Rowan never intended to speak.

He was content to watch from a distance—from the corner of an alley, from behind a car window, from the shadows of an old building. Every movement the girl made was etched into his memory: the way she fixed her hair, the sound of her shoes on the pavement, the small habit of looking up at the sky when she was anxious.

Rowan knew more about her than anyone else.

And that night, when the girl unlocked her apartment door without realizing the lock was slightly broken, Rowan stood across the street. Silent. Waiting. His eyes unblinking, watching with an intensity only understood by those consumed by obsession.

He didn’t want to be seen. Not tonight.

But sooner or later, he would get closer.

Because for Rowan, just watching would never be enough.