THROUGH HER BONE(First POV)

The Window

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.
But what if the soul you're staring into isn’t yours?
What if the eyes you’ve become obsessed with aren’t just pretty—they're powerful? Like they know something you don’t. Like they’ve seen a world you’ve only dreamed of.
I first saw her on Instagram.
It wasn’t anything special at first. Just a random scroll. A click. An explore page suggestion—one that the algorithm might have guessed would interest me.
Her name was Calista. Just another username in a sea of selfies, digital art, and faces trying to be seen. But there was something about her. She wasn’t showing off. She wasn’t selling anything. No thirst traps. No filters turned up to a hundred. Just her face.
And those eyes.
God, those eyes.
I zoomed in on the photo. Not in a creepy way—at least, not at first. I just… couldn’t stop looking. Her pupils were wide but calm. Almost hypnotic. Her eyes held stories—pain, maybe, or love not yet returned. They were warm but distant, like she was somewhere else. Somewhere I wanted to be.
I clicked through more photos. A few drawings. Portraits done in pencil, charcoal, watercolor. Self-portraits. Surreal shapes, warped architecture, storm clouds behind familiar smiles. Then she posted a photo of a sketchbook page—just three drawings. An eye of a child. An eye of an adult. An eye of an old man.
The caption read:
"The eyes are the windows to the soul."
It hit me like a drug. I stared at that image for hours. I zoomed in, flipped it, adjusted the brightness, tried to see the texture of the paper. My brain lit up. That moment was the beginning of everything.
Something clicked inside me that day.
Something dark.

I started following her. Not just on Instagram. I found her Twitter, her TikTok, her Behance portfolio. The more I saw, the deeper I fell. I learned her routines. Her favorite music. What time she usually posted. I watched her grow from a shy, unbothered teen to an emerging artist, her follower count climbing slowly. Still mostly unknown. Still pure.
She didn’t have much. In one video, I could see the cracked ceiling of her room, the old fan that groaned as it spun. Her clothes were plain. Her tools were cheap. She made magic out of scraps.
I didn’t want to just see her.
I wanted to understand her.
I began researching every art technique she used. I bought the same sketchbooks, the same pencils. I tried to replicate her work—only to realize I wasn’t trying to become a better artist. I was trying to feel like her. Think like her. See the world as she did.
That’s when the idea came to me.
What if I could?

I don’t believe in accidents—not online. If it’s in front of you, it was meant for you. The internet knows us better than we know ourselves. It feeds on our desires.
So when I stumbled on an obscure research paper one night about neural imaging and memory transmission, I didn’t flinch. I read it like gospel.
It was called “Consciousness Mapping Through Biometric Synthesis: A New Frontier in POV Technology.”
Most people wouldn’t have understood it. It was jargon-heavy, filled with equations, code, and experimental results from labs in Japan, Korea, and a startup in Berlin. But I read it line by line. I took notes. I joined forums. I reached out to professors. I started building.
And then came Biotech—not the traditional biotech of DNA editing or prosthetic limbs.
This was Bio-data Technology. A hybrid of neuroscience, surveillance, quantum AI, and wearable biotech implants that could—at least theoretically—capture everything a person saw, felt, and thought.
Their Point of View.
Calista’s POV.
If I could integrate that tech into her—if I could get access to her bio-data stream—I could finally be her. Or at least, experience what she experienced.
I would see what she sees. Feel what she feels. Maybe even think what she thinks.
It sounds insane. And maybe it is. But obsession, when it grows silently over time, doesn’t feel like madness. It feels like clarity.

Her school had open exhibitions. One afternoon, I went.
I made sure I looked average. Neutral hoodie, disposable phone, no social media tagging. I watched her from across the room. Her art was pinned up on a corkboard near a broken window. Nobody was really paying attention—except me.
She was there, talking to someone. A girl.
Pretty. Soft voice. Warm presence. She laughed and touched Calista’s arm gently, and I saw something in Calista’s face I hadn’t seen before.
Vulnerability.
Her name was Athena. I later found her tagged in a post from Calista’s sketch account. Calista never drew her alone. Not directly. She was too shy. But I realized something—she had drawn their entire class in one large portrait. Everyone was there: the loud boys, the quiet girls, the teacher at the edge of the page.
And in the back, almost blending into the background—Athena.
That’s when it hit me: Calista drew them all just to draw her. She couldn’t face Athena head-on, so she built a whole scene around her. A quiet trick to preserve her feelings in graphite and ink. Smart. Intimate. Painfully beautiful.
One post had a separate sketch—just a pair of lips, delicate and curved. The caption read:
"Crush comes softly. Then wrecks everything."
And I knew. That wreckage? That was Athena.
And I thought to myself: what if I did the same—but with the world?

It’s not a virus. That’s what people don’t understand. COVID wasn’t just a disease. It was an opportunity.
A smokescreen.
While the world was locked down, scared, isolated—I was building. Investing. I poured billions into biotech. Quietly. Through aliases, shell companies, lab grants under different names. I made deals on encrypted networks. I hired freelancers who never met their employers. I bought data—so much data.
Health data. Eye tracking. Neural response logs. Social behavior models. Personality blueprints from social media scraping.
I turned Calista’s world into a dataset.
Her school? Wired.
Her room? Scanned.
Her phone? Mirrored.
I could see her without her knowing.

I don’t want to hurt her. People think obsession equals violence, but not always. Sometimes it’s about control. Perfect, invisible control.
The implant I designed for her was painless. It would sit behind the ear—disguised as a hearing aid, or a smart tag for class attendance. Once activated, it would send POV data to my secure server in fragments. Encrypted. Clean. Seamless.
No need to touch her. No need for her to know.
From my perspective, this wasn’t a crime.
It was an upgrade.

They’ll say I lost my soul. That I traded it for power.
But what if power is love in its final form? What if, to truly love someone, you must know them more than they know themselves?
I saw a world where biotech, mRNA, neural interfaces, and dark web networks weren’t just tools—they were weapons. Or instruments. Depending on the hand that holds them.
Me? I didn’t just want to hold the world.
I wanted to own the lens.
Because when you control someone’s eyes, you control their truth.
And truth, in the end, is the only currency that matters.

To be continued...