Page 25 of Beyond Protection
Mac stared at the windows. His reflection ghosted in the glass— half-present, half-city lights.
"I used to like this view," he said quietly. "It meant success. It proved I'd made it. That I deserved to take up space. That I was worth—"
He stopped. Swallowed hard.
"Worth what?" I asked quietly.
"Keeping." His voice cracked. "I bought it to prove I was worth keeping. And then I couldn't figure out how to live in it. Because living in it alone just proved I wasn't."
The raw honesty of it hit like a physical blow.
"That's not what this proves," I said.
"Then what does it prove?"
I moved closer. Close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, and the way he was holding himself together by force of will.
"It proves you've been trying to survive alone for so long you forgot that's not the same thing as living."
His eyes filled. He looked away fast, but not fast enough.
The city spread behind him. Thousands of windows. Thousands of ways to be seen.
I understood then: the stalker obsessed over what Mac's life had always been. Performance. Display. The constant awareness of being watched.
Back inside, I found an Alexa unit.
"Exploitable," I said, and unplugged it.
"Really?"
"If your account gets compromised, they hear everything. Know when you're home, and when you're not."
I kept moving. The HVAC hummed. No voices from adjacent units. No footsteps. Pure isolation.
Mac tracked my movements. Not anxious now. Focused. The way he'd been focused at Ma's house when I'd explained countersurveillance—paying attention with his whole body, leaning forward slightly, pupils dilated.
It was want, barely restrained. The kind Mac probably didn't know showed on his face.
I looked away first.
"Install new locks," I said. "Deadbolts. Motion sensors on the balcony door." My voice was clinical and tactical. "And vary your routines."
"Routines are what keep me sane."
"Routines are what get you mapped." He turned back toward me. "They've been watching for eighteen months. Every pattern is a data point."
"I can't vary everything. Morning training's at six. Sunday dinner's at Ma's—always has been when I'm in town since I was ten." He exhaled. "The things that matter have patterns."
He was right.
"We manage risk," I said. "Not eliminate it."
"That's not very comforting."
"It's true."
Mac pulled out his phone. Scrolled and held it up.
