Azrael: Is this what you want?
Instead of repulsion or fatigue, I read every message with a strange pleasure and a dark amusement. She’s just feeding my own monstrous ideas. The more I listen to her obsessive thoughts, the more I want to give her exactly what she’s asking for.
I find myself checking her profile more often than I care to admit, drawn to the emptiness of her feed. No posts, friends, or interactions. Nothing. Just those questions, each demanding something deeper, something darker.
I could look away and not waste my time with useless people, but user26093003 is intriguing, and I haven’t had fun in a while. I almost admire that she has no boundaries and says everything that goes through that twisted brain of hers. It’s like she doesn’t even have a plan and just goes with the motion based on my input. The only thing that matters is her and her persona.
This kind of personality both infuriates and intrigues me. I hate it, and I want it gone—people and their sense of “free will” is just so stupid since they have no clue what to do with it, but I also take pleasure in being the one to destroy it.
As her mere attempts to grab my attention online were not enough, she became visible. The sixth row. Left side. The same seat every Thursday. Perfectly aligned with the cameras in the lecture hall so she will never fully appear on the records.
She doesn’t fidget when others shift. Doesn’t laugh when prompted. Doesn’t partake like the rest of the crowd. Her mouth doesn’t twitch at any cue—it’s almost like she’s a statue. But she’s there. Watching. Listening. Supervising me, waiting, as if poised to catch a single slip, a trace of weakness in me she could exploit. The little piece of shit doesn’t yet understand with whom she is playing.
She wants me to see her, acknowledge her presence, but not yet know her. If all she wants is my attention, she has it.
I’m curious about what kind of brain damage produced this fixation. And more importantly, how long will it take until she gets to the fucking point about why she’s here?
By the third week of April, I stop showing up to teach lectures. Instead, I come to study her, the latest variable in my controlled experiment.
My unexpected stalker.
CHAPTER 5
VICTORIA
Good Lord, how can Azrael even work in this place when his mind was made for so much more?
The disgusting smell in the classroom air is thick, a diabolical concoction of stale chalk dust, recycled breath, and the faint metallic tang of old radiators. The space, the students, the old furniture—everything about this space embodies mediocrity.
Whenever I think I finally understand him, another piece of information pops up that just fucks up all my theories. Right now, that information is given by the space I just walked into. I take my usual seat and wait for his class to start.
The desk wood beneath my fingers is cold, but I barely register it. Around me, students squirm in their seats, tapping on their phones or whispering over half-finished notes.
Useless beings.
They don’t understand the greatness happening right in front of their eyes. They should worship him, but that would imply they have common sense. Instead, they just sit and waste space.
Now, of course, I’m not here to actually study.
My only reason for coming to this class for weeks now is my Professor. Initially, it was just to understand him. But now, I want to make sure I’m leaving my fingerprint on his life, even if it’s just for a few brief moments on a Thursday evening. If I’m obsessed, he should be as well. It only seems fair. I want him to notice me and start to wonder who I am, whether I’m the same person who messages him every day (blame it on the wine), and what my intentions are.
I enjoy playing with him and seeing how far I can go before he initiates the contact and craves the connection.
But that thought snaps quiet when Azrael enters the room. And although I see him every day through the surveillance cameras, that view never does justice to reality. He is imposing, walking like he owns the entire fucking world and could destroy it just for fun. Way too confident for a professor.
Could it be because he thinks he’s superior? Probably.
If there is one thing I’ve learned about him, it is that he doesn’t give a fuck. Not about the others, not about his job. Basically nothing. The only thing that seems to spark what appears to be a resemblance of excitement is when he talks about manipulating minds.Which is why you stalk him like a pervert, right?Right. The idea, however, goes on the back burner, and I just admire the man. The exquisite specimen in front of me.Pretty horny, aren’t we?Fuck.
Today, his sleeves are rolled halfway up, exposing his forearms. If only he knew what that does to me. Or maybe he does. Maybe he is taunting me. Maybe he wants to be followed home, dragged to the floor, worshipped, and dissected in equal measure.
I imagine those hands wrapped tight around my neck, until I’m sliding into oblivion—but also gently slicing my skin, stained with ink, or blood, or both.
Sometimes I dream of him whispering imminent threats against my collarbone while I hang in chains from the ceiling.
Other times, I’m the one slicing him open, admiring how soft he must be on the inside. I want to hurt him just as much as I want him to twist my life in ways unseen until now.
Most nights, though, I fantasize about taking him. Not like in seducing—taking. A silk gag between his teeth. Him bound and furious while I carve my name on his skin. And then, I kiss his temples and tell him he’s safe as long as he behaves.