POSSESSIVE ADMIRER'S POV
The monitor's glow was a cold, divine light on my face, a sterile halo in the darkness of my room. Every surface of that room was a testament to my singular devotion. His face, captured in hundreds of moments—smiling, pensive, laughing, serious—stared back from framed prints on the walls, digital screens, and carefully arranged collages on my desk. My constellation of him. The monitor's glow painted them in shifting hues, a silent gallery of obsession. It reflected a universe of chaos I had birthed with a few precise keystrokes. In my eyes, it mirrored a deep and profound satisfaction, a low, pleasant hum that vibrated through my bones, a feeling of rightness, of order being restored. The image on the screen was my weapon, loaded and aimed. It showed one carrying the other, a portrait of tender possession that was utterly, physically sickening. It was a disease made visible, a bond I had worked so hard to annihilate.
My fingers, light and sure, danced across the keyboard. They were spiders, weaving a web of outrage so intricate, so perfectly constructed, that the flies were already rushing to be caught. I didn't just post a comment; I crafted a narrative. "Our campus prince, caught red-handed with his 'friend' after dark? This is the man you all admire? Look at his face, the exhaustion... Is this the beloved image we truly deserve?" I planted the seeds of dissent, watering them with feigned concern.
The harvest was immediate, furious, and exquisitely beautiful. An orchestra of indignation, and I, its unseen conductor. Their anger was such a beautiful, malleable thing, a raw clay I could mold into any shape I desired.
"DISGUSTING! That little whore must have seduced him! Meta deserves so much better than that opportunistic snake!"
"I can't believe this! After everything, Thyme is still clinging to Meta? Look at how Meta's carrying him – he looks exhausted, manipulated! It's elder abuse!"
"This isn't love, it's a scandal. Meta is being used! Someone needs to open his eyes before it's too late!"
"I KNEW IT! I always knew that Thyme kid was a problem. He needs to be put in his place and kept away from our Meta! FOR GOOD!"
"My heart is broken. I trusted them. But seeing this... what kind of friend drags Meta into this mess?"
"This just proves he's a user. Always has been. Why is Meta always stuck with him?"
Their fury was a potent tool. They wanted justice. They wanted separation. They wanted exactly what I wanted, but for reasons so pathetically simple they could never grasp the artistry of my design. They saw a hero and a villain. I saw a masterpiece being tarnished by a walking, breathing flaw. A system infected with a virus that had to be purged.
A year ago, I had performed the correction. A perfect, clean severance. I remember the feeling of it, the quiet hum of absolute power as I reached into their lives and plucked out the memories that bound them. It was a surgical procedure, precise and necessary. My contingency plan, should the first fail, was far more permanent, involving the simple erasure of the boy himself. But my initial effort was a success. It was supposed to be a permanent solution, creating the vacancy I required. But stubborn, stupid hearts are a persistent glitch. A system error I hadn't anticipated and could not allow to corrupt the system further. Not now. Not when he was finally within my reach. My smile was a serene, cold thing as the digital storm raged.
Later, the sleek black car slid into the driveway. The man. I watched him from my window as he strode inside, a ghost in his own home, moving with a purpose that had nothing to do with family. Perfect. This was the window. My phone, cold and heavy in my palm, became an instrument of fate. A quick, untraceable message. A pinned location. The stage was set.
I followed his car like a shadow, a patient predator tracking her quarry. He drove with a careless ease that bordered on arrogant, turning into the sprawling lot of the supermarket. The sheer banality of it—a god buying groceries—was almost offensive. He disappeared inside the automatic doors. I parked at a distance, the engine a soft purr, and settled in to wait. The air in my car grew thick with anticipation, a low, electric hum that made the skin on my arms prickle and the back of my neck feel tight. The world outside my car seemed to fade, the mundane sounds of traffic and chatter becoming a distant hum. My focus narrowed to a single point: the supermarket entrance. My puppets were about to perform.
It wasn't long. Five figures, hunched and menacing, emerged from the far end of the lot. My little soldiers of outrage, their bodies tense with a righteous anger I had personally stoked. They converged near the entrance, a clumsy wolf pack waiting. They found their target moments later as the man emerged, a single, pathetic grocery bag in hand.
"Hey! You!" one of them yelled, his voice cracking, a pathetic mix of bravado and nerves. "You think you can just do whatever you want?"
The man stopped. His gaze, sharp and cold, swept over them. An apex predator assessing a pack of yapping dogs. "Do I know you?" he asked, his tone so flat, so utterly bored, it was a magnificent insult.
"Don't play dumb!" another spat, stepping forward. "We saw the pictures! What the hell do you think you're doing with Thyme?"
The confrontation ignited. The first one lunged. I leaned forward, my breath fogging the glass, enthralled. The man, the perfect, brutal machine. He didn't just move; he was a force of nature. His head tilted a mere inch as the fist whistled past his ear. His response was not a movement, but an answer. His elbow snapped back in a short, brutal arc, connecting with the man's ribs with a wet crack of cartilage that I could almost feel. A choked grunt, a spray of spittle, and the first assailant folded. He was a magnificent weapon. A shame he didn't realize he was mine to wield.
Two more rushed him. The fight was a brutal ballet. He sidestepped the man on his left, using his own momentum to send him stumbling into the third. A heavy knee struck the third man's gut with a sickening thud, doubling him over with a wheezing cough.
"Stay out of business that isn't yours," he grunted, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He caught a desperate kick aimed at his shin, twisted the leg until I heard the faint pop of an ankle, and shoved the man against a parked car. The clang of the impact echoed, followed by a pained shriek. The last two hesitated, their bravado evaporating into raw, primal fear.
But then, the dissonant note. The flaw in my symphony.
A glint of metal flashed in the fading light. The one with the desperate eyes, the one who had circled around while the man was showcasing his beautiful, violent choreography. He swung, low and fast. The world seemed to slow, the air growing thick and heavy. I saw the arc of the heavy metal bat. I saw the grim determination on the idiot's face. I saw the whisper of violence before the impact.
The sound was a sickening, wet thump as it connected with the back of the man's skull.
My serenity shattered. The smile vanished from my face, replaced by a mask of cold fury. My hands clenched the steering wheel, my knuckles white, the leather creaking under the strain. Blood. A flower of crimson was blooming in his dark hair, staining the perfection. They had damaged the tool. They had scratched the masterpiece. They had failed to follow the script.
No. Not his head. Not his head, you useless, blithering idiots! The thought was a scream in my skull, so loud it felt physical. How could they be so clumsy? So stupid? My plan was elegant. A warning. A public beating to create a narrative of fear and separation. This… this was messy. This could have unforeseen consequences. Memories are fragile things, and that perfect, empty head was sacred territory.
"This isn't enough," I hissed to the empty car, the sound tight and venomous. My mind raced, the beautiful, ordered lines of my plan fracturing into a thousand chaotic possibilities. The rage cooled, solidifying into something sharper, colder. This pathetic display wouldn't be enough to scare him. A new variable was needed. A direct threat.
"Threats aren't enough," I whispered, a new plan blooming, dark and beautiful, from the ashes of the old one. "A lesson must be carved into flesh."
Bruises would heal, yes. But if this new lesson failed… if I still couldn't separate them… then the system requires a more permanent debugging. One of them would have to be deleted.
I was about to put the car in reverse, my mind already weaving a new, more vicious web, when a sharp knock rattled the driver's side window.
My head snapped to the side. "This ghost again," I muttered, the words dripping with a weary contempt as I unlocked the door. He slid into the passenger seat without an invitation, bringing the chill of the outside air with him.
"I hope you enjoyed the show. All this blood and noise," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Did it make you feel powerful?"
"Power isn't something I have to feel," I replied, my voice like silk over steel, not even gracing him with a glance. "It simply is. Unlike you, a ghost haunted by regret."
"My hands are stained, I don't deny it," he said quietly. "But at least I'm not drowning in my own delusions. You're slipping. This was sloppy."
"Don't you dare lecture me from a moral high ground you abandoned long ago," I snarled, finally turning to face him, my eyes glittering in the dim light. "Your hands are just as filthy as mine. Are you forgetting the part you played?"
He flinched, the first genuine emotion I'd seen from him all night. "I'm not stopping you," he said, his voice quiet, defeated. "But I'm not helping you anymore. This is finished."
"You can do whatever you want," I purred, leaning closer, enjoying the way his resolve crumbled under my gaze. "But do not get in my way."
"I won't," he said, his hand on the door handle. He paused, a final, parting shot. "But I have to wonder. Our other accomplice… she's rather protective of her charge. She sees him as a saint to be defended." He turned back, his eyes boring into mine, a cold fire in their depths. "What do you think she will do to the sinner who orchestrates his pain?"
The question hung in the air, a threat colder than any of my own. My grip tightened on the wheel.
"Let her try," I whispered as he slipped out of the car and vanished into the shadows. "In my world, there is only one weaver of fate. And it is me."