Chasing The Story

The Hacker Stalker

Blake’s POV

The dark web is my playground, a hunting ground where I find the darkest, deepest secrets of my obsessions. It’s a place where anonymity rules, and I can hire just about anyone to dig up whatever I need on my next victim. The thrill of knowing every intimate detail about someone before they even realize they’re being watched—that’s where the power lies.

My victims are chosen with precision. There’s no randomness to it, no impulsive picks. Most of the time, I don’t even need to touch them. The true thrill comes from the psychological torment. Watching them unravel, seeing the fear in their eyes when they notice the small, seemingly innocent changes in their home. That coffee cup moved slightly. The window that wasn’t open yesterday, but now is. The sense of being watched without proof—it’s better than any physical violence.

My method is meticulous. Every victim must follow a strict routine. They need to work a standard schedule, so I have time to infiltrate their space without rushing. They can’t live with someone—no partners, no housemates. That complicates things, introduces variables. And variables get you caught. Rushing is sloppy, and sloppy stalkers don’t last long.

I’ve earned my title on the dark web as one of the most methodical stalkers, not because I have the highest body count, but because I’ve never once been seen when I didn’t want to be. Never once been caught. I make sure my victims don’t just fear me; they fear the very thought that someone could know them so intimately without ever leaving a trace.

There are a few things that set me apart from the amateurs.

First, I don’t just follow my victims around or peek through their windows. I embed myself into their lives. I hack into their digital world. I connect to their calendars, so I know every appointment, every social event, before they do. Their phone? It’s mine. I mirror it, seeing their messages, hearing their calls, and tracking their movements. Anytime a friend is coming over, or they plan a weekend getaway—I’m the first to know.

Their laptops? That’s where the real fun begins. I plant spyware in their systems, quietly listening in as they type. Their searches, their personal emails, their work—all laid bare for me. I see exactly what they watch when the lights go down. That’s when they’re the most vulnerable—hidden in the shadows, alone in their homes. There’s something sick and deeply fascinating about having this kind of access to someone’s private world, especially when it comes to what they crave in secret.

During the day, in front of others, they might browse mundane things, maybe even watch basic porn that anyone could stumble across. But at night? Alone? That’s when their darkest, deepest desires come pouring out, and I’m there, watching it all with them.

This is where I see the real them. Not the version they show to the world—the version that’s polite, careful, safe. No, when they think no one’s looking, that’s when the masks come off. Their hidden fantasies, the ones they’d never dare speak aloud, play out right in front of me. The fetishes they suppress, the desires they think are too depraved for daylight? I see it all, uncensored and raw.

It’s not just about watching. I don’t sit there passively. I use what I find, I manipulate their desires. I take those fantasies and turn them into tools of torment. I’ll leave small items in their home, subtle hints that I know exactly what they’ve been watching. A coil of rope on the bedside table. A pair of handcuffs tucked into a drawer. A buttplug placed on their pillow like a gift.

Each item is chosen with precision, based on what I’ve learned about them through their own private searches. It’s not just about scaring them—it’s about reminding them that their darkest secrets aren’t safe. It’s about making them wonder how much I’ve seen, how much I know.

The beauty of it is, they’ll try to rationalize it at first. They’ll convince themselves they misplaced the rope, or that the handcuffs were a prank from a friend. But as the pattern repeats, as more items appear—things they haven’t spoken about to anyone—they begin to crack. They realize it’s not coincidence, and they spiral.

The fear isn’t in the object itself. It’s in the knowledge that someone, somewhere, knows their most intimate desires—and is using that knowledge against them. Watching their lives unravel as their paranoia takes hold is what truly satisfies me.

And by the time they realize the full extent of what’s happening, they’re already too deep in the game.

I know their hobbies, their fears, the things they wouldn’t dare share with anyone. Their deepest insecurities? They tell me without even realizing it. I’ve had some victims confess their darkest secrets into their keyboards, thinking no one’s watching.

But I am. Always.

I like to leave subtle reminders that I’m there. Moving items just enough to unsettle them, but not enough to make them scream for help. A book pulled off the shelf. A piece of jewelry placed somewhere it shouldn’t be. These small actions drive them to paranoia, make them question their own sanity. They become obsessed with locking doors, checking windows, doubting everything around them. By the time they realize they’re not imagining things, they’re already spiraling into fear and helplessness.

Second, I never overstep before I’m ready. I don’t show my hand until I’m deep enough in their lives to control the narrative. Some stalkers slip up because they get too eager. They want that rush of confrontation. But not me. I wait. I let the tension build until it’s suffocating. Only then, when they’re teetering on the edge, do I make myself known. Sometimes it’s a letter—just one line, handwritten in their favorite color pen. Sometimes it’s a photograph of them sleeping. It all depends on the victim and what will make them crack.

I’ve found that fear is most potent when it comes from the unknown. The idea that someone’s been inside your home, inside your mind, and you didn’t know? That terror lingers far longer than a quick act of violence. It’s psychological erosion. Bit by bit, I wear them down, until they’re jumping at shadows, unable to trust anyone. That’s the beauty of what I do.