Unhinged Obession

____ Maya's POV ____

It was two weeks after freshman orientation at Veritas Elite University in Kingsbury, and the air on campus was thick with that fake, old-money perfection. I was walking across the quad with Sophie, I had my bag slung over my shoulder and my legs were already aching from the hour-long hike I had to make after getting off the city bus.

Sophie was talking her head off about some campus mixer, but I was barely listening to her. My mind was a mess of logistics, I was busy calculating my shift at the diner tonight, whether I we would have enough money for grocery this week, and how many hours of sleep I would have to sacrifice to finish my psych reading.

Then, the noise on the quad shifted. The usual chatter and laughing just dropped. A crowd had already formed outside the steps of the admin building, some people already had their phones out, recording like a bunch of vultures just waiting for a carcass to drop.

In the middle of the commotion was Luca Valenti. He was surrounded by his usual inner circle, including his best friend Adrian Vale, but Luca wasn’t smiling. Today, the campus golden boy image was completely shattered. He was gripping a guy by the collar of his shirt and shoving him hard against a stone pillar with a sickening thud.

The guy’s face was white and he was babbling apologies about something stupid, probably crossing a line he shouldn't have with someone or something belonging to the Valenti orbit.

Luca’s jaw was locked, his knuckles white, and his stormy grey eyes were practically black with cold rage. He looked dangerous and untouchable.

Sophie gasped, grabbing my arm and pulling me back. "Oh shit. That's Luca and his gang. Don't look, Maya, just keep walking…." She whispered.

The scuffle shifted right as we tried to move  around the edge of the human wall. The guy being shoved stumbled sideways, and  knocked into me, sending my bag sliding down my shoulder. I ended up smack dab in the middle of it, a foot away from Luca’s heavy boots.

For a second, the entire world held its breath. Everyone else was frozen in place , their phone camera’s flashing and students were whispering, invested in the drama. I didn't care what they had going on. I just looked up. My gaze swept over the terrified kid pinned to the wall, then up to Luca’s clenched fist, and finally met his eyes. My expression didn't flicker.  I wasn't afraid of him or surprised. I just looked at him with a cold, flat look, the same look I used to give my father when he came home reeking of cheap whiskey.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, stepped right around Luca’s shoulder like he was nothing more than astray trash can blocking the pavement, and kept walking. Behind me, the violent shouting stopped. I didn't look back. But I could feel someone's gaze  burning a hole straight through the back of my  cardigan, tracking every single step I took.

The walk back from campus was always longer in the dark. By the time I got off the city bus and started the final, grueling one hour-long trek to the rundown apartment complex where my mother and I lived, my legs felt like lead. The streetlights overhead were flickering and casting long disfigured  shadows across the pavement. This was the District, it was far away from the polished walls and old-money gates of Veritas University and the wealthy neighbourhood.

Here, the air smelled like exhaust fumes and cheap takeout, and the sound of the neighbours shouting through the thin walls was a comforting lullaby compared to the silence I grew up with. My mother was already asleep when I let myself in, her shift at the diner ended hours before mine. The small kitchen counter was littered with past-due utility bills and empty instant noodle packets. I dropped my bag by the door, my shoulder was aching from the heavy textbooks I hauled back and forth every single day.

I didn't turn on the lights, I didn't need to. I walked straight to my bedroom, which was basically a cramped storage space that was barely big enough for a twin mattress and a squeaky metal desk. I didn’t bother turing on the desk lamp. I sat down in the dark and  pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, sliding past the binder of my criminal psychology notes and essays. Beneath a false bottom that was made of thick cardboard was my real work.

It was a black leather-bound journal, I flicked open the pages, the dim glow of my phone screen illuminating the meticulous grids, timestamps, and photographs I had gathered over the last few weeks.

Luca Valenti.

I traced the edge of a candid photo I had snapped of him from across the quad at the beginning of the semester. He was leaning against his black sports car, looking bored, his silver signet ring catching the afternoon sun.

Beneath the photo, my handwriting filled the page in tight, obsessive columns:

Monday*: Arrives at 7:45 AM sharp. Drives the matte black coupe. Left-side window cracked two inches.*

Tuesday*: Skipped morning lecture. Sits in the third row of the west lecture hall when he does attend. Never takes notes. Memorizes everything.*

Thursday*: Someone named Julian tried to pass him a joint behind the bleachers. Luca broke his wrist against the brick wall within three seconds.*

A slow, cold smile touched my lips. People thought Luca Valenti was just a spoiled billionaire heir coasting on his family's name. They didn't see the violence humming beneath his skin. They didn't see how his eyes scanned every room for exits and threats, calculating who to crush and who to ignore. Just like I did.

I turned the page, my thumb grazing a photo of a guy named Greg Harris, a senior who had made the mistake of cornering me near the library last month, whispering sleazy comments about my scholarship status and thrift-store clothes.

Greg hadn't made it to midterms. A week after our encounter, Greg was suddenly expelled after an anonymous package containing photographic evidence of his academic fraud and illicit drug distribution was anonymously dropped on the Dean's desk. Greg thought it was bad luck. Days before I could execute my plan to ruin Greg completely, Greg had suffered a mysterious, crippling beating in an underground parking garage by men wearing unmarked clothes. I stared at the photograph of Luca, my heart beating against my ribs with a dark, electric thrill. I was playing a dangerous, solitary game, just looking at the razor-thin margins of my own obsession.

The morning air in was freezing, biting right through my thin sweater as I stepped off the city bus and began the long, silent march toward the University. By the time I reached the wrought-iron gates of the campus, my face was numb and my fingers were stiff inside my pockets.