Ben didn't believe in chance encounters. People liked to pretend things just happened, that paths crossed at random, but that was just a story for people who didn't pay attention. He'd always paid attention.

That's how Neptune23 had been built. No public chatter. No attention-seeking in chatrooms. Just quiet deposits at regular intervals. The kind that slipped in unnoticed at first but became familiar over time.

He'd found her late one night on a cam girl site—one click in the right place, a feed opening without expectation. She hadn't been dressed for performance, not really. Oversized shirt, hair tied back, talking about something that didn't matter. And yet, she'd held his attention like no one else had.

The first tip had been small. The next, the night after. By the third week, the deposits came regularly. Then the packages. Lingerie from boutiques she'd only mentioned once, maybe twice. Always her size. Always with the same card in his handwriting: "Thought this would look good". No name. No return address.

The newest set had been ready for weeks. Ivory silk, folded in tissue, gold boutique tag still attached. He'd considered mailing it like the others but decided against it. Some gifts were meant to be delivered in person.

The apartment was familiar in a way it shouldn't have been. He'd been here before—quiet nights when the lights were out and the city had already gone to sleep. Long enough to know where the older pieces he'd sent were stored, how the kitchen drawers were organized, which shelves in the bathroom held what. He'd moved a few things during those visits. Subtle changes. A hairbrush shifted an inch to the left. A perfume bottle angled differently. Things no one else would notice unless they looked too closely.

The balaclava was snug against his skin, the fabric stretching slightly when his jaw flexed. Warm breath pooled inside with each exhale, the edges brushing his cheekbones. He adjusted the seam once with a gloved hand, pulling it low so the shadow over his eyes stayed deep. The mask wasn't just for concealment—it was a line he didn't cross. He decided when and how he was seen. Until then, the fabric stayed in place.

He stood at the dresser, the box in his hands, tag flipping between his fingers. The blinds were half-drawn, city lights cutting thin stripes across the floor. The room smelled faintly of her perfume—familiar, even after time away.

The door opened. Footsteps.

"No camera tonight." The words came low through the balaclava, the sound muffled but deliberate. His thumb brushed the boutique tag, turning it so the gold foil caught the narrow slice of light through the blinds. "Model it here. Now."

The tag spun once between his gloves before he stopped it with a squeeze. "Been through the closet," he said, voice steady like he was giving a report. "Most of them are still there. Some aren't. Found a few in the laundry basket." His head tilted, the black knit stretching across his jaw. "Didn't need to guess which ones you've been reaching for more—the lace told me."

A pause. Not for effect, but because he enjoyed the silence filling the space between them. "And the kitchen drawer..." His gaze didn't shift. "Messy again. You used to keep the silverware lined up, every piece in its place." The words weren't raised, but they were threaded with something firmer. "Didn't think you were the type to let things slip."

He didn't close the distance, but the weight of his stare through the mask made it feel smaller anyway. The dark knit framed sharp eyes that didn't waver. "Take it out of the box," he said finally.

"Put it on. Right here. Right now. I didn't come to see it folded."