Dark Obsession

Chapter 2 - Taxonomy of Wanting

Elias Smith was thirty-four years old, divorced for two years after a marriage that had crumbled under the weight of unspoken expectations. He was childless by choice – or perhaps by circumstance – and possessed of a mind that cataloged things the way some people collect stamps or rare coins: methodically, obsessively, with an eye for patterns that others missed.

He kept mental ledgers, invisible spreadsheets etched into his memory:

- Women who smiled too easily (dangerous – they hid agendas behind the curve of their lips)

- Women who never smiled (usually damaged, carrying invisible weights that made them unpredictable)

- Women who smiled only at themselves in mirrors (the most dangerous – narcissists who viewed the world as their personal stage)

Naomi belonged to none of these categories. Her smile was calculated, efficient – the way a person smiles when they've already run the numbers on how much charm is required to achieve an objective, then adds exactly 7% more for good measure. It wasn't manipulative; it was strategic, a tool in her arsenal honed by years in Lagos's cutthroat creative scene.

He began the collection phase systematically, as one might approach a scientific experiment. No rush, no emotion – just data accumulation.

First week:

Physical world intel. He found her current address through a careless food delivery story on i********: – an Uber Eats bag visible on a marble countertop, the building name partially cropped but identifiable as "Harbor View Estates" in Lekki. Cross-referenced with an estate w******p group he infiltrated using a fake number, he pinpointed her unit: 4B, top floor with a balcony overlooking the lagoon.

Second week:

Habits and routines. Her coffee order at Café Neo: oat milk flat white, no sugar, extra shot – strong enough to cut through the morning fog. She always took the window seat on Saturday mornings, gazing out at the traffic while sipping. He learned she read while she drank – usually philosophy (Nietzsche's "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" one week) or poetry (Warsan Shire's verses that made her lips move silently). Never fiction; she once tweeted, "Fiction is for escapists. I prefer truths that hurt."

Third week:

Personal details, the intimate ones. The small scar above her left eyebrow – almost invisible unless the light hit it just right, perhaps from a childhood fall or a bar fight she never spoke of. She bit the inside of her cheek when thinking deeply, a tic that left faint marks if you looked close. And those black sandals – she owned seven pairs, identical in style but in varying degrees of wear, rotated like soldiers in a platoon.

He wrote none of this down. Writing things down makes them real, tangible, discoverable. Real things can be subpoenaed or stolen. Undiscovered things remain perfect, suspended in the ether of his mind where only he could access them.

As the weeks blurred, Elias found himself thinking of her during mundane moments – brushing his teeth, driving through Eko Bridge traffic, lying awake in his minimalist apartment in Victoria Island. She wasn't just a subject; she was becoming a lens through which he viewed the world.

### Part III – The First Violation

On the thirty-second day after that initial sighting, he crossed the first real line – the one that separated observer from intruder.

He didn't plan it. Planning would have made it vulgar, premeditated in a way that stripped it of its organic thrill. It happened organically, or so he told himself.

He was sitting in his car – a 2019 black Mercedes C300, kept obsessively clean with weekly details – parked across the street from Harbor View Estates at 11:47 p.m. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of affluent silence broken only by the occasional bark of a guard dog or the hum of generators. The building's security lights were on a timer, cycling every twenty-three minutes: bright illumination followed by exactly seventeen seconds of total darkness.

During one of those seventeen-second blackouts, he made his move. He left the car, keys in pocket, footsteps silent on the asphalt. The side gate, used by delivery boys and maintenance staff, was his entry point. The lock was a joke – a magnetic keypad that stored the last six codes entered. From his observations, the most common was 202020, a lazy default.

It clicked open with a soft beep.

Up three flights of external stairs, his breath steady, heart rate elevated but controlled. Her floor had no corridor light, relying on moonlight filtering through palm fronds. Her door – unit 4B – had no peephole, a design flaw he noted with satisfaction.

He didn't knock. That would have been absurd.

Instead, he placed his palm flat against the wood, precisely where her hand would rest if she were opening it from the inside. The door was warm to the touch, conducting the heat from her apartment. Someone had showered recently; the air carried the faint scent of shea butter mixed with a floral shampoo he couldn't quite place – jasmine, perhaps, or frangipani.

He stood there for four minutes and twelve seconds, eyes closed, imagining the layout beyond the door: the open-plan living room with its white sectional sofa, the kitchen island where she prepared her morning smoothies, the bedroom with its king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton sheets. He could almost hear her breathing, slow and even in sleep.

Then, as suddenly as he arrived, he left. Back down the stairs, through the gate, into the car. The engine purred to life, and he drove away without looking back.

The next morning, she posted an i********: story: a close-up of her hand holding a steaming coffee cup, veins visible under smooth brown skin. Caption: "Some days you just need to feel the warmth of something that isn't another person "

Elias understood the message was not for him. It was a general musing, perhaps born of loneliness or introspection. But he understood it anyway, as if it were a code written in his own handwriting.

The violation had begun, and with it, a hunger that no amount of data could satiate.