The first time I tried it, I didn't mean for it to go that far.
Her name was Anika.A new intern at the firm — bright eyes, too much kindness, and that nervous laugh people have when they still believe the world is soft.
I told myself it was harmless. A little fun to distract me from the chaos of lawyers and paperwork. But that's how it starts, doesn't it? All monsters convince themselves they're just "testing boundaries."
She dropped her pen one day during a meeting, and I picked it up for her. Simple. Ordinary. But when our fingers brushed, I saw the flicker in her eyes — curiosity, warmth, something like trust.
And that was it.That flicker was all I needed.
At first, I played it carefully.A message after work: "You handled that client well today."Then silence.The next morning: "Coffee before the meeting?"Then distance again.
Push. Pull.Warmth. Cold.I watched her struggle to read me, and every time she smiled a little too long or looked away too quickly, it felt like I'd solved a small riddle of human nature.
I wasn't chasing love anymore; I was studying it — how it formed, how it cracked, how easy it was to bend.
One evening, I found her waiting outside the office. "You always look like you're carrying something heavy," she said softly.
I smiled, just enough to make her wonder what was behind it. "Maybe I am."
"You can talk to me, you know."
There it was again — trust.That fragile, stupid human thing I once died for.
I leaned closer, letting my voice drop low. "Careful, Anika. Curiosity ruins more than cats."
She blinked, half nervous, half thrilled. "I like mysteries."
That's when I knew she was hooked.
Over the next few weeks, our interactions became a slow dance of tension and restraint. I'd give her a taste of closeness — a shared lunch, a subtle compliment, a moment of silence that lingered too long — then withdraw completely.
She'd text: "Did I say something wrong?"I'd reply hours later: "No. Just busy."Then nothing for days.
I was teaching her the same helplessness I'd once felt — to crave attention, to overthink silence, to beg for meaning in someone else's absence.
The irony wasn't lost on me.I'd become the storm I once tried to survive.
But at night, when I lay alone in my new apartment, the laughter and fake smiles of the day would fade, and the silence would stretch like a blade.
There was always that whisper:Are you any different from her now?
Sometimes I'd laugh out loud — a sharp, bitter sound. "Fuck it," I'd say to no one. "I didn't start this game."
Still, there were nights when I'd open the video I recorded — the one of Mira and her lover — and watch it again. Not out of anger, but out of habit. Like a ritual. Like I needed to remind myself why I was doing this.
But each time I watched, I felt less.Less pain.Less purpose.Just… emptiness with a heartbeat.
One day, Anika showed up at my desk with a coffee. "For you," she said shyly. "You looked tired."
I looked at her, really looked at her — the small gesture, the genuine warmth — and for a second, guilt clawed at me.
Then I smiled. "Thanks," I said. "You're sweet."
She blushed, and I felt that familiar thrill again. The line between guilt and power blurred.
Maybe this was my new addiction — not love, not revenge, but control.The ability to walk into someone's heart, rearrange the furniture, and leave without turning off the lights.
That night, I sat on my balcony, city lights stretching below like burning constellations. I whispered to myself:
"Welcome home, stranger."
Because that's what I was now — a stranger to who I used to be, to what love used to mean.
I raised my glass to the skyline, smirking. "Let's see how far this game can go."