Page 6 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

She takes the pedestrian bridge over Jan Smuts, heel of her right shoe clicking slightly off-tempo.

I listen for it, matching her rhythm from half a block behind.

At the science faculty building, she keys in at the side door—biometric.

I have her print, but today I’m content to watch from the atrium. She disappears up the stairs.

I log into the university’s building management portal—thank you, Petrus, for never updating your password—and tap the security feeds.

There she is: ascending, pausing on the second-floor landing to answer a call.

I mute the audio, but I can read her lips.

“No, I haven’t found it yet,” she says. “I’ll look after my class.

” Her brow pinches, a flash of anger or frustration, quickly buried. She hangs up and continues.

I note every interaction. Three professors greet her in the hallway. Two students bump shoulders with her in the stairwell. One stares too long. I flag him: young, male, twitchy.

A rage builds inside me. She is mine and his beady little fuck me eyes are boring into her fat ass and it makes me want to scoop them out with a rusty spoon and shove them down his throat, but I don’t have the luxury of doing as I please right now.

Brooklyn’s target is at the end of a narrow corridor lined with display cases full of rocks and dead insects.

She is a teacher’s pet, one who helps tutor other students when they need help, and as such, was given her own little office, inside his office.

Her door is papered with printouts: memes, inspirational quotes, a cartoon of a penguin riding a bicycle.

She unlocks it, steps inside, and closes the door firmly.

She will remain here, working, until eleven twenty-four. I know this because she’s nothing if not reliable. Sometimes she leaves for the bathroom, but always returns within three minutes.

I take up position in the library across the quad, second floor, directly overlooking her window.

I blend into the architecture, slouched in an uncomfortable chair with a dog-eared book, eyes flicking up just often enough.

There are a dozen like me: loners, strays, academic dregs.

None of them notice me. None of them notice her, either, through the window.

She is just another ghost moving through their day.

At eleven twenty-four exactly, she emerges.

She walks straight to the lunch canteen.

She selects a salad, bottle of water, and a packet of honey-roasted peanuts.

Fury rises inside me. She needs more than that to sustain her, to keep her brain firing.

Whoever the fuck told her that she was less than perfect was going to die watching me slide my blade under their skin and peeling it right off their fucking face.

I watch her pay in cash, then find a spot at the far edge of the outside patio, shaded by a tree that’s already begun to drop its flowers on the ground.

She eats alone, methodically, never reading or looking at her phone during the meal.

She chews each bite slowly, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, drinks the water in three equal sips.

Today, the patio is crowded. I find a place at an adjacent table, two rows behind. She does not see me. She looks past me, at the sky, at the old clock tower, at the pigeons hopping around for scraps. She is actively trying to make herself smaller so no one will see her.

Halfway through her meal, the twitchy guy from earlier approaches. He says something to her; she shakes her head, shrugs, and goes back to her food. He persists. She tenses, sets down her fork, stares at him until he finally leaves. She waits until he’s out of sight before resuming her lunch.

I’m going to have to take care of that little detail.

Standing, I stretch before bowing my head just enough not to be seen and following him to the bathroom. He doesn’t stand a chance. A scrawny little fuck against a 6’4” muscular monster with rage in his eyes and hell oozing from the depths of his soul? Nah, kid is fucked.

Backing him into a corner, I take one jab, straight for his nose, breaking it, watching as blood streams down his face and tears well in his eyes.

“Stay the fuck away from Brooklyn, or next time I’ll rip your balls from your body.”

He doesn’t know what to do so all he does is nod, holding his broken nose with one hand and his wounded pride with the other.

Stepping back, I check myself out in the mirror before washing my hands.

A five o’clock shadow is forming across my chin, my eyes are dark, almost black and my dark hair is disheveled, which sends a fresh wave of fury through me.

I fucking hate looking disheveled. Down my arms are tattoo’s, lots of them.

Many without any meaning, bar for one. A single rose.

For my sister, who died when she was young.

Tearing my eyes away from myself, I turn and head back out, reclaiming my seat across from my girls office.

I document the rest of her day: the brief meeting with her department chair (cordial, perfunctory), the visit to the admin office (annoyed, frustrated), the return to her desk to type emails and grade assignments.

At three-twelve, she receives a phone call.

This time she smiles, just for a second.

Her laugh is brief and silent, visible only in the softening of her eyes and the way her shoulders relax.

She bites her lip, then hangs up, gaze distant.

I mark it as the happiest moment of her day.

And then I start wondering who the fuck made her smile and the ager rises all over again.

At five-oh-six, she packs up and leaves.

She does not linger. She walks to the main gate, checks both ways before crossing, and boards the shuttle home.

I wait for a beat, then follow at a distance of twenty meters, adjusting for crowd density.

I watch her reflection in storefront windows, the way she glances sideways at passing cars, always alert, never at ease. It excites me.

There is a moment, as she crosses the street by the grocery, when she almost sees me.

She pauses, mid-step, eyes catching on my form in the crowd.

For a split second, our gazes lock. Mine is blank, practiced; hers is searching, uncertain.

I look down at my phone, pretend to scroll, and by the time I look up, she’s already moving again.

My sweet little fox is going to need lessons in safety and awareness, but that’s okay, I have all the time in the world.

Back at her apartment building, she enters quickly, barely sparing a word for the security guard.

She rides the elevator to her floor, then walks the hallway with her head down, keys out before she even reaches the door.

She closes it behind her and, for the first time all day, sighs in relief.

I can see it, even from the street. Rushing into my hotel, I hardly spare a moment to take my shoes off before I’m back on the balcony.

My stomach growls, but I ignore it. I’ll eat once she’s asleep. Safe and sound.

I watch the lights in her apartment flicker on, one by one, as she moves through the rooms. She changes out of her skirt and blouse, back into an oversized T-shirt that hits her mid-thigh.

She eats a snack in the kitchen, standing by the sink.

She reads for an hour, curled on the couch, the book propped against a pillow.

I sit in the dark, two hundred meters away, and feel the slow burn of anticipation inside my chest. I know her now, better than anyone else in this city. I know every gesture, every fear, every fragile hope she carries.

And still, I want more.

I want to see the moment when she realizes she is being watched.

I want to see what she will do when the pattern breaks.

When she breaks.

I close my notebook, flick off the tablet, and prepare for the night. Tomorrow, I will follow again. And the day after that.

This is not obsession. This is preparation.

There is nothing I don’t control.

She already belongs to me. The rest is just a matter of time.