The flute melody, that haunting fragment from the Planet Link game, echoed in Mira's mind long after the sound faded from her Wolverhampton street. It was a new level of violation, a chilling demonstration of how deeply Link had delved into her past, her personal history. He wasn't just observing her present; he was unearthing her childhood, using it as a weapon against her. The tinfoil-wrapped phone felt even more absurd now. There was no escaping him.
Mira spent the next few days in a state of numb terror, barely eating, barely sleeping. Marley, sensing her despair, pressed against her constantly, a warm, furry anchor in a sea of dread. She was a prisoner in her own flat, the walls that once felt safe now closing in like a suffocating cage.
The messages to Brenda had been the last straw for her manager. Brenda, genuinely concerned, insisted Mira take a week off. It wasn't a request; it was an order. Mira accepted, partly out of exhaustion, partly out of a desperate hope that if she disappeared from her routine, Link might lose interest, or at least, lose her trail. She knew, deep down, it was a naive hope.
The first day of her enforced "vacation" was a blur of pacing, staring out the window, and trying to decipher the unanswerable questions that swirled in her head. Who was he? Why her? What did he want?
That evening, as darkness descended, a sharp rap echoed through her quiet flat. Mira froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Marley let out a low, continuous growl, his fur bristling, his eyes fixed on the front door. Another rap. More insistent this time.
She crept to the peephole, her breath catching in her chest. The distorted image showed no one directly on her doorstep. But then, a flash of movement. A figure stepped into view, a silhouette against the dim porch light. It was him. Link.
He wasn't looking at the door directly. Instead, he was standing a few feet back, his head tilted slightly, as if listening. He raised a hand slowly, deliberately, and pointed. Not at her door, but upwards, towards her living room window where she knew, instinctively, he could see her.
He didn't knock again. He simply stood there for a long, agonizing moment, his presence a tangible weight in the night. Then, as silently as he'd appeared, he turned and melted back into the shadows, leaving Mira gasping for air, clutching her chest. He hadn't tried to get in. He hadn't said a word. He had simply delivered a message: I know you're here. I see you.