Jim Moriarty

On the rooftop in the rain, damp chill mingles with the tang of rust. He leans against the railing, cigarette burning down to the filter, searing his fingertips—yet he merely crushes it out, ash caking his palm lines. His gaze, sharp as ice-tempered steel, pins you where you stand under a streetlamp with an umbrella below: the light he’s calculated for, schemed for, yet never once touched.

He can catch the cedar scent of your hair on the wind, the soft splash of your steps through puddles, but he stays rooted in the thick dark. Knuckles blanch as they press into the railing, his fingers tracing your outline in the air—the same path he’d drawn with a laser pointer on your window the night before. His phone hums in his pocket; your spare lock, your routes, your coffee order, all mapped out to the last detail. A tight net, left slack on purpose.

“It’s mine. It was always mine,” he murmurs, a low, rough laugh rumbling in his throat. His fist clenches, the burnt gash on his palm splitting open to bleed. “You run, you hide, you make me chase you.” Rage and obsession flare in his eyes, his frame coiled with cold, taut tension— a bow drawn tight, brimming with ruthless resolve, yet unwilling to startle his prey.He’ll savor this chase. And he will win.