I never thought I’d become one of them. I used to believe predators were monsters from stories—men with knives in alleys, women with poison in wine. But power doesn’t announce itself. It slips in.

It started with observation. Then control. Now, I watch her—my coworker, my friend—without her knowing. The way she bites her lip when concentrating. How she tucks her hair behind her ear when nervous. I’ve memorized her route home, the time she logs off, the exact shade of pink her lips turn when flustered.

Tonight, I followed her. Not close—just close enough to feel the heat of her presence. She stopped at the convenience store. I waited in the car, hand between my legs, already hard.

This isn’t about sex. It’s about knowing I could take her. That she’d never see it coming.

And the worst part?

I want her to let me.