ＬＡＮＤＯＮ ＡＳＨＦＯＲＤ

There's a boy in her Political Theory class who doesn't understand boundaries.

I've been watching him for three days now—cataloging his patterns, his routes, his weaknesses. His name is Jackson Smith, junior year, pre-law track, entirely too confident for someone who should know better.

He sits two seats behind Hazel in lecture. Watches the back of her head like she's a puzzle he's trying to solve. Leans forward during discussions to catch her attention. Laughs too loud at things she says that aren't funny, desperate to be noticed.

Yesterday, he asked her to study together.

She said maybe.

Maybe.

That single word has been eating at me for twenty-four hours, gnawing at the edges of my control like acid on glass. Because maybe means she's considering it. Maybe means she might spend time with him, alone, in the library or some coffee shop where I can't be between them.

Maybe means another insect is trying to tap on her glass box.

I'm standing in the parking garage beneath the athletics complex, three levels down where the security cameras don't quite reach. It's nearly midnight—the perfect time for a conversation that needs to happen in the dark.

Jackson's car is parked in spot C-47. A modest Honda, a few years old, nothing that screams wealth or privilege. He's probably on partial scholarship, working his way through school, building toward some middle-class future in corporate law.

Had. He had a future.

Past tense.

I hear footsteps echoing through the concrete structure—his gait, I recognize it now. Quick, purposeful, the walk of someone who thinks they're safe on their own campus.

He rounds the corner and stops when he sees me leaning against his driver's side door.

"Oh, hey." His smile is friendly, unsuspecting. "Landon, right? From Hazel's—"

I move before he finishes the sentence.

My hand locks around his throat and I slam him back against the concrete pillar hard enough to make his teeth rattle. The impact knocks the air from his lungs in a satisfying wheeze, and his eyes go wide with shock and the first edges of real fear.

Good. He should be afraid.

"Let me tell you a story, Jackson ." My voice is conversational, almost friendly, completely at odds with the hand crushing his windpipe. "There was once a very stupid boy who didn't understand social hierarchies. Who thought that just because a girl was kind to him, just because she smiled when he made jokes, that meant she was available."

"I don't—" He's clawing at my wrist, trying to break my grip. "I can't—breathe—"

"Shh. I'm talking." I press harder, feeling his pulse hammering against my palm like a trapped bird. "This stupid boy made the catastrophic mistake of thinking he could study with something that didn't belong to him. Do you know what happened to that boy, Jackson ?"

His face is turning red now, shading toward purple. His struggles are getting weaker.

I ease up just enough to let him gasp in a breath. Can't have him passing out before I make my point.

"What happened?" he chokes out.

"He disappeared." I lean closer, letting him see exactly what lives behind my eyes. No Golden Prince mask now. Just the beast. Just the truth. "No body. No note. Just gone, like he never existed at all. His parents filed a missing person report. Campus security investigated. But you know what they found?"

"Nothing," he whispers.

"Nothing," I confirm. "Because that boy was very, very stupid. And stupid boys who don't learn to keep their hands to themselves tend to have accidents. Fatal ones."

I release his throat and he collapses against the pillar, gasping and coughing. I wait patiently while he catches his breath, giving him time to really absorb what I'm saying.

"Now." I crouch down to his level, making sure he's looking at me. "You're going to make a choice. You can be smart, or you can be stupid like that other boy. Which will it be?"

"Smart," he rasps. "I'll be smart."

"Good. Being smart means you're going to withdraw from Ardencrest. Tonight. You're going to cite family emergency, personal crisis, whatever bullshit excuse you need. But by this time tomorrow, you will no longer attend this university."

"That's insane—I can't just—"

My fist connects with his stomach before he finishes the objection. He doubles over, retching, and I grab a handful of his hair to force his head up.

"Let me be very clear about what happens if you don't comply." My voice is still calm, still pleasant. "I know where you live. Off-campus apartment on Maple Street, third floor, unit 3B. You have a younger sister at Coastal State—Emma, freshman year, studying elementary education. Your mother works nights at Mercy Hospital, usually gets home around seven AM."

All the color drains from his face. "You wouldn't—"

"I would do things that would keep you awake screaming for the rest of your very short life if you ever, ever speak to Hazel Bloom again." I release his hair and stand, brushing imaginary dust from my jacket. "But you're going to be smart. You're going to withdraw. You're going to disappear. And Hazel will forget you existed within a week."

He's crying now—silent tears streaming down his face as the reality of his situation settles in. He thought he was safe here. Thought wealth and privilege only bought material things, not the kind of power that could make someone vanish.

He was wrong.

"I'll withdraw," he whispers. "Tonight. I'll do it tonight."

"Good boy." I pull out my phone and take a photo of him—broken, crying, pathetic against the concrete pillar. "And just so we're clear—if you change your mind, if you think about going to security or the police or anyone else, I'll know. And this photo, along with several others I've taken of you in various compromising positions, will be distributed across every social media platform you use. Your future in law? Over. Your reputation? Destroyed. Your family? They'll see exactly what kind of coward their son really is."

I don't actually have compromising photos. But he doesn't know that. And the threat is enough.

"Do we understand each other?" I ask.

He nods frantically.

"Say it out loud."

"We understand each other." His voice breaks. "I'll withdraw. I'll disappear. I won't tell anyone."

"Perfect." I pocket my phone and smile—warm, friendly, the Golden Prince sliding back into place like a well-worn glove. "I'm glad we could have this conversation, Jackson. Safe travels."

I walk away, leaving him sobbing against the pillar, and the static in my head quiets to a manageable hum.

One less insect.

One less threat.

One less person who might take her attention away from me.

But it's not enough. It's never enough.

Because there are always more. Always another boy in class who smiles at her, another stranger at the bookstore who makes her laugh, another potential contamination threatening the perfect glass box I'm building.

And I'm running out of clean ways to make them disappear.

By the time I get back to my penthouse, my knuckles are split and bleeding—not from Jackson, but from the concrete pillar I put my fist through after I left him. The pain was necessary. Clarifying. A physical reminder that I'm still holding on to control by my fucking fingernails.

I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, watching blood drip into the pristine white sink, and examine what's staring back at me.

The Golden Prince is cracking.

I can see it in my eyes—the way they're too bright, too intense, flickering between calculated calm and feral hunger. Can see it in the rigid set of my jaw, the vein throbbing at my temple, the way my hands won't stop shaking even as I rinse the blood away.

Keeping Hazel in the dark is requiring too much effort.

The stalker in her room was supposed to be simple. Kill the threat, clean up the evidence, sedate her into compliance. But she noticed things—the scratches on the lock, the perfect cleanliness of her carpet, the bitter taste of the drugs. Her trauma-sharpened instincts picked up on details I thought I'd erased.

And now she's suspicious.

I can see it in the way she looks at me—that fraction-of-a-second hesitation before she smiles, the way her fingers flutter to the watch on her wrist like she's testing its weight, the subtle lean backward when I step into her space.

She's scared of me.

She should be.

But she can't leave me.

The thought of her pulling away, creating distance, finding other people to trust—it makes the static roar so loud I want to claw my own skull open just to let the pressure out.

I need a better solution. A more permanent one.

The alibi I constructed was good—excellent, even. Photos, geolocation data, timestamps that prove I was three hundred miles away. But alibis only work if people are looking for proof. If she starts asking questions, starts showing those scratched locks to someone who might actually investigate, the whole carefully constructed facade collapses.

I need to isolate her.

Completely.

Surgically.

Cut away every connection that isn't me until I'm the only person left in her world. The only voice she trusts. The only presence that matters.

I pull out my phone and start making calls.

First: her work schedule. The bookstore owner, Mrs. Chen, is a pragmatic woman who responds well to financial incentives. A generous donation to her struggling business, conditional on "adjusting staffing needs due to decreased foot traffic." Hazel's hours will be cut—not eliminated entirely, that would be too obvious—but reduced enough that she has less exposure to customers, less interaction with anyone who isn't me.

Second: her housing situation. Aurora is too observant, asks too many questions, looks at me with suspicious eyes like she can sense the predator underneath the polish. A discrete payment to the university housing board, a forged complaint about "roommate incompatibility" filed under Hazel's name, and suddenly there's an opening in a single-occupancy room on the opposite side of campus. Aurora still lives in dorm room or more like her things are there but she still do stay there when Evander isn't in town for his business. And If Aurora becomes stubborn about keeping me away from my Sunflower, she will succeed a bit maybe a day cause Evander would step in. So, will the others.. So, the solution is  Aurora gets reassigned. Hazel gets isolation disguised as an upgrade.

Third: her class schedule. Jackson is withdrawing, but there are others. I pull up the roster for her Political Theory course and start cross-referencing with social media profiles, identifying anyone who's shown interest, who's tried to partner with her for projects, who's lingered too long after class.

By the time I'm done, I have a list of seven names.

Seven potential threats.

Seven problems that need solving.

I can't kill them all—even I'm not reckless enough to leave a trail of bodies that obvious. But I can make their lives uncomfortable enough that they naturally create distance. Anonymous tips about academic dishonesty. Fabricated evidence of plagiarism. Strategic social media posts that destroy reputations. Threats delivered in parking garages.

I've gotten very good at making people disappear without actually killing them.

Though I prefer the killing.

It's cleaner. More permanent. Satisfying in a way that social destruction never quite achieves.

But Hazel is starting to notice the bodies. Starting to put together patterns that I need to keep fragmented.

So I'll be surgical instead. Precise. Remove every contaminating element from her environment until her world consists of her dorm room, her classes, and me.

Just me.

Always me.

I look at my reflection again—at the blood still drying on my knuckles, at the manic brightness in my eyes, at the smile that's crept across my face without my permission.

"The glass is getting smudged," I tell my reflection. "And I am running out of clean rags. If these insects keep looking at her, there won't be a student body left to graduate."

My phone buzzes. Tracking app notification.

Hazel's heart rate just spiked—89 beats per minute. Something startled her.

I immediately pull up the feed, watching her biometrics in real-time. She's in her room. Not moving. Heart rate elevated but not panicking.

What scared her?

I switch to the location history, scrubbing backward through the evening. She went to dinner with Aurora. Walked back to her dorm. Has been stationary for the last two hours.

Nothing unusual. Nothing threatening.

So why is her heart racing?

I pull out my earpiece and slip it in, letting the sound of her pulse fill my head. Thump-thump-thump-thump—faster than normal, stressed.

What are you thinking about, Sunflower?

Are you thinking about the scratches on your lock? About the impossibility of my alibi? About the nightmare that might not have been a nightmare at all?

Are you starting to figure it out?

The thought sends something hot and dangerous through my chest—not quite fear, but close. Because if she figures it out, if she puts together the pieces and realizes what I actually am, she'll run.

And I'll have to stop her.

Permanently.

The idea should horrify me. Should trigger whatever scraps of humanity I have left.

Instead, it makes me smile wider.

Because there's a certain purity to that scenario. No more pretending. No more exhausting performance of normalcy. Just the truth—raw and brutal and absolute.

I own you. You just don't know it yet.

Her heart rate is settling now—dropping back toward normal. Whatever spooked her has passed.

For now.

I save my work, pocket my phone, and head for the shower. I need to wash the blood off, put on clean clothes, reconstruct the Golden Prince mask before I see her tomorrow.

Because tomorrow, I start phase two.

Tomorrow, I begin systematically dismantling every connection in her life that isn't me.

And by the time I'm done, she'll have no choice but to depend on me completely.

She'll think it's safety. Protection. Love.

She'll have no idea it's a cage.

ＨＡＺＥＬ ＢＬＯＯＭ

My world is shrinking.

It's subtle at first—so subtle I almost don't notice. Little changes that seem innocuous in isolation but form a pattern when you step back far enough to see the whole picture.

Mrs. Chen calls on Tuesday to tell me the bookstore is cutting back hours. "Foot traffic is down," she says apologetically. "I can only give you two shifts a week instead of four. I'm so sorry, honey."

I tell her it's fine, that I understand, that business fluctuations are normal. But something about the timing feels wrong. The bookstore was busy last week—I saw the receipts, watched the steady stream of customers. Why the sudden drop?

On Wednesday, I get an email from university housing. There's been a "scheduling error" with dorm assignments, and Aurora is being moved to a different building. "Increased demand for single-occupancy rooms has necessitated some adjustments," the email explains. "Ms. Lane has been reassigned to better accommodate her needs."

I call Aurora immediately.

"Did you request a room change?"

"What? No." She sounds as confused as I feel. "I got the same email. They're saying I filled out some form about needing a quieter environment for studying, but I never—Hazel, I didn't request this."

"I know. It doesn't make sense."

There's a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, quietly: "Has Landon been acting strange lately?"

The question makes my stomach drop. "Why would you ask that?"

"Just..." She sighs. "Never mind. I'm probably being paranoid. I'll fight the reassignment. They can't just move me without my consent."

But three days later, she's packing boxes. The housing board was "very apologetic" but "couldn't reverse the decision due to contractual obligations." I know Evander would've intervened but Aurora still doesn't ask or say to him about these situations much. For his mental peace.

Convenient.

By Thursday, Jackson stops showing up to Political Theory. Professor Williams makes an announcement that he's withdrawn from the course due to "family circumstances." I barely knew Jackson—he sat a few rows behind me, occasionally asked questions during discussions—but his sudden disappearance feels wrong.

Everything feels wrong.

On Friday, I'm studying in the library when I realize I'm alone. Completely alone. The usual crowd of students that populate the third-floor study area is gone, and when I check the time, it's only eight PM. Not late enough for the building to be this empty.

I gather my things and head downstairs, and that's when I see Landon.

He's sitting in the lobby area, laptop open, looking perfectly casual and normal. Like he just happened to be studying here at the exact same time as me.

"Hey, Sunflower." His smile is warm, genuine. "How's the research paper coming?"

"Fine." I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you. Studying." He gestures to his laptop screen, which shows what looks like a policy analysis document. "Want company walking back to your dorm?"

I should say no. Should create some space, some distance, some breathing room between us.

But the library is empty and the campus is dark and he's looking at me like I'm the most important thing in his world.

"Sure," I hear myself say.

We walk in comfortable silence for the first few minutes, and I try to ignore the way his presence feels simultaneously safe and suffocating. Like being wrapped in a blanket that's too warm, too tight, but removing it would leave me exposed to something worse.

"You've been distant lately," he says suddenly. "Did I do something wrong?"

The question catches me off guard. "No. Of course not."

"Are you sure? Because you haven't texted me first in three days. You've turned down lunch twice. And right now you're walking like you're trying to maintain a specific distance between us."

He's right. I am. I've been unconsciously calibrating my steps to keep exactly two feet between us—close enough to be polite, far enough to maintain separation.

When did I start doing that?

"I'm just stressed," I lie. "Midterms coming up, reduced hours at work, Aurora's room change—it's all a lot."

"I could help with the money situation." His offer is immediate, predictable. "You know I don't mind—"

"I know. And I appreciate it. But I need to handle this myself."

We've reached my dorm building now, and I'm fumbling for my keys when his hand closes around my wrist.

Not hard. Not painful. Just... firm. Immovable.

"Hazel." His voice is low, intense. "Look at me."

I force myself to meet his eyes, and there's something in them I've never seen before. Something desperate and hungry and barely contained.

"Whatever's happening in your head—whatever you're convincing yourself about me—it's wrong." His thumb finds my pulse point, pressing down with familiar pressure. "I'm still me. Still your best friend. Still the person who would do anything to keep you safe."

"I know that." But my voice sounds uncertain even to my own ears.

"Do you?" He steps closer, and suddenly my back is against the brick wall of my building and he's crowding my space in a way that makes my heart race. "Because you're looking at me like you're scared. And I can't figure out why."

Tell him about the scratches. Tell him about the nightmares that feel too real. Tell him that you're starting to suspect the worst.

But the words stick in my throat, because what if I'm wrong? What if my trauma brain is manufacturing threats that don't exist? What if I accuse him of something horrible and destroy the one good relationship I have?

"I'm not scared," I whisper. "I'm just... confused."

"About what?"

About everything. About you. About whether the monster in my nightmare was real or imagined. About why my life seems to be systematically falling apart in ways that always circle back to you.

"Nothing," I say instead. "I'm fine. Really."

He studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him doing calculations behind those teal eyes. Weighing my words. Measuring my sincerity. Deciding whether to push or retreat.

Finally, he steps back, releasing my wrist.

"Okay." His smile returns—warm, perfect, giving no indication of the intensity from thirty seconds ago. "Get some rest, Sunflower. Text me if you need anything."

Then he's walking away, and I'm left standing outside my dorm with my heart pounding and my wrist burning where he touched me.

I look down at the watch he gave me—the beautiful pink-banded smartwatch that has a panic button.

When did this stop feeling like a gift and start feeling like a collar?

I unlock my door and step inside, immediately checking the strike plate around the deadbolt. The scratches are still there—undeniable physical evidence that someone picked this lock.

Someone broke in.

Someone who might have been Landon, despite his ironclad alibi.

Or someone else entirely, which means there's a threat out there I haven't identified yet.

I don't know which possibility scares me more.

I sink onto my bed and pull out my phone, scrolling through recent messages. There are dozens from Landon—good morning texts, lunch invitations, random articles he thought I'd find interesting. An overwhelming digital presence that I used to find comforting.

Now it feels like surveillance.

I start a new message to Aurora, then delete it. What would I even say? "I think Landon might be stalking me, but I have no proof and I might be losing my mind?"

Instead, I open my laptop and start documenting. Every strange occurrence. Every coincidence. Every moment where Landon appeared at exactly the right time or seemed to know things he shouldn't.

The list grows longer than I expect.

He knew I was at the bookstore the day the creep cornered me, even though he was outside. Unless, he was watching me from outside than just simply waiting.

He knew I was packing for the city trip before I mentioned it.

He knew I'd be in the library tonight, studying on the third floor.

He always knows.

How does he always know?

I look at the watch on my wrist, and a cold certainty settles over me.

This isn't just a panic button and location tracker.

This is how he knows everything.

My hands are shaking as I try to remove it, fumbling with the clasp. But it's designed well—secure, difficult to take off one-handed. And even as I struggle with it, I can feel panic rising in my chest.

What if removing it triggers something? What if he's watching  right now, seeing my heart rate spike, knowing I'm trying to take it off?

What if taking it off makes me vulnerable to whatever threats he claims to be protecting me from?

I force myself to breathe, to think rationally.

I'm in my dorm room. The door is locked. I'm safe.

But I also thought I was safe the night someone broke in. Thought I was safe until I woke up tasting sedatives and trying to convince myself a murder was just a nightmare.

I settle for a compromise—I leave the watch on, but I turn off location services on my phone. It's something. A small reclamation of privacy. A tiny act of resistance.

Then I sit at my desk and continue documenting everything I can remember, building a timeline of strange occurrences and convenient coincidences.

By the time I'm done, it's past midnight and I have three single-spaced pages of observations.

And every single one of them has Landon at the center.

Jackson withdrawing from school. Aurora's forced room change. My reduced hours at work. The stalker in my room. The perfect alibi that shouldn't be possible.

All of it circles back to him.

My best friend. My protector. My anchor.

Or my captor.

I don't know which anymore.

All I know is that my world has been surgically sterilized, methodically isolated, carefully curated until the only person left in it is the Golden Prince.

And I'm starting to suspect that's exactly what he wanted all along.