MALE STALKERS POV.
I saw everything long before they realized they were being watched.
Her footsteps.
Her lies.
Her disappearances dressed as innocence.
The way she stalked the killer with that wicked little curiosity she pretends is research.
She thinks she hides it well.
She doesn't.
Her absence rings louder than any scream.
I watched her slip out that night the same night Kabir and Riya huddled over their notes like terrified little detectives. She thought she was being careful, but she leaves trails for me the way a storm leaves broken branches. She knows I'll follow. She always knows.
I tracked her scent across the dark corridors of campus, down the street, out toward the edge of the city. She moves fast when she's hunting. Faster when she's writing. Fastest when she's lying.
I almost laugh thinking about Kabir and Riya, shaking in some corner, trying to "decode" her. They don't know what they're looking at. They see danger. I see devotion. She stalks killers. I stalk her. They stalk us both.
Fools.
She reached the crime scene before the police did. Body still warm. Air still metallic. She crouched next to the corpse with that curious tilt of her head that ruins me inside. She studies the dead the way poets study metaphors.
Her fingers never touched the blood.
But she leaned close enough to breathe its story.
I was there.
Behind her.
Watching how the killer had sliced the sternum.
Watching her trace the pattern in her mind.
Watching the hunger in her eyes.
She writes about death, yet she follows it like a lover.
If only she knew how closely death follows her back.
Kabir and Riya's panic grows every time she vanishes. It's almost amusing how quickly suspicion rots trust. They don't know she stalks more savagely than I ever did. They don't know I clean the footprints she leaves behind. They don't know we've been circling each other long before adulthood shaped our bones into these creatures.
They're children. Playing detective in a labyrinth of predators.
The notebooks they found.
The tattoos they noticed.
The parallels they whispered about.
They think they've uncovered something forbidden.
They have no idea they're only touching the surface.
Because she and I were born from the same dark thread.
Her black roses.
My blue ones.
Placed in hidden places only we can decode.
A private code. A private war.
An intimacy so violent it becomes holy.
They don't know half the truth:
I am not protecting her from the stalker.
I am the stalker.
And she has always known.
The night I got that call from home, everything tightened in my chest at once. Responsibility tugging one direction. Her vanishing into the dark pulling the other. I never wanted to leave her side, not even for a breath. But I had to pick up.
A voice I didn't want to hear.
A desperate request.
An urgency soaked in family politics and blood.
I went.
Two days.
My hands restless.
My mind pacing.
My body remembering her scent against the bruises on her collarbone.
But even away, I watched her.
My cameras.
My trackers.
My shadows.
She disappeared the moment I left, as if taunting me — or reassuring me that our dance hasn't ended.
She visited two crime scenes.
She followed the killer.
And the killer noticed.
I saw his threats before she did.
The carved note near the fresh corpse:
DON'T FOLLOW ME.
Not directed at the police.
Not at the world.
At her.
Her.
My little storm had annoyed someone more dangerous than the city's ghosts.
And yet she walked right into his path again.
That's why I came back early.
Not for duty.
Not for the world.
For her.
I dragged her home when I found her. Bruised. Exhausted. Still glowing with triumph like she'd solved some cosmic riddle.
She should fear me.
She doesn't.
She never will.
She should fear him.
She doesn't.
She never will.
But the killer fears her.
I tasted it in the way he ran.
In the way he carved that threat.
In the way his shadow trembled when she smiled at the corpse he left.
He's a predator.
I am a greater one.
He thinks he can warn her.
He thinks he can scare her off.
He thinks he can mark territory in my hunt.
Pathetic.
Every warning he leaves for her is a provocation for me.
Every threat he carves is an invitation.
Every time he says don't follow, I laugh.
Because I am already in his footprints.
Already inside his pattern.
Already beside his kills.
Already in the shadow of the fear he leaves behind.
He is prey pretending to be a monster.
And when I catch him —
when I tear his warnings out of his living throat —
I'll leave his body somewhere she can find it.
So she understands:
No one hunts her but me.
And this game he thinks he's playing?
It's already over.
The two days I was gone felt like being locked in my own ribcage.
My family spoke, demanded, pleaded — I heard none of it. My pulse was fixed on one thing only: her.
Her locations. Her movements. Her silence.
By the second night, her tracker went dead.
Not offline.
Dead.
Kabir texted once — We haven't seen her today.
Then Riya — Maybe she's just writing?
Writing.
They think she writes in peace.
They don't understand she hunts when she writes, breathes closer to danger than oxygen, edges toward the places where the living bleed out.
When I couldn't reach her, something inside me snapped so cleanly I didn't even feel the break — only the aftermath.
A single, cold intention.
Bring her back.
When I reached campus and saw Kabir and Riya standing there with those blank, helpless faces, I nearly broke him first.
Kabir said, "Arjun… listen… she hasn't answered us either—"
I had him by the collar before his sentence finished, dragging him against the wall.
My voice stayed quiet. Quiet is worse.
"You knew she was gone. And you didn't tell me."
Riya trembled behind him, clutching her phone like it was a shield.
"She—she disappears sometimes—we thought she was writing—"
"Don't lie."
The words cut out of me like blades.
"She was being hunted."
They froze.
Good. Fear sharpens stupidity.
Riya whispered, "We didn't want to worry you…"
"You worried me the moment you existed between her and danger."
I left them there.
Let them shake.
They needed to understand they were witnesses to predators, not participants.
Finding her wasn't difficult.
She left small traces — the kind she knows only I can read.
A slight indentation on wet soil near a bus stop.
A barely-visible smear of charcoal ink on a discarded newspaper — the same ink she uses in her notes.
A faint scent of her perfume clinging to a railing.
And then the killer's symbol carved into a tree.
That told me everything.
She wasn't running.
She was following him.
And he finally noticed.
I tracked them to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. Rusted metal. Blood. And voices.
I heard hers first.
Calm.
Measured.
Analyzing him like a specimen.
The killer circled her, thoughts loud in his breath.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I've been here longer than you think."
God, the pride I felt hearing that.
My brave little flame confronting death with a steady heartbeat.
I moved silently, unseen.
She didn't know I was there or maybe she did. She always senses me eventually.
Then the killer made the mistake of touching her.
Just a finger on her wrist.
That was enough.
I broke his arm before he finished inhaling.
The scream he let out echoed through the metal walls, but she didn't flinch.
She simply stepped aside, as if making room for me to finish what he started.
He tried to crawl away.
Tried to bargain.
Tried to breathe.
I didn't let him.
He'd left too many warnings carved into bodies.
Left too many threats meant for her.
And worst of all he'd gotten close enough to smell her skin.
I didn't give him a monologue.
Didn't give him time.
One hand around his jaw.
One twist.
One end.
His body folded like a cheap apology.
I wiped my blade clean, though it didn't really need it his blood was already drying in fear.
She was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes glinting with… annoyance? Amusement? Something deliciously dangerous.
"You took long," she murmured, not angry, not scared simply stating fact.
"You shouldn't have come alone."
"You shouldn't have left."
We stared at each other for a long, sharp moment.
The killer's corpse cooling between us like an offering.
Then her knees almost buckled — exhaustion hitting all at once.
I caught her before she fell, and for a breath, she rested her head against my chest, listening to the heartbeat she pretends she doesn't own.
"Come," I told her, lifting her easily.
"I'm taking you home."
She sighed, a tiny, irritated sound, like a cat being picked up mid-hunt.
But she didn't resist.
On the way back, she tried to argue once.
"I wasn't done watching him."
"I was done with him," I replied.
She glared up at me, lips forming a pout she probably didn't realize she was making.
I almost kissed her right there.
Almost.
Instead I tightened my grip and said, "If you vanish again while I'm gone, I'll chain you to my wrist."
She muttered something about "overreacting," but her fingers curled into my shirt.
By the time we reached campus, she was half-asleep, bruised, smelling like metal and adrenaline.
I set her down in her dorm, wrapped her in a blanket, brushed her damp hair from her cheek.
And then I dragged my gaze to the door — Kabir and Riya peeking from the hallway.
Cowards.
But their eyes widened when they saw the exhaustion on her.
The bruises.
My grip on her waist.
she sliped back in her normal act so casually i blinked in surprised and amusement she was pouting.
I sliped into my character just as casually throwing her down on bed with irritated sigh as we argu a little.
But whats the point now? They knows everything by now don't they? Almost everything.
I was about to scold her more, when her phone buzzed.
She pulled it out. Froze.
I snatched it from her hands.
Then I saw the message.
A single photo.
Her.
Naked.
Asleep.
Taken from above.
Time froze.
My lungs closed.
My jaw locked.
The killer was dead.
I killed him with my own hands.
So who took this?
Who was watching her now?
And why did this new monster feel closer than the last?
I m going to kill this person with bare hands
That's the promise i amd
MALE STALKERS POV.
I saw everything long before they realized they were being watched.
Her footsteps.
Her lies.
Her disappearances dressed as innocence.
The way she stalked the killer with that wicked little curiosity she pretends is research.
She thinks she hides it well.
She doesn't.
Her absence rings louder than any scream.
I watched her slip out that night the same night Kabir and Riya huddled over their notes like terrified little detectives. She thought she was being careful, but she leaves trails for me the way a storm leaves broken branches. She knows I'll follow. She always knows.
I tracked her scent across the dark corridors of campus, down the street, out toward the edge of the city. She moves fast when she's hunting. Faster when she's writing. Fastest when she's lying.
I almost laugh thinking about Kabir and Riya, shaking in some corner, trying to "decode" her. They don't know what they're looking at. They see danger. I see devotion. She stalks killers. I stalk her. They stalk us both.
Fools.
She reached the crime scene before the police did. Body still warm. Air still metallic. She crouched next to the corpse with that curious tilt of her head that ruins me inside. She studies the dead the way poets study metaphors.
Her fingers never touched the blood.
But she leaned close enough to breathe its story.
I was there.
Behind her.
Watching how the killer had sliced the sternum.
Watching her trace the pattern in her mind.
Watching the hunger in her eyes.
She writes about death, yet she follows it like a lover.
If only she knew how closely death follows her back.
Kabir and Riya's panic grows every time she vanishes. It's almost amusing how quickly suspicion rots trust. They don't know she stalks more savagely than I ever did. They don't know I clean the footprints she leaves behind. They don't know we've been circling each other long before adulthood shaped our bones into these creatures.
They're children. Playing detective in a labyrinth of predators.
The notebooks they found.
The tattoos they noticed.
The parallels they whispered about.
They think they've uncovered something forbidden.
They have no idea they're only touching the surface.
Because she and I were born from the same dark thread.
Her black roses.
My blue ones.
Placed in hidden places only we can decode.
A private code. A private war.
An intimacy so violent it becomes holy.
They don't know half the truth:
I am not protecting her from the stalker.
I am the stalker.
And she has always known.
The night I got that call from home, everything tightened in my chest at once. Responsibility tugging one direction. Her vanishing into the dark pulling the other. I never wanted to leave her side, not even for a breath. But I had to pick up.
A voice I didn't want to hear.
A desperate request.
An urgency soaked in family politics and blood.
I went.
Two days.
My hands restless.
My mind pacing.
My body remembering her scent against the bruises on her collarbone.
But even away, I watched her.
My cameras.
My trackers.
My shadows.
She disappeared the moment I left, as if taunting me — or reassuring me that our dance hasn't ended.
She visited two crime scenes.
She followed the killer.
And the killer noticed.
I saw his threats before she did.
The carved note near the fresh corpse:
DON'T FOLLOW ME.
Not directed at the police.
Not at the world.
At her.
Her.
My little storm had annoyed someone more dangerous than the city's ghosts.
And yet she walked right into his path again.
That's why I came back early.
Not for duty.
Not for the world.
For her.
I dragged her home when I found her. Bruised. Exhausted. Still glowing with triumph like she'd solved some cosmic riddle.
She should fear me.
She doesn't.
She never will.
She should fear him.
She doesn't.
She never will.
But the killer fears her.
I tasted it in the way he ran.
In the way he carved that threat.
In the way his shadow trembled when she smiled at the corpse he left.
He's a predator.
I am a greater one.
He thinks he can warn her.
He thinks he can scare her off.
He thinks he can mark territory in my hunt.
Pathetic.
Every warning he leaves for her is a provocation for me.
Every threat he carves is an invitation.
Every time he says don't follow, I laugh.
Because I am already in his footprints.
Already inside his pattern.
Already beside his kills.
Already in the shadow of the fear he leaves behind.
He is prey pretending to be a monster.
And when I catch him —
when I tear his warnings out of his living throat —
I'll leave his body somewhere she can find it.
So she understands:
No one hunts her but me.
And this game he thinks he's playing?
It's already over.
The two days I was gone felt like being locked in my own ribcage.
My family spoke, demanded, pleaded — I heard none of it. My pulse was fixed on one thing only: her.
Her locations. Her movements. Her silence.
By the second night, her tracker went dead.
Not offline.
Dead.
Kabir texted once — We haven't seen her today.
Then Riya — Maybe she's just writing?
Writing.
They think she writes in peace.
They don't understand she hunts when she writes, breathes closer to danger than oxygen, edges toward the places where the living bleed out.
When I couldn't reach her, something inside me snapped so cleanly I didn't even feel the break — only the aftermath.
A single, cold intention.
Bring her back.
When I reached campus and saw Kabir and Riya standing there with those blank, helpless faces, I nearly broke him first.
Kabir said, "Arjun… listen… she hasn't answered us either—"
I had him by the collar before his sentence finished, dragging him against the wall.
My voice stayed quiet. Quiet is worse.
"You knew she was gone. And you didn't tell me."
Riya trembled behind him, clutching her phone like it was a shield.
"She—she disappears sometimes—we thought she was writing—"
"Don't lie."
The words cut out of me like blades.
"She was being hunted."
They froze.
Good. Fear sharpens stupidity.
Riya whispered, "We didn't want to worry you…"
"You worried me the moment you existed between her and danger."
I left them there.
Let them shake.
They needed to understand they were witnesses to predators, not participants.
Finding her wasn't difficult.
She left small traces — the kind she knows only I can read.
A slight indentation on wet soil near a bus stop.
A barely-visible smear of charcoal ink on a discarded newspaper — the same ink she uses in her notes.
A faint scent of her perfume clinging to a railing.
And then the killer's symbol carved into a tree.
That told me everything.
She wasn't running.
She was following him.
And he finally noticed.
I tracked them to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. Rusted metal. Blood. And voices.
I heard hers first.
Calm.
Measured.
Analyzing him like a specimen.
The killer circled her, thoughts loud in his breath.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I've been here longer than you think."
God, the pride I felt hearing that.
My brave little flame confronting death with a steady heartbeat.
I moved silently, unseen.
She didn't know I was there or maybe she did. She always senses me eventually.
Then the killer made the mistake of touching her.
Just a finger on her wrist.
That was enough.
I broke his arm before he finished inhaling.
The scream he let out echoed through the metal walls, but she didn't flinch.
She simply stepped aside, as if making room for me to finish what he started.
He tried to crawl away.
Tried to bargain.
Tried to breathe.
I didn't let him.
He'd left too many warnings carved into bodies.
Left too many threats meant for her.
And worst of all he'd gotten close enough to smell her skin.
I didn't give him a monologue.
Didn't give him time.
One hand around his jaw.
One twist.
One end.
His body folded like a cheap apology.
I wiped my blade clean, though it didn't really need it his blood was already drying in fear.
She was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, eyes glinting with… annoyance? Amusement? Something deliciously dangerous.
"You took long," she murmured, not angry, not scared simply stating fact.
"You shouldn't have come alone."
"You shouldn't have left."
We stared at each other for a long, sharp moment.
The killer's corpse cooling between us like an offering.
Then her knees almost buckled — exhaustion hitting all at once.
I caught her before she fell, and for a breath, she rested her head against my chest, listening to the heartbeat she pretends she doesn't own.
"Come," I told her, lifting her easily.
"I'm taking you home."
She sighed, a tiny, irritated sound, like a cat being picked up mid-hunt.
But she didn't resist.
On the way back, she tried to argue once.
"I wasn't done watching him."
"I was done with him," I replied.
She glared up at me, lips forming a pout she probably didn't realize she was making.
I almost kissed her right there.
Almost.
Instead I tightened my grip and said, "If you vanish again while I'm gone, I'll chain you to my wrist."
She muttered something about "overreacting," but her fingers curled into my shirt.
By the time we reached campus, she was half-asleep, bruised, smelling like metal and adrenaline.
I set her down in her dorm, wrapped her in a blanket, brushed her damp hair from her cheek.
And then I dragged my gaze to the door — Kabir and Riya peeking from the hallway.
Cowards.
But their eyes widened when they saw the exhaustion on her.
The bruises.
My grip on her waist.
she sliped back in her normal act so casually i blinked in surprised and amusement she was pouting.
I sliped into my character just as casually throwing her down on bed with irritated sigh as we argu a little.
But whats the point now? They knows everything by now don't they? Almost everything.
I was about to scold her more, when her phone buzzed.
She pulled it out. Froze.
I snatched it from her hands.
Then I saw the message.
A single photo.
Her.
Naked.
Asleep.
Taken from above.
Time froze.
My lungs closed.
My jaw locked.
The killer was dead.
I killed him with my own hands.
So who took this?
Who was watching her now?
And why did this new monster feel closer than the last?
I m going to kill this person with bare hands
That's the promise i made to myself.