Chapter 2 The Responses

• Alissia POV
• What have I just done?
• I sit back, staring at the screen, the cursor blinking at me, daring me to close the tab. I can’t move. What if someone actually replies? What if this post is the beginning of something that gets me hurt—or worse?
• My gut twists again, and I feel the weight of my reckless decision settling in. But despite the fear, there’s an undeniable thrill that rushes through me. This is exactly what I need to stand out, to write the story that could finally get me noticed.
• No turning back now.
• I watch the screen, my heart pounding in my chest as pings start echoing through the silence of the apartment. Ping. Ping. Ping. Notifications flood in, comments stacking up faster than I expected. My stomach twists, and a part of me is terrified to read them.
• Something tells me ninety-nine percent of these replies will be full of mockery, sarcasm, or worse—threats. Still, if I don’t read through them, how will I know if anyone serious is out there?
• Sighing, I click to open the post.
• The replies have come in far too quickly for anything real. They’re short, snappy, and dripping with sarcasm.
• “You wanna write about a real killer? Let me show you how to gut someone, babe 😘”
• “LOL this has to be a joke. Author? More like dead meat.”
• “You can shadow me, baby, but you might not survive long enough to write the ending 😉”
• “What’s your address? I’ll stalk your ass for free. No charge.”
• “Just tell me where you live, and I’ll make you my next dark romance victim.”
• The comments are brutal. There’s laughter, insults, and far too many innuendos that send chills down my spine.
• “I’ll be your serial killer. I’m really good at hiding bodies.”
• “You think you can write about us? You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
• “LMFAO, you’re seriously asking to get murdered.”
• “Come shadow me, I’ll make you disappear for good.”
• The threats are rolling in like a sick wave, each one nastier than the last. It’s exactly what I feared. My gut churns as I scroll through the mess of responses. I feel a deep sickness rising in me—this was a bad idea. These people aren’t serious, or if they are, they’re not the kind of serious I was hoping for.
• No one seems genuine.
• “I’ll stalk you, baby. Just tell me where you live and consider it done.”
• “Want to write about a mafia boss? Come meet me at the docks. If you survive, I’ll let you write the first chapter. If you survive tomorrow, that's two chapters you can write.”
• “You really want a killer’s secrets? I’ll show you—come closer.”
• I keep scrolling, hoping for even a single response that feels real, but it’s all the same. Mockery, threats, and people playing around like this is some sort of game. My chest tightens, and I realize just how dangerous this could get. There’s not one shred of sincerity in any of these posts. Just twisted humor and veiled threats that make my skin crawl.
• I swallow the lump in my throat, realizing that none of these people will take me seriously.
• What have I done? The realization hits me hard, and the nausea I’d been holding back twists my stomach into tight knots. Deleting the post now feels like a weak, cowardly move—and worse, it would only give these people more reason to mock me. They’d never let it go. It would be their laughing material for years.
• No. I won’t remove it. Not yet, at least. I’ll wait it out—see if I get at least one genuine response. There has to be someone out there who will take this seriously. Maybe they’re just watching, waiting to see how I react to the flood of idiotic comments.
• For now, though, I’ll close the browser. My head is buzzing, my nerves fried. I’ll come back in a day or two, after some of the noise dies down. Then, I’ll filter through the trash, weed out the bullshit responses, and maybe, just maybe, someone real will have replied.
• At this point, I’d even settle for the bent cop.
• "How's it going?" Jake walks past me and grabs a beer.
• "Bad, really fucking bad." I mutter, and he grabs my laptop reopening it, he clicks on the post and laughs.
• Jake points out one, and whistles.
• It’s longer, more detailed, like someone actually took the time to think about what they were going to say. My stomach tightens as I click to open it.
• “Nova, huh? That’s cute. Let me tell you something—you have no idea what you’re asking for. You think you can shadow someone like me, get close enough to understand the darkness? You won’t last a day. You’ll end up running, just like everyone else who thinks they can ‘study’ people like us. We’re not subjects for your book or your twisted little fantasies.
• But you want to play this game? Fine. Here’s how it works. I don’t care about your secrets, your pseudonym, or the fact that you think this is research. What matters is how far you’re willing to go. How much of yourself you’re willing to lose. Because once you step into this world, there’s no coming back.
• You want a dark romance? You’ll get more than you bargained for. The reality is darker than you can write, and I promise, the stakes are higher than you’ve ever imagined. If you’re still serious, reply back. But understand this—I’m not doing this for your book. I’m doing this because I want to see if you break.
• Tick tock, Nova. The clock’s already ticking.
• I stare at the screen, my heart thudding in my chest. It’s not a joke, not some troll looking for attention. This one feels real.
• Shit, do I reply? I look at Jake.
• "Don't rush to reply, that's a invite yes, but wait. Give whoever it is time to reconsider, then reply. Some will say sure, but then not mean it. So give them time."
• I nod, and he walks off. That invite though? It has a shiver creeping up my spine, and that's exactly the sort of thing I need, he's the sort of person I need to follow. I look at his username.
• ObsidianShade.
• Well, ObsidianShade. I will take you up on that offer in a day or two. I close the browser and decide to give in for the night.