The Drift of Surveillance
1302 Words
(Adrian Cross POV)
I sat in the back of the car, , drumming my fingers on my phone. The rhythm wasn’t random — it was control. Calculation. A habit that kept the chaos quiet.
“Status?” I asked.
“Target traced back to Brooklyn, sir,” my agent replied through the earpiece. “Vega Auto — old warehouse converted into a garage. One main exit, one side door. No security.”
“Surveillance?”
“Already set. She doesn’t know.”
“Good.”
I ended the call.
The driver said nothing. My men never did — they’d learned that silence was safer around me.
But even silence couldn’t drown out the static in my head — that sound she left behind. The sound of her engine, her laugh, her defiance. It looped like a broken song.
When we pulled up outside Vega Auto, the place looked exactly as I imagined — loud, rough, unapologetically alive.
Oil stains marked the ground like battle scars. Tools hung from crooked nails. The air smelled of gasoline, steel, and burnt sugar — something oddly sweet under all that grit.
And then I saw her.
Luna Vega.
Bent over the hood of a black Mustang, her hair a careless mess, smudges of grease painting her wrist. She argued with a man twice her size, voice sharp enough to cut through metal.
> “If you don’t want my work, go find someone else stupid enough to fix your mess.”
He muttered something, defeated, and left.
I stayed in the shadows, pretending to scroll through my phone. From this distance, she didn’t look like a threat — just another mechanic fighting to keep her world from collapsing.
But I knew better. I’d seen her drive. I’d seen the hunger behind her calm. Every move she made had precision — a kind of control born from chaos.
She was a storm pretending to be a whisper.
And I was already listening.
When she straightened, wiping her hands on a rag, she finally looked up. Our eyes met — for just a second — but it felt like something inside me shifted.
Recognition. Not of a face, but of a wavelength.
Her brow furrowed slightly, like she’d felt it too, before she turned away.
I smirked. That unspoken recognition between two predators — dangerous, intoxicating.
I shouldn’t have stayed. But I did.
I watched the way her fingers worked the tools — fast, sure, rough around the edges. The way she bit her lip when thinking. The soft grunt she made when something didn’t fit. Every detail was data, I told myself. Observation. Nothing more.
But when she smiled at herself — a small, crooked grin after the engine finally coughed to life — I felt it. The shift.
Interest.
The kind that burned slower than fire but deeper than reason.
By the time I got back to my car, my pulse had forgotten its rhythm.
That night, the city glittered beneath my penthouse windows, but it felt like a cage. Glass and steel — too sterile. Too quiet.
I poured whiskey but didn’t drink it. I didn’t need more poison in my blood. I needed clarity.
I opened the file again — LUNA VEGA, Surveillance Log 01.
She stayed at the garage till midnight. Ate instant noodles. Slept on a couch beside the cars.
I scrolled until I found a still frame — her asleep, one arm across her eyes, hair undone, exhaustion softening every sharp line of her face.
I should’ve deleted it.
Instead, I saved it.
“Lex,” I called.
“Yes, sir?”
“The Syndicate still holds her debt, right?”
“Yes, sir. Zone 7 ledger — ₱4.8 million, accumulated interest.”
“Buy it.”
“All of it, sir?”
“Every cent. Use Rogue Holdings. No trace back to me.”
“Yes, Mr. Cross.”
When the line went silent, I let my thoughts run wild for the first time.
It wasn’t about pity. I didn’t do pity.
This was about control.
But that was the lie I told myself.
---
Three days later, I walked into Vega Auto in daylight. No tinted windows, no shadows — just me.
She looked up from under a car, squinting at the light pouring in. “We’re closed for private repairs unless your car’s dying.”
“Maybe it is,” I said, stepping in. “Or maybe I just wanted to see the best mechanic in Brooklyn.”
Her eyes narrowed instantly. “Adrian Cross. The billionaire who pretends he’s human.”
I chuckled. “So you do remember me.”
“Hard to forget the man who crashed a Syndicate race and smiled like he owned it.” She wiped her hands and leaned against the car, a streak of oil on her cheek. “What do you want?”
Her bluntness was disarming — refreshing even.
“Maybe I just wanted to thank you for the show,” I said. “You drive like you have nothing left to lose.”
“Maybe because I don’t,” she said flatly.
That stung more than I expected. “You always this charming?”
“Only to men who think they can buy me.”
Her eyes — God, her eyes — burned brighter than the welding sparks that danced behind her. She didn’t step back when I moved closer.
The air thickened between us — hot, electric, dangerous.
“I’m not here to buy you,” I said. “I’m here to offer you a way out.”
She scoffed. “Sounds the same from where I’m standing.”
“Then maybe you’re standing too far.”
Her breath hitched. Just barely — but I heard it.
I let the silence stretch, heavy and deliberate, before lowering my voice. “You don’t owe the Syndicate anymore. I cleared it.”
She froze. “You what?”
“I own your debt now.”
Her jaw tightened. “You— You had no right.”
“Maybe not.” I took a step closer, close enough to smell the faint scent of smoke and orange soda on her skin. “But I did it anyway.”
“Why?” she demanded, eyes flashing. “What do you get out of this?”
“Maybe I’m curious.”
“About what?”
“About what kind of woman stares death in the face and dares it to blink.”
Her lips parted slightly. “You’re insane.”
“Possibly.” I leaned closer, my voice dropping lower. “But you’re the one who made me this way.”
Something flickered in her gaze — a dangerous mix of fear and fascination.
“Stay away from me,” she whispered.
I smiled, slow and unapologetic. “If that’s what you really wanted, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.”
She grabbed her wrench and went back to the car, trying to look busy. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. Cross.”
“So are you, Miss Vega.”
Then, before leaving, I added — softly, deliberately:
“Next time, I won’t come for your garage.”
I paused at the door.
“I’ll come for you.”
Her silence followed me out like smoke.
---
That night, back in my penthouse, I couldn’t breathe right. I’d built my empire on rules and restraint, and she’d cracked both with a single look.
I sat at my desk, opening a new encrypted file.
PROJECT VEGA – Objective: Integration and Containment.
Target: Luna Vega.
Method: Personal Infiltration.
Status: Initiated.
But as I hit save, I realized something chilling — the line between control and obsession had already vanished.
And the scariest part?
I wasn’t sure I wanted it back.
- Writer
