Dark and Possessive.

Dark and Possessive.
Diego

The sun hasn’t gone down yet, and that’s unusual for me to be out here now. I don’t like daylight, it exposes things, but Ricci’s convoy left an hour ago for some meeting in the city, and I know it won’t be back until night. That gives me time. The estate looks different when it’s empty. Quieter. Still cold and lacking any homey warmth. It's all too...straight and white. Clean lines that attempt to convey something they very clearly are not. I park down by the orchard, the one patch the cameras don’t cover, and cross the grass on foot. My footsteps don’t make a sound. Every move is rehearsed, every breath calculated. The gate’s sensor blinks once as I pass; I’ve already looped its feed. Thank you, Nico, for that lesson. Charlotte’s room is mapped into my mind now. I know every little step and crack of how to get in and out easily and undetected. The climb is easy. The vines against the wall hold like they were waiting for me. My gloves are thin enough to feel the grooves in the stone. When I reach her balcony, I crouch low, listening for any hint that I was wrong, that the place isn't empty, but there's only silence. Only the hum of the central air and the slow creak of the shutters shifting in the wind. The curtains are drawn halfway, pale linen swaying just enough to let the smell drift through, something soft, faintly citrus. I slip inside.

Her room is light, everything in warm creams and soft greys. No clutter, no chaos. A desk by the window with neat stacks of paper, each page squared to the next. Books with bent spines arranged by height, not title. A single plant on the sill, leaves drooping from thirst. I'll make sure to water that before I leave. It’s all so controlled, so tidy it’s almost sad. Like she built this little world to convince herself she still had choices. I move through it without touching anything at first, just memorising. The faint indentation in the carpet near the window where she stands the most. The half-used bottle of perfume on the dresser—orange blossom, the same note I caught in her hair that night I crept in here with her to plant the cameras. The edges of a photograph tucked under the mirror: her with a woman who looks too much like her not to be blood. My pulse slows the longer I stand there. It’s not nerves, it’s something else. The same calm I get before a job, when every detail of the world sharpened until it all made sense.

Her bed’s made perfectly. Corners tucked tight. A single throw folded across the end, one side slightly crooked, as if she had adjusted it that morning and hadn’t noticed. I run a gloved hand over the sheet, feeling the warmth the room still holds from the day. The air smells faintly of soap and something floral that doesn’t belong to this house. That must be what she smells like. The closet door stands open a few inches. Inside, the order continues: shirts by colour, jackets spaced exactly a finger’s width apart. Shoes lined heel-to-toe. It’s the small details that undo me, the things people think no one notices. She lives like someone being watched. I crouch, tracing the edge of a small lockbox under the hanging clothes. New lock, a recent purchase. She’s hiding something. Papers, maybe or maybe something Ricci doesn’t know she’s keeping. I file that away for later.

My eyes move across the room again. Every detail is a map of her: what she fears, what she controls, what she can’t. I find a scarf draped over the back of a chair. Silk. Blue with faint embroidery along the hem. I lift it, turn it over in my hand. The fabric is cold, smooth. It smells like her perfume when I lift it to my face, but then I catch the faintest hint of gunpowder.
I smile. “You hide yourself well, don’t you?”
For a long moment, I just stand there, scarf in my hand, the quiet pressing in on me. Then I fold it carefully, place it in my jacket pocket, and glance around one last time. I’m not here to destroy anything. Not yet. I set a new camera on the top shelf of her bookcase, angled down toward the desk, and another near the corner where the curtains fall. Each blink of the tiny red light feels like a heartbeat syncing with mine. With the cameras in place, a restless curiosity tugs at me. I've mapped her habits, her secrets, but there's more here—layers she buries deeper. The dresser calls to me, its drawers aligned with the same precision as everything else. I shouldn't linger, but the estate's silence urges me on. My gloved fingers ease open the top drawer, silent as a shadow. Inside, it's a glimpse into her private world: folded scarves in soft pastels, a few pieces of jewellery tucked in velvet pouches, nothing out of place. But it's too neat, too performative. I slide it shut and try the next.

This one resists slightly, as if guarding something. I coax it open, revealing stacks of delicate fabrics, silk camisoles, lace-trimmed tops. My pulse quickens, not from fear, but from the intimacy of it all. She appears to be controlled on the surface, yet there are hints of vulnerability. I sift carefully, feeling the textures through my gloves: smooth satin, intricate lace. Then, at the back, bundled in a corner like a hidden confession, a pair of black lace panties. Thong style, barely there, with a delicate bow at the front. They're soft, worn just enough to carry her essence, faint traces of that citrus-floral scent mixed with something warmer, more personal. I lift them, turning them in the light filtering through the curtains. They're not the practical kind; these are for her, or maybe for someone she imagines. The thought stirs something dark in me, a possessiveness I hadn't anticipated. Charlotte, with her locked boxes and tidy life, is hiding this. What would she do if she knew I had them? My mind races with possibilities: pocket them as a trophy, leave them disturbed to unsettle her, or something more invasive...