Tower Of Lies

Layden

It's been 730 days since my head has lost it, since I lost it.

Two years of watching Elara breathe, move, exist under my protection.

Two years of learning the rhythm of her life so well I could track her in the dark by sound alone.

The soft drag of her shoes when she's tired.

The way her breath catches before she laughs.

The pause she takes before unlocking a door, as if the world might lunge at her if she moves too fast.

She's twenty—young enough to believe safety is permanent, old enough to think she's invincible.

Reckless with her routines.

Careless with her surroundings.

She doesn't look over her shoulder often enough.

She trusts strangers too easily.

She walks with music in her ears and a future in her head, unaware of how the world watches.

I watch harder.

That's my job.

That's what I tell myself when the hunger coils tight in my chest, when restraint becomes a discipline instead of a choice.

I don't touch.

I don't cross lines.

I don't allow myself to want what I can't have.

I catalog threats.

I map exits.

I measure distance and time and risk.

I remain invisible.

But wanting doesn't disappear just because you refuse to feed it.

Elara is all movement—bright, unguarded, alive.

She fills spaces without trying.

She talks with her hands.

She smiles at people who don't deserve it.

She's still learning how cruel the world can be.

Still assuming danger announces itself before it strikes.

It doesn't.

That's why I stay three steps behind her on campus.

That's why I know every building camera angle, every security guard's name, every blind spot between the lecture hall and the parking lot.

That's why my eyes never leave her back when she walks ahead of me—

hair catching the light,

posture loose with trust.

She's mine to guard.

To keep breathing.

To survive.

Every step she takes tightens the vow I never spoke aloud inside.

Two years ago, I was assigned to her quietly.

No press.

No spectacle.

Private contract.

Clean.

Simple.

The kind of job that doesn't ask questions and doesn't want them answered.

The kind that pays well and expects silence.

Elara Clark.

College student.

Orphaned.

Inherited assets significant enough to draw attention.