threads in the Dark

There was something about the house that felt colder now. Not the walls—those were still warm with wealth and false cheer—but the silence between them. The kind of silence that hummed too perfectly, like a prelude to something breaking.

Dominique sat at her vanity, face bare, robe tied loose around her waist. Her reflection stared back like a stranger. It had been three days since the masquerade, and she hadn’t been able to stop replaying the moment the silhouette moved in the mirror. That flash of skin. The etched “V.”

She hadn’t told her mother. Not that she would have listened. Her mother had been too busy parading graduation catalogs and college brochures in front of her, as if Dominique hadn’t already submitted her applications behind her back.

“You’re quiet lately,” her mother had said at breakfast that morning, over her fifth black coffee. “Not a good look when alumni board interviews are coming.”

Dominique didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The woman saw silence as compliance.

But silence, to Dominique, was where power fermented.

She turned her chair slightly, pulling out the drawer she’d hidden the foxglove note in. Still there. Crisp. Bold. “To my queen of ruin.”

Her hands trembled.

Not with fear.

With anticipation.

Her phone buzzed.

WOLF: Anything new?

She didn’t respond right away. She wasn’t sure why. Damien had been helpful—more than helpful. But a small part of her was beginning to wonder… why him? Why now? Why had he been at the masquerade, waiting in the shadows, just when she needed a backup plan?

She thumbed over his name, then locked the screen.

A second buzz followed. This time, not Damien.

UNKNOWN: I see the mask is cracking, Domica.

She inhaled sharply.

Not just because he used her alias.

But because of the image attached.

It was a still from her bathroom mirror, taken at an angle she couldn’t trace. Her brushing her teeth. Bare-faced. Vulnerable.

She hadn’t streamed that day.

No cameras had been on.

And that meant—

“Holy sh*t,” she whispered, jumping to her feet.

The Fox had access inside the house.

Again.

Dominique led Priscilla into her room and locked the door behind them. She moved straight to her desk, motioning for Priscilla to take the chair beside her as she pulled up her encrypted server.

“Let’s trace the dropbox metadata,” Dominique muttered, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“You can do that?” Priscilla asked, raising a brow.

“I’ve had stalkers before. Creeps. Voyeurs. But this one’s… more calculated.” She clicked through a trail of anonymized proxies until one slip—one blip in the VPN chain—caught her attention.

A partial username.

Seraphim28

Dominique’s fingers froze.

That name—it didn’t belong to any of her clients. Not on Domica’s side. But it did belong to something older. A username from a now-defunct poetry forum. One she’d only used once, when she was thirteen. A post about duality, about masks, about pain.

She had shared it with one person back then.

A boy who called himself “Vox_inferi.”

Her childhood neighbor.

Dominique’s mouth went dry.

“Do you know them?” Priscilla asked softly.

“I thought I did.”

Dominique stared at the screen, unblinking.

Seraphim28.

The past bled through her carefully crafted firewalls like a whisper slipping through a cracked door. A username she had forgotten—until now.

“What does it mean?” Priscilla asked beside her, voice low.

Dominique didn’t answer right away.

Instead, her mind drifted.

To long summers.

Backyard fences.

A boy with too-blue eyes and a stutter that disappeared when he whispered poetry through the gaps in her window.

“What if pain is the only way I know I’m real?” he once wrote.

She’d thought he was just another lonely kid playing at depth.

Until he disappeared. Moved away. Erased.

Now?

Now she wasn’t so sure.

The room chilled.

Priscilla shifted uneasily. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dominique muttered, “Maybe I have.”

Just then, the sound of gravel outside her window made her spine stiffen.

A familiar rhythm.

Rock.

Pause.

Rock.

Pause.

Tap.

She stood, drawing the curtain—and there he was.

Damien.

Hood up. Eyes burning beneath it.

He motioned for her to come down.

Priscilla peered over her shoulder. “You trust him?”

“No,” Dominique said. “But I trust what he knows.”

She was in the middle of deleting old passwords and securing her laptop when her door buzzed—an alert from the downstairs gate.

She flicked to the security monitor expecting another floral delivery or one of her mom’s “academic sponsors.”

Instead…

It was Priscilla.

Dominique narrowed her eyes.

Of all the people to show up uninvited…

She pressed the speaker. “What?”

“You need to let me in. Now.”

Dominique didn’t move.

Priscilla glanced up at the camera. “He sent me something.”

Silence.

“I think you’re in danger.”

Click.

The gates opened.

Dominique stood at the top of the marble staircase, arms crossed, chin tilted high as Priscilla stepped into the foyer. It had been months since they’d been alone like this without an audience. The tension between them hung sharp, a thread pulled taut.

Priscilla looked different. Still polished, still smug—but her eyes flicked with something else tonight. Fear? Or adrenaline?

“I almost turned around,” she muttered, climbing the last step. “But I couldn’t unsee it.”

Dominique raised a brow. “Start talking.”

Priscilla held out her phone like it was infected. “This came to my dad’s email. Anonymous dropbox link. He opened it, thank God. He thought it was spam. But—Dom, it was pictures. Of you. In the WREC room.”

Dominique’s stomach coiled.

Her skin prickled.

“You looked like… like you didn’t know someone was watching.”

“I didn’t.”

Priscilla nodded grimly. “There was audio, too. Just breathing. Heavy. Like he was right there in the dark.”

Dominique took the phone and pressed play.

At first, silence.

Then a low, rhythmic sound—almost animalistic.

Breathing. Inhaled through teeth. A soft click of tongue.

Then a distorted whisper.

“She doesn’t know I already own her.”

Dominique's heart dropped into her spine.

“I thought it was you at first,” Dominique said, voice hard, handing the phone back.

Priscilla blinked. “Me?”

“You threatened to out me. Remember?”

Priscilla flinched. “Yeah, well… I didn’t think it was this serious. You’re a bitch, Dominique, but you’re not… prey.”

Dominique paused. That was the first time Priscilla had used her actual name in years.

“What do you want?” she asked finally.

“I want in.”

Dominique stared.

Priscilla’s cheeks flushed. “Look, I know I can be a pain. But I’m not stupid. I’ve been following breadcrumbs for weeks—posts, profiles, shady subscriber forums. Whoever this guy is, he’s not just obsessed. He’s organized.”

“You’re saying he’s not alone?”

“I’m saying…” Priscilla hesitated. “I think he’s got people in the network. Maybe even… the WREC staff. Or your fanbase.”

Dominique bit her lip, pacing.

The walls of her house felt too thin. The air too sharp.

“Why help me?” she asked.

“Because if he’s watching you, he’s probably watching anyone who’s been near you. That includes me. And my dad.”

Dominique’s eyes narrowed. “You’re scared.”

“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “And if I’m scared, you should be terrified.”

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