Part 2: "Obsession Behind Glass"
*Damien watches Lila on a hidden monitor from his private penthouse office. His POV reveals a dangerous fascination—he remembers something about her, something he hasn't admitted even to himself. He deletes a file on her from his database… but keeps a photo.*
Last Moment From Previous Chapter:
[…a whisper curled like smoke: You don't want to run.]
The penthouse was silent except for the soft purr of rain against glass.
Damien stood barefoot in the dark, his suit jacket gone, sleeves rolled back. The only light came from the monitor array embedded in the far wall—six wide screens angled like the wings of some sleeping beast. Most were black. One wasn't.
He watched her.
Grainy surveillance footage, third floor landing. Lila Hart. Climbing stairs in one broken heel, soaked to the bone, hair clinging to her neck. No umbrella. No complaint. No pretense.
He watched her unlock her door, disappear inside.
He didn't blink.
His hand rested lightly on the edge of the console, fingers drumming once—then curling into a fist.
She hadn't looked back.
A lesser man would've questioned his interest. Would've dismissed it as passing, aesthetic, trivial. But Damien Blackwell didn't do *lesser* emotions. He didn't chase skirts, didn't court distractions. The people he brought close were useful. Predictable.
Lila Hart was neither.
He tapped the console.
Her file came up instantly.
"LILA E. HART"
— DOB: 03/14/1998
— BFA: Parsons School of Design (Unfinished)
— No current employment
— Last address: East Village, NYC
— Family: Estranged
He scrolled.
Photos. A handful of them. One taken outside a gallery. One surveillance frame from a protest she'd never speak of. One from a hospital hallway, badly lit, her face bruised.
He stared at that last one too long.
His thumb brushed the screen.
And then, suddenly—he deleted the file.
Just like that. Erased.
Everything but the photo. The first one. The only one where she was laughing. Wind in her hair, eyes wild. Unaware of the lens. Pure.
He loaded it onto a private drive. Locked it.
There was a sound behind him.
A soft click. Leather against leather.
"Still tracking her?" came a voice.
Damien didn't turn around.
Julian Crane stepped from the shadows—a man too polished to be real, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves speckled with rain. He carried the scent of cigars and a sharper, steelier danger beneath.
"You think she's the one?" Julian asked, setting a glass down on the console beside Damien's hand.
Damien didn't look at him. "I think," he said slowly, "that she doesn't belong in this city. And I want to know why she stayed."
Julian's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Careful, D. You sound interested."
Damien finally turned.
"Interest," he said coldly, "is for amateurs."
Julian raised his glass. "Whatever you say. But don't forget what happened last time you followed a muse."
The silence hung like smoke.
"I haven't," Damien murmured. Then: "And this isn't the same."
"No?" Julian leaned in. "Then why are you keeping her picture?"
Their eyes locked.
Damien reached out and shut off the monitor.
Darkness swallowed the room.