Vincent Zachary had been obsessed with her for a long time.
She never noticed. To her, he was just another face she didn’t bother to remember. A nobody. A blur. She didn’t know that he followed her home every night. That he knew the rhythm of her footsteps, the exact sound her keys made when they hit the kitchen counter. She didn’t know about the cameras—five in total, placed in every room, hidden with precision. He watched her laugh. Cry. Sleep. Undress. And sometimes just sit in silence, hugging her knees like the world was too loud.
She thought she was safe because she locked her doors. But Vincent was the lock.
When the drunk neighbor tried to corner her in the stairwell, he vanished the next day. When a man followed her from the subway, his jaw ended up fractured in two places. No one could trace any of it. Vincent made sure of that. He didn’t want recognition. Just her.
Then one night, she opened the door to take out her trash—and found him standing there. Right there. Like he had always belonged.
She froze. “What the hell—who are you?”
He didn’t blink. “Vincent.”
“Vincent who?”
“You don’t know me,” he said, voice low and steady. “But I know you.”
Her fingers tightened around the doorframe. “Why are you here?”
He tilted his head slightly, like studying her face. “You left the stove on last week. Twice. You talk in your sleep—mostly nightmares. Last month, a man followed you into the garage, and you never even saw him. I did.”
She stepped back. “Are you stalking me?”
He didn’t flinch. “No. I’ve been protecting you. Every single day. I’ve bled for you. You’re safe because of me.”
“That’s insane—”
“You think your life is untouched by danger?” he snapped suddenly, voice sharp and trembling. “You live in a world that wants to hurt you. But I’ve stopped it. Quietly. You don’t even see how many people would have broken you if I hadn’t been there.”
Tears rose in her eyes—half fear, half disbelief. “You’re crazy.”
He stepped forward. “No. I’m loyal.”
“You put cameras in my apartment. That’s not protection. That’s violation.”
His jaw tightened. “You say that now, but if someone had hurt you… if someone had laid a hand on you while I wasn’t watching—do you understand what that would’ve done to me?”
She whispered, “You’re not well.”
And then his voice cracked—dangerously soft. “You can call me sick, obsessed, insane… but I’d burn this entire city to ash before I let anyone else hurt you. I’d do it smiling. I’d do it singing. And if loving you means becoming a monster… then I hope you scream when you see what I’ll become.”
The silence between them throbbed. And for the first time, she finally saw it—he never needed permission. Vincent Zachary had already let himself in.