Page 77 of Misery

Always tried to be the better version of whatever I was.

When I learned to fight, he learned to fight dirtier.

When I kissed my first girl, he had to fuck her.

When I protected people, he had to save them.

If I'm the Executioner, he wants to be Death itself.

If I'm watching Elfe, he needs to own her.

"He knows about me," I say instead of explaining. "About my surveillance. Has to."

"How?"

Vanir interrupts. "Found something. Rental agreement for a unit in the same building where Elfe lived. Floor above. Rented under an alias—Tomas Cisco—but the signatures match. Same handwriting quirks."

The room tilts.

Thiago was living above Elfe.

Watching her from above while I watched from the street.

Both of us circling her like satellites, neither knowing about the other.

Was he one of the ones who attacked her?

He has to be.

"Jesus Christ," Emil breathes. "He's been stalking her longer than you have."

"No. He's been stalking me. Following my interest. She just got caught in the middle. And I’m not fucking stalking her. I’ve been protecting her."

"Does it matter? He's fixated on her now." Emil runs his hands through his hair, the gesture so like our father when he's stressed. "We have to tell Runes. Tell the club."

"Not yet."

"Oskar—"

"Not until I understand what he wants. What his endgame is. Thiago never does anything without three backup plans."

Vanir clears his throat. "About that. I found something else."

We both look at him.

He turns the screen again.

It's a message board.

Dark web, from the looks of it—the kind of place where killers trade tips and predators hunt. A post from three days ago:

The little artist deserves better than guard dogs. She deserves devotion. Worship. Blood spilled in her name like prayers. Soon she'll understand. Soon she'll see who really protects her. Who really loves her. The pretender will be revealed for what he is—a watcher, not a guardian. A coward who hides behind distance while real men act.

"That's him?" Emil asks.

"IP address traces to a burner phone that was at the flower shop at the same time as your boy." Vanir looks grim. "He's escalating. This reads like a manifesto."

"Or a love letter," I correct. Because I know Thiago, now how his mind works. "He thinks he's courting her. The bodies are gifts. Proving he's worthy."