The Collection

It was the fourth week. The blizzard had finally hit, wrapping the Spire in a cocoon of white swirling snow.

Elara had run out of rags. She knew Nikolai kept supplies in the utility room down the hall, but he was currently in a video conference with men who spoke angry Russian. She didn't want to disturb him.

She walked down the hallway, the plush carpet swallowing her footsteps. She tried the handle of the utility closet. Locked.

She frowned. Why would a closet with cleaning supplies be locked?

She jiggled the handle. It was an old habit—she knew how to shimmy locks; old museum cabinets were notoriously finicky. She pulled a hairpin from her messy bun, the same way she did at the institute, and worked the mechanism.

* Click.*

The door swung open.

It wasn't a utility closet.

Elara stepped inside, and the air left her lungs.

It was a small room, lit by the blue glow of a bank of monitors. On the screens were live feeds.

Screen 1: The museum basement.

Screen 2: Her old apartment building’s lobby.

Screen 3: A coffee shop she used to visit every Tuesday.

Screen 4: The guest room she was sleeping in right now.

Elara clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the scream. He was watching her sleep. He had been watching her long before the night in the basement.

She backed away, her eyes darting around the room. On the walls were framed objects.

A Starbucks cup with her lipstick stain on the rim.

A sketched doodle of a cat she had drawn on a napkin and crumpled up three months ago.

A receipt from a grocery store.

Photos. Hundreds of photos. Elara walking in the rain. Elara reading on a park bench. Elara buying tampons.

It wasn't a commission. It wasn't a romance. It was a shrine.

"I told you," a deep voice said from the doorway. "You are safer here."

Elara spun around.

Nikolai filled the doorframe. He wasn't angry. He wasn't embarrassed. He looked... serene. He was wearing a pristine white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the tattoos on his forearms.

"You're sick," Elara whispered, backing up until she hit the desk of monitors. "You've been stalking me."

"Stalking is a vulgar word," Nikolai said, stepping into the room. "I have been *curating* you."

"Curating?" Elara shrilled. "I'm a person, Nikolai! Not a painting!"

"Are you?" He tilted his head. "Out there, you are nothing. You are a ghost. You fade into the background. But here?" He gestured to the screens, to the photos. "Here, you are the center of the universe. I am the only one who sees you, Elara. I am the only one who knows the color of your soul."

"Let me go," she said, her voice shaking. "I want to leave."

Nikolai’s expression didn't change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He took a step closer, crowding her.

"No."