The silent confrontation at her doorstep shattered any remaining illusion Mira had of safety. He wasn't just watching from afar; he was there, an active, terrifying presence. The police were no longer an option; they were a necessity. The next morning, fueled by a potent mix of terror and righteous fury, Mira marched down to the local station.
The desk sergeant was a burly man with kind eyes, but as Mira stammered out her story – the club, the key, the note, the silent calls, the feather, the song, the search history screenshot, the messages to Brenda, and finally, Link standing outside her flat – she saw his expression shift from concern to polite skepticism.
"So, you're saying this man, who you met once, is stalking you, but he hasn't physically harmed you, nor explicitly threatened you?" he asked, jotting notes on a pad.
Mira felt a surge of frustration. "He's been inside my house, he's hacked my phone, he's playing games from my childhood! He was outside my flat last night, staring!"
He nodded, a practised calm in his voice. "We can file a report, Miss Andrews. We'll assign an officer to look into it, but without a direct threat or physical contact, our hands are somewhat tied. Stalking cases can be difficult to prove, especially with this kind of... digital evidence." He paused. "Have you considered increasing your home security? Perhaps a doorbell camera?"
Mira left the station feeling more isolated than before. They weren't dismissing her, but they weren't grasping the pervasive, psychological horror of it. They wanted physical evidence, and Link was far too clever for that.
Back at her flat, she felt utterly defeated. But as she slumped onto the sofa, Marley nudging her hand, a thought sparked. Link wasn't just observing; he was studying her. He was analytical, precise. The "Careless" note, the exact placement of the feather, the precise timing of the song, the screenshot of her searches. He wasn't just a random lunatic. He was an analyst.
If he was an analyst, what was he analyzing? Her. But why?
A cold clarity began to emerge through her fear. He was observing her reactions, her patterns, her vulnerabilities. He was a scientist, and she was his subject. This wasn't about love or hate; it was about data, about understanding. But understanding what? And to what end? The thought was almost more terrifying than a direct threat because it implied a cold, relentless logic, a complete disregard for her humanity. She was just an object of study. And if she was his subject, then perhaps, just perhaps, she could figure out what he was looking for.