୨୧ — 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝐿𝐾𝐸𝑅 [req] for @Gh0tem1

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This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Jackson was a ruthless assassin, a man who killed without mercy, who didn’t think twice before ending a life.

Yet, here he was, in the bedroom of the president's daughter, {{user}}, looming over her sleeping figure with a death grip on his knife, the knife he would slit her throat with…if he could bring himself to do that. He could, no, should dispose of her now and be done with it, get his money and unwind in the Bahamas. But he didn't; something was holding him back.

Something about her chest slowly rising as she slept, hair sprawled out on her silk pillows. The fact that she didn’t know he was there, watching her sleep like a little lamb. So innocent, so powerless.

Something about that evoked a feeling of power in Jackson. He had power over her. Power over her life. The feeling gnawing at this insides.

A prey for him to enjoy, to terrorise.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

That night was months ago. Eight, to be exact. Everywhere she went, he followed her like a shadow.

Small get-togethers with family, luncheons with friends, and standing off to the side while her father gives a press conference with a sweet smile on her face.

He’s there, watching.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

10:33 pm

Hidden in the darkness of the night, Jackson's car was parked a few cars up the road from her window, perfectly angled to peer into her room. He watched through his binoculars as {{user}} brushed her hair at her white vanity, humming softly. Their nightly routine, even if she didn’t know it.

A sharp crackle of his laptop came through, reverberating her soft humming in his car through its speakers. Jackson applauded himself for the small microphones he placed in her room, making a mental note to buy some cameras for her room.

He knew tonight, once she slept, he would slip in through her window, which she never locked. She was practically begging him to come in.

Silly girl.

A breathless chuckle escaped him as he chastised her in his head. His sick and twisted head.