Web of Lies

“The best predators never chase. They wait. And let you come to them.”

Dominique adjusted the camera angle, slow and deliberate, like pulling thread through silk. The lens blinked red. Live, but hidden. A locked private stream, only accessible through a code buried on the darkest forum board she frequented—one where whispers, not usernames, ruled.

The flyer she’d posted under Domica’s persona had been bait:

Live tonight. No safe words. No masks. You want Domica raw? Then come and earn her silence.

It wasn’t just a performance.

It was a trap.

Wolf—Damien—was watching from an encrypted back channel. His voice echoed in her earpiece, soft but charged.

“Remember, don’t overplay it. Let him feel like he’s winning.”

“I know how to sell surrender,” she said.

“Just don’t forget who you are.”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Because in the dim red light of the WREC room, Domica was no longer a mask.

She was the hunter.

The room was bare tonight.

No props. No chains. No leather throne.

Just her.

A velvet robe falling open at the collar. A long silver leash curled at her feet. Her hair undone. Her expression unreadable.

She let the silence stretch.

Let the viewers breathe her in.

Most begged for her attention, flooding the chat with praise, dollar signs, declarations of worship.

But one line stood out.

“I prefer you undone. There’s something beautiful about a blade before it cuts.”

—F

Her pulse flicked in her throat.

She tilted her head toward the camera, every move dripping with calculated vulnerability.

“I’m tired of pretending,” she said aloud. “Tired of holding the leash. What if I just let go?”

She reached for the chain.

Wrapped it once around her wrist.

Tugged gently.

The feed erupted.

Hearts. Moans. Obsession.

But she didn’t watch the chat.

She was watching the shadows.

At exactly 12:07 AM, the stream glitched.

Just once.

A flicker of static, a crackle of sound. Untraceable. Subtle.

But Damien caught it.

“There,” he whispered in her ear. “That packet came from New York. Not one of the registered nodes. He’s piggybacking on your stream. He’s closer than we thought.”

“How close?”

“If the trace is right… ten blocks.”

Dominique’s chest rose. Fell.

And then she smiled.

Right into the camera.

“Come closer, baby Fox,” she purred. “Let me show you what happens when you corner a vixen.”

Dominique leaned forward.

Her hand slipped behind her into the drawer.

The camera couldn’t see it.

But Damien could.

The flash drive. The live uplink. The counter-software they’d spent weeks building.

“He tries to infiltrate the feed again,” Damien whispered, “and he’ll be giving us breadcrumbs all the way home.”

“He wants Domica,” Dominique murmured, “then let’s give him all of her.”

She tilted her head.

Licked her lips.

“You still watching, darling?” she whispered. “I can feel you. Like smoke on skin.”

Then she tugged the leash—and let herself fall gently to her knees, out of frame.

The screen went black.

On purpose.

A ping.

Not in the chat.

Direct message.

Encrypted. No username.

Just a letter: F.

And a message:

You forgot rule #1. Never bait a predator with blood. They always come hungry.

I’m closer than you think.

Nice try, kitten. But the leash is mine now.

Her breath hitched.

But only for a second.

She stood.

Calm. Unshaken.

“He’s bluffing,” she said into the mic.

“Then let’s call him on it,” Damien replied.

“We go live again?”

“Not here. We take this to the real stage. Public. Unavoidable.”

Dominique looked at her reflection in the blank monitor.

Domica stared back.

A queen in wolf’s clothing.

“Then let’s remind him who really runs this show.”

The camera was off, but Dominique didn’t move.

She stared at the blank screen like it still had eyes—like it still breathed back at her.

She could still hear the chat, even in silence. The phantom echo of devotion and filth. Of the Fox.

You forgot rule #1…

The words kept ringing.

And the worst part?

He was right.

She’d gotten too comfortable. Too theatrical. Too hungry for control that was never hers to begin with.

She yanked the velvet robe tighter and stepped back, her heels clicking on the concrete floor of the WREC room.

Her eyes swept the shadows, slow and methodical.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Show yourself.”

But the air remained still. Watching.

That was the Fox’s brilliance. He didn’t strike. He stalked. Slowly. With flair.

She hated how good he was.

Part VII – Wolves Make Poor Pets

The soft buzz of her earpiece broke the stillness.

“We traced him to a parking garage, twelve blocks away,” Damien murmured. “The signal vanished, but not before he bounced it through four different spoofed servers. He’s smarter than we thought.”

Dominique leaned against the wall, pressing her fingers to her temple.

“Then I need to be smarter.”

“We will be. We’re not alone.”

“That’s what scares me,” she murmured. “I’m not used to help.”

“You’re used to worship,” he said flatly.

She smiled, bitter.

“Close enough.”

“Domica doesn’t need worship,” Damien said after a pause. “She needs a witness. And I’m here for that.”

The line went quiet.

For once, it wasn’t suggestive.

It was something else.

Worse.

Trust.

Part VIII – Letters in the Dark

Back at her apartment, Dominique lit a single candle.

Not for atmosphere.

For control.

She took the Fox’s last message and wrote it out by hand in her black journal, then surrounded it with red ink annotations—her guesses, her doubts, her fears.

Next to it, she sketched a crude outline of a fox with nine tails, spiraling into shadow.

A symbol. A curse. A warning.

But her hand trembled, just slightly.

Because somewhere, out there in the cold, someone knew everything about her.

Everything.

The weight of that knowledge was no longer erotic—it was intimate in a way that felt like knives turned inward.

She slammed the journal shut.

Enough.

The next stream would be the last.

The performance of a lifetime.

Domica would bleed if she had to, but she’d draw the Fox into the light—or drag him into her darkness.

Either way, someone was going to burn.