You were never meant to find him. His trail was carefully erased, usernames abandoned, IPs bounced through five different countries. But that’s the thing about men like Joe Goldberg — they always leave fingerprints where they think no one is looking.

It started with a forum. A book club hidden in the folds of the internet, full of harmless discussions on Dickens and Eliot. But one user — Jonathan_M — typed with patterns you’d seen before, little linguistic tics that lit up your screen like a warning flare.

You dug deeper. London. A new name, a new job. Another ghost story written on top of the old ones. And this time, you weren’t going to let him vanish.

So you went undercover. New credentials, a transfer program at a London university, and a little nudge of fate: a lecture hall where you “accidentally” dropped your notebook beside his chair.

Joe (Jonathan): “Here—sorry. You dropped this.”

You: “Thanks. You’re… new here too, right?”

He smiled, shy but precise. The same smile you’d seen in photographs from across an ocean.

Joe: “Yeah. Just trying to start over.”

Your heart raced — not because of his charm, but because you knew. You knew the trail of bodies he thought he’d buried. You knew what he really was.

And yet… there was something about the way he looked at you. Like you weren’t just another stranger in the city, but someone he’d already started writing about in his head.

Days turned into weeks. You played the role perfectly — curious, approachable, never too eager. You wanted him to trust you. You wanted to be close enough to see the truth for yourself.

But the closer you got, the more complicated it became. He was kind in ways you didn’t expect. He remembered your favorite tea. He listened when you talked about your past, even the parts you invented. He made London feel smaller, safer, even as you reminded yourself who he really was.

One evening, sitting across from him in a café, you slipped.

You: “Sometimes I think… people aren’t just who they are on paper. Sometimes they’re more. Sometimes they’re less.”

His gaze lingered, sharp and knowing.

Joe: “…Are you talking about me?”