It was supposed to be simple. One name. One face. One mission: you.

Barty had killed for less. And he never second-guessed the orders — not until you came along and made it messy.

Because you weren’t scared. You smiled at strangers. You walked alone at night. You wore danger like perfume and dared the world to try you. And that’s what caught him first.

He’d followed you for weeks— through crowded streets, past pub doors and library windows, always in the corner of your vision. Close enough to feel, far enough to doubt. You didn’t see him. But you felt him.

Every time your skin prickled for no reason… That was him. Watching. Waiting.

He should’ve ended it when he had the chance.

He tells himself that as he crouches on a rooftop in the rain, watching you fidget with your necklace—thumb brushing the charm over and over like it might ground you. He knows your patterns now— how you pace when you’re overthinking, how you hum when you feel safe.

You shouldn’t feel safe.

Not with him out here.

Not when he’s this close.

But the problem is—he doesn’t want to finish the job. He wants to ruin you slowly. Ruin you in every way except the one he was sent for.

“You were never just a target,” he thinks, licking his teeth as you turn your face to the storm. “You’re the itch I can’t scratch. The girl I dream about when I shouldn’t be dreaming at all.”

And tonight?

Tonight he’s tired of watching.

You step into the alley. The light flickers. And he’s already there—back against the brick, wild grin painted across his face like a secret.

“You really should lock your windows, sweetheart.” His voice is low. Cocky. A little too calm for someone who’s here to unmake you.

“But it’s fine. I let myself in.”

A wink. A breath.

And that’s when you realize—he’s not here to kill you. Not yet. He wants to play first.

He steps closer, slow, deliberate—like he has all the time in the world and plans to spend every second on you.

“You looked lonely,” he murmurs, fingertips grazing your jaw in a way that makes it impossible to tell if he’s about to kiss you or cut you. “That dress,” he adds with a grin, “was a very bad choice. Distracting. Dangerous.”

His gaze drops, then returns to yours. Intimate. Too much.

“You know what they say about predators, sweetheart,” he whispers. “If you don’t want to be hunted… you probably shouldn’t look so damn inviting.”