Chapter 5 A New Target

• Blake’s POV
• The dark web is my playground, a hunting ground where I find the darkest, deepest secrets of my obsessions. It’s a place where anonymity rules, and I can hire just about anyone to dig up whatever I need on my next victim. The thrill of knowing every intimate detail about someone before they even realize they’re being watched—that’s where the power lies.
• My victims are chosen with precision. There’s no randomness to it, no impulsive picks. Most of the time, I don’t even need to touch them. The true thrill comes from the psychological torment. Watching them unravel, seeing the fear in their eyes when they notice the small, seemingly innocent changes in their home. That coffee cup moved slightly. The window that wasn’t open yesterday, but now is. The sense of being watched without proof—it’s better than any physical violence.
• My method is meticulous. Every victim must follow a strict routine. They need to work a standard schedule, so I have time to infiltrate their space without rushing. They can’t live with someone—no partners, no housemates. That complicates things, introduces variables. And variables get you caught. Rushing is sloppy, and sloppy stalkers don’t last long.
• I’ve earned my title on the dark web as one of the most methodical stalkers, not because I have the highest body count, but because I’ve never once been seen when I didn’t want to be. Never once been caught. I make sure my victims don’t just fear me; they fear the very thought that someone could know them so intimately without ever leaving a trace.
• There are a few things that set me apart from the amateurs.
• First, I don’t just follow my victims around or peek through their windows. I embed myself into their lives. I hack into their digital world. I connect to their calendars, so I know every appointment, every social event, before they do. Their phone? It’s mine. I mirror it, seeing their messages, hearing their calls, and tracking their movements. Anytime a friend is coming over, or they plan a weekend getaway—I’m the first to know.
• Their laptops? That’s where the real fun begins. I plant spyware in their systems, quietly listening in as they type. Their searches, their personal emails, their work—all laid bare for me. I see exactly what they watch when the lights go down. That’s when they’re the most vulnerable—hidden in the shadows, alone in their homes. There’s something sick and deeply fascinating about having this kind of access to someone’s private world, especially when it comes to what they crave in secret.
• During the day, in front of others, they might browse mundane things, maybe even watch basic porn that anyone could stumble across. But at night? Alone? That’s when their darkest, deepest desires come pouring out, and I’m there, watching it all with them.
• This is where I see the real them. Not the version they show to the world—the version that’s polite, careful, safe. No, when they think no one’s looking, that’s when the masks come off. Their hidden fantasies, the ones they’d never dare speak aloud, play out right in front of me. The fetishes they suppress, the desires they think are too depraved for daylight? I see it all, uncensored and raw.
• It’s not just about watching. I don’t sit there passively. I use what I find, I manipulate their desires. I take those fantasies and turn them into tools of torment. I’ll leave small items in their home, subtle hints that let them know exactly what I’ve been watching them do. A coil of rope on the bedside table. A pair of handcuffs tucked into a drawer. A buttplug placed on their pillow like a gift.
• Each item is chosen with precision, based on what I’ve learned about them through their own private searches. It’s not just about scaring them—it’s about reminding them that their darkest secrets aren’t safe. It’s about making them wonder how much I’ve seen, how much I know.
• The beauty of it is, they’ll try to rationalize it at first. They’ll convince themselves they misplaced the rope, or that the handcuffs were a prank from a friend. But as the pattern repeats, as more items appear—things they haven’t spoken about to anyone—they begin to crack. They realize it’s not coincidence, and they spiral.
• The fear isn’t in the object itself. It’s in the knowledge that someone, somewhere, knows their most intimate desires—and is using that knowledge against them. Watching their lives unravel as their paranoia takes hold is what truly satisfies me.
• And by the time they realize the full extent of what’s happening, they’re already too deep in the game.
• I know their hobbies, their fears, the things they wouldn’t dare share with anyone. Their deepest insecurities? They tell me without even realizing it. I’ve had some victims confess their darkest secrets into their keyboards, thinking no one’s watching.
• But I am. Always.
• I like to leave subtle reminders that I’m there. Moving items just enough to unsettle them, but not enough to make them scream for help. A book pulled off the shelf. A piece of jewelry placed somewhere it shouldn’t be. These small actions drive them to paranoia, make them question their own sanity. They become obsessed with locking doors, checking windows, doubting everything around them. By the time they realize they’re not imagining things, they’re already spiraling into fear and helplessness.
• Second, I never overstep before I’m ready. I don’t show my hand until I’m deep enough in their lives to control the narrative. Some stalkers slip up because they get too eager. They want that rush of confrontation. But not me. I wait. I let the tension build until it’s suffocating. Only then, when they’re teetering on the edge, do I make myself known. Sometimes it’s a letter—just one line, handwritten in their favorite color pen. Sometimes it’s a photograph of them sleeping. It all depends on the victim and what will make them crack.
• I’ve found that fear is most potent when it comes from the unknown. The idea that someone’s been inside your home, inside your mind, and you didn’t know? That terror lingers far longer than a quick act of violence. It’s psychological erosion. Bit by bit, I wear them down, until they’re jumping at shadows, unable to trust anyone. That’s the beauty of what I do.
• I’m patient. I’m careful. I make them doubt their reality before they ever realize what’s truly happening. That’s why my method works so much better than anyone else’s. Most stalkers want the rush of the chase, the quick gratification of a confrontation. They can’t resist the temptation to show their hand too soon. But me? I enjoy the slow burn. I take my time, watching their lives fall apart from the inside, all while they’re looking over their shoulder, trying to figure out where the danger is coming from.
• By the time they realize the answer, it’s already too late.
• Well, that was how I do things.Sitting here, I read Nova’s message again and again, like she’s calling out to be stalked. To be chased, to be hunted. It’s not how I usually find my victims, not how I play my games. But there she is, practically offering herself up on a silver platter. She wants to know what it’s like to be a stalker? Maybe I should make her my next victim, just to show her what it really means.
• But something inside me shifts, something twisted and dark. Instead of turning her into prey, a thought creeps in—what if I train her? What if I make her a stalker? Show her the ropes, make her do things that feel so wrong, yet so good, that she can’t resist. I’ve never imagined having a follower before, someone to mentor, but there’s something about Nova… something that makes me wonder if she’s the one I should pull into this life.
• It’s not like I haven’t gotten requests like hers before, but something about that one line she wrote hooked me.
• I don’t believe all criminals are evil—not entirely anyway.
• That line has me intrigued, pulling me in deeper than I thought possible. There’s a part of me that wants to prove her wrong, to show her just how dark the world really is. To make her realize there’s no redemption for people like me.
• I know if I pull her into this, everything I’ve built will crack. My perfect reputation, my flawless anonymity, shattered. All because of one little Nova. Does she even realize the gravity of what she’s asking for?
• Probably not. She thinks this is just research, just a story. She’s naive, wanting the truth for her book. But maybe I’ll give it to her in a way she’ll never forget. I’ll drag her so deep into my world that when she tries to leave, she won’t be able to imagine surviving without it. Being a stalker isn’t a switch you can just turn off. Once you get a taste for it, once you feel that rush, that power… you never stop.
• It’s like murder. You do it once, and the scent of blood calls to you again and again. For me, it’s the fear in my victims’ eyes—the sheer, raw terror. After a while, one victim’s fear no longer satisfies, no longer gives me that high. I have to find someone new. And if I drag Nova in deep enough, she’ll feel that too. She’ll crave it like I do.
• So, this is where I break my own rules. This is where I do something I never do. I stalk her. Purely to find out who she really is, of course. For now, anyway.
• I crack my knuckles and settle in. First, I pull up the dark web forums, scanning through her posts for any breadcrumb she might have left behind. It takes some digging, but eventually, I find what I’m looking for—a weak link. Her posts might be anonymous, but her connection isn’t. People think the dark web is some impenetrable fortress of secrecy, but even there, people make mistakes. And Nova made one.
• I tap into the IP she used to access the forum. It’s buried under layers of encryption, but I’m patient. I strip it back, one layer at a time, working through proxies, finding weak points, until her true location starts to unravel before me. I grin as I see it—she’s not far, in the same city. Close enough.
• Now, her laptop. I exploit the vulnerability her IP left behind, burrowing through firewalls and security like they’re made of paper. Within minutes, I’m in.
• Her webcam flickers to life for a split second, unnoticed by her, but it gives me a clear view. A dark room, her laptop sitting on a cluttered desk. Perfect.
• I smile to myself as I open a messaging window, the cursor blinking on her screen. Time to reach out.
• You want to learn how to stalk, little one? Consider this your first lesson. I’m already in.
• I sit and wait, watching the screen. A moment later, I see movement in front of the camera. Dark black hair comes into view, her form just barely illuminated by the dim light in the room.
• Here, little one... Turn around.
• I hit send, and her laptop beeps. She freezes. Slowly, she turns, leaning over to peer at the laptop, her eyes widening as she reads the message.
• “What the actual fuck?” she mutters under her breath, disbelief coloring her voice.
• Nice to meet you, Nova. Sit. Let’s have a conversation.
• Her head snaps up. “Wait, you can fucking hear me?”
• ... I’m waiting for you to sit.
• “And see me?” She’s looking around, panic starting to creep in.
• Clearly, you’re as open as you said. Goodbye, Nova.
• Her eyes widen in alarm. “No! Wait!” she shouts, quickly sitting down and facing the laptop fully. “How are you typing on my laptop?”
• It’s called remotely accessing. I pause for a moment, letting the weight of my words settle in before I continue. Now, you want to follow someone, how about a stalker? One with a perfect score and the best numbers?
• She chews her lip, glancing around her room, trying to piece together how much I can see.
• You look scared. Do you regret your choices now?
• I chuckle to myself, watching as fire suddenly builds in her eyes. “I’m not scared,” she says, her voice more defiant. “I would rather meet in person, though, considering it’s midnight and I was asleep!”
• Asleep... Take your laptop with you so I can watch, please.
• “No, you perv,” she snaps, glaring at the screen. “Are we meeting or not?”
• I laugh at her response, amused by the balance of bravado and uncertainty she’s trying to maintain.
• Tomorrow. Around four? I’ll send you a message close to the time, telling you where to meet.
• She narrows her eyes. “Wait, are you going to remove yourself from inside my laptop now?”
• I’m not ‘inside’ your laptop—not in the way you think. But yes, I’ll be gone. I don’t plan to stalk you, Nova. I plan to make you a stalker. I pause before adding, Goodbye.
• I hit send and disconnect, unwilling to get pulled in any deeper for the night.
• Well, now I have a new quest: Teach Nova how to stalk.