The realization that Link was actively infiltrating her life, not just observing it, sent Mira into a frantic, almost manic state. The police were still a non-starter; she needed proof, something tangible beyond a note and a phantom song. Her only weapon, she decided, was information. She needed to understand who this man was, how he was doing this, and most importantly, why.
She started with the simplest avenues. Remembering the name "Link" from the club, she searched social media – Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn. She typed in "Link Wolverhampton," "Link music," "Planet Link club." Page after page of results, none of them matching the chilling presence that now haunted her. He was either deliberately untraceable or using an alias. The digital ghost was harder to pin down than she'd imagined.
Her desperation gnawed at her. She recalled the intense, almost analytical way he had looked at her at the club. Was he a hacker? A tech-savvy stalker? She thought about the silent calls, the way the song had played in the shop. How could he have done that? The shop's music system was old, a manual CD player and amplifier. It wasn't connected to the internet. Was he physically in the shop? The thought sent a fresh wave of terror through her.
Then, a flicker of memory. That brief moment at the cafe, him looking at his phone, seemingly engrossed. Could he have been doing something, even then? She remembered her own phone, the countless apps, the digital footprint she left everywhere. Location services, social media check-ins, even her music streaming history. Had she made herself vulnerable without knowing it?
Driven by a surge of frantic energy, she began to meticulously audit her digital life. She checked her privacy settings on every social media platform, tightening them, making her profiles private. She reviewed her location history, horrified by the detailed map of her movements that Google had compiled. She turned off location services on her phone, deleted old apps she hadn't used in years. It felt like trying to patch a leaky dam with chewing gum, but it was something.
Marley watched her, his head tilted, sensing her frantic energy. He nudged her hand with his wet nose, a moment of grounding in the rising panic. She found solace in his steady presence, the only un-monitored, untraceable thing in her life.
The next morning, a small, unmarked envelope was slipped under her front door. Inside, there was no note, no key. Just a printout. It was a screenshot of her recent internet search history: "stalking laws UK," "how to report a stalker anonymously," and chillingly, "Planet Link club reviews."
Her blood ran cold, colder than the Wolverhampton air. He hadn't just seen her searches; he knew what she was thinking, what she was planning. He was inside her phone, inside her laptop, inside her life in a way she hadn't even conceived. This wasn't just physical presence; this was omnipresence. The digital web she was trying to untangle was the very same web he was using to ensnare her. Link wasn't just a stalker; he was a digital phantom, capable of seeing her every move, even her unspoken fears.