire to fight for his country, and that was what destroyed her in the end.

Or at least, it was the thing that sent her into the arms of the man who destroyed her.

I shoved the book under my phone, satisfied with the angle of the camera now.

Backing up, I rolled my shoulders, the robe sliding off them like a snake shedding its skin. The cool air licked over my bare skin as I shimmied out of my thong.

Uncurling my spine, I looked at the camera again, completely naked in the frame.

A small smile turned my lips, feeling like the scorpion about to strike.

I strode back to my phone and opened the music app. He hadn’t said anything about sound, so I picked a song by The Used, the older punk emo igniting vigilante rebellion in my blood.

This man wanted to make sure my body would make good prey. Little did he realize that my body—my beauty—was nothing more than bait. I didn’t care how violent his bite was. In the end, he would be the one strangled on the end of the line.

The music pulsed around me, making it seem like even the floor vibrated with the riotous beat.

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