I've always believed people tell on themselves without knowing.
A twitch. A pause. A smile that lasts one second too long.
That's how I study them. That's how I know who deserves what's coming.
Tonight, it's Adrian.
He thinks I haven't noticed the way he watches me from across the dorm hallway.
Thinks I don't see the messages he deletes before I can read them.
Thinks I don't hear him whisper my name when he thinks I'm asleep.
He's wrong.
People like him always underestimate people like me—
quiet, observant, the type who pretends to be afraid just long enough for them to relax.
He followed me down the empty stairwell earlier.
I could hear the soft tap of his shoes, the excitement in it.
Predators always sound excited.
But excitement makes people sloppy.
I stopped on the third step, let him get close enough to breathe behind me,
then I turned.
The change in his face was beautiful—
that shift from confidence to confusion,
then confusion to fear,
and finally fear to realization.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I didn't let him.
I didn't need words.
I already knew what he wanted.
I also knew what I wanted.
Now he's sitting across from me, tied to the same chair he thought he'd get me into.
The basement light flickers above us, giving the room a heartbeat.
"I just wanted to talk," he whispers.
"That's the problem," I say.
"No one ever notices what I want."
He swallows hard. "And what do you want?"
I smile—small, controlled, the kind that unnerves people more than a scream.
"I want you to understand something before this ends," I tell him.
"You didn't choose the wrong girl to stalk.
You chose the one who's been waiting for someone like you."
His shaking gets louder than his breathing.
"And Adrian," I add, leaning forward,
"you're not the predator in this story."
I lift the knife from the table, steady and familiar.
"You're the lesson."