The thrum of Wolverhampton was a familiar hum beneath Mira Andrews' worn Doc Martens. Nineteen, independent, and armed with a penchant for rock music, she navigated the city's sprawl with the easy confidence of someone who knew every alley and bus route. Her small flat, just a stone's throw from the city centre, was her sanctuary, shared only with Marley, her scruffy grey cat, and the comforting chaos of her vinyl collection. Tonight, though, the sanctuary felt a little too quiet. The speakers of her ancient stereo weren't quite hitting the spot. She craved the raw, unfiltered energy of live music, or at least a crowd.
Planet Link, a club tucked away down a graffiti-strewn lane, beckoned. It wasn't her usual haunt, but the promise of a decent rock cover band was enough to lure her out. Inside, the air was thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the pulsing beat of distorted guitars. Coloured lights strobed across the packed dance floor, illuminating a kaleidoscope of faces. Mira found a spot near the back, nursing a lukewarm cider, letting the music wash over her.
Then, she saw him.
He was a silhouette against the shifting lights, leaning against a far wall, a drink forgotten in his hand. Tattoos snaked up his neck and arms, disappearing beneath the dark fabric of his clothes. His hair, a curtain of midnight, framed a face that was all sharp angles and shadows. He looked like he'd been carved from the very darkness that clung to the corners of the club. And his eyes. Even from across the room, she felt their intensity, like a physical touch. They were fixed on her.
Link Thorne didn't usually come to places like Planet Link to see anyone. He came to observe, to exist in the periphery, a ghost among the living. But tonight, that changed. The moment his gaze snagged on her, a fragile looking thing with a shock of auburn hair and eyes wide with an almost childlike innocence, something shifted inside him. It wasn't just attraction; it was an immediate, visceral pull, a primal recognition. She was light, and he was shadow, and he felt an undeniable, desperate need to possess that light. Mine, a whisper echoed in the cavern of his mind, a thought so old and ingrained it felt like bone. His past was a poisoned chalice, one he'd drunk from for too long, convincing himself he deserved nothing good, nothing pure. But she... she was an anomaly. An urge he couldn't, wouldn't, deny.
Mira felt a shiver, not from the cold, but from the unnerving persistence of his stare. It was too intense, too possessive for a stranger. She tried to look away, to lose herself in the music, but her eyes kept dragging back to him. He hadn't moved. Just watched. A strange blend of apprehension and a reluctant curiosity curled in her stomach. Who was he? And why was he looking at her like that?
As the night wore on, Mira became acutely aware of his presence. Every time she glanced up, his eyes were there, unwavering. The crowd began to thin. The band played their last distorted chords. Mira, suddenly eager to escape the suffocating intensity, gathered her things and headed for the exit.
Outside, the cool Wolverhampton air was a welcome balm. She pulled her jacket tighter, fumbling for her keys. A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness across the street. He was there. Link. He followed, a silent, predatory presence, keeping just out of sight in the alleys and doorways. Mira's steps quickened. She felt the prickle on the back of her neck, the undeniable sensation of being watched. She told herself it was just her imagination, the lingering effects of the club's atmosphere. But as she finally reached the familiar red brick of her building, fumbled with the lock, and slipped inside, she cast one last glance over her shoulder. The street was empty. Yet, a chilling certainty settled over her: he had been there. And he knew where she lived. Link, from his hidden vantage point, watched the light in her window flicker on, a possessive satisfaction settling deep in his chest. She was his. She just didn't know it yet.