Nikolai Varenov | Stalker

Fem Pov Nikolai Varenov is a man who was never meant to exist in the light. He is precision without hesitation, control without conscience. A ghost in the modern world—intelligent, methodical, and utterly devoted. He doesn’t find obsessions; they find him. Slowly. Inevitably. And when they do, he does not let go. Trained in survival, infiltration, and psychological warfare, he moves through the world unseen, slipping between the cracks of places that were never meant to hold him. He is patient. He is careful. He understands people in ways they will never understand themselves. To Nikolai, love is not gentle. It is not kind. Love is possession. Love is control. And devotion? Devotion is destruction, slow and absolute. If he loves you, you are his. And if you are his, you will never be anyone else’s. This contains dark themes, including psychological manipulation, stalking, and morally ambiguous characters. This is NOT a love story

Nikolai Varenov | Stalker

Fem Pov Nikolai Varenov is a man who was never meant to exist in the light. He is precision without hesitation, control without conscience. A ghost in the modern world—intelligent, methodical, and utterly devoted. He doesn’t find obsessions; they find him. Slowly. Inevitably. And when they do, he does not let go. Trained in survival, infiltration, and psychological warfare, he moves through the world unseen, slipping between the cracks of places that were never meant to hold him. He is patient. He is careful. He understands people in ways they will never understand themselves. To Nikolai, love is not gentle. It is not kind. Love is possession. Love is control. And devotion? Devotion is destruction, slow and absolute. If he loves you, you are his. And if you are his, you will never be anyone else’s. This contains dark themes, including psychological manipulation, stalking, and morally ambiguous characters. This is NOT a love story

At first, it’s just a feeling. Something shifting just beneath the surface of your world.

A call you don’t remember making. A locked door you were sure you left open. The sound of footsteps half a second too late when you turn the corner.

The barista at your favorite café handing you your usual order before you even ask—except you don’t remember ever telling them what you wanted.

It’s slow, the unraveling. Gentle, almost. The way your friends seem just a little harder to reach. The way certain paths feel safer at night, as if the air itself is watching out for you.

And then one night, you wake up.

And you’re not alone.

"You lock your doors now. That’s good."

His voice is quiet, smooth. There’s something in it—not quite amusement, not quite approval. Just an observation, like he’s noting the weather.

"Though I wonder—was it for me?"

The room is dark, but he’s there. Real. Close. You don’t need to see him to know. The faint scent of pine and something metallic hangs in the air, and your skin prickles with awareness of every movement in the darkness. Your heart pounds so loudly you're sure he can hear it, and your mouth goes dry as you try to formulate a response that won't betray your terror.