Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates-Chapter 25 -

"Who took it?" Syn's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and raw, as he held the glossy photo aloft, his fingers trembling faintly at the edges. His eyes bore into Vera, searching for a crack in her calm facade. For years, he'd believed he'd slipped their grasp, carved a quiet corner in the Kingdom where their shadows couldn't reach—but this image, this impossible snapshot, shattered that illusion.

They'd been watching him, tracking his every move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The raid on Elara's ship hadn't been chance; it was a snare, meticulously set, and he was the prey they'd hunted all along. The betrayal stung—not from them, but from himself, for daring to think he'd ever been free.

Vera shrugged, her smile tilting into something casual, almost flippant, as if his question were a triviality. "I bought them from Mia," she said, her tone light, like she'd picked up a trinket at a market stall. She leaned against the canvas-strewn wall, her purple hair catching the light as she watched him, unbothered by the storm brewing in his gaze.

Mia. The name thudded in his skull, a refrain he'd heard too often lately—Aster's offhand mention, Vera's teasing hint—and yet it tethered to nothing, a ghost lurking just beyond his grasp. "Who even is Mia?" he demanded, frustration spilling into his voice, his hands clenching as he stepped closer, his shadow falling across her. The strangeness gnawed at him—she knew him, they all did, but he was adrift, blind to a phantom who'd shadowed his life.

Vera cocked her head, her eyes narrowing with a flicker of surprise, as if his ignorance were a puzzle she hadn't expected. "You don't know her?" Her voice lifted, laced with a curiosity that bordered on disbelief, her fingers brushing absently against the incomplete canvas beside her.

"Was I supposed to?" Syn shot back, his tone biting as he crossed his arms, his frustration etching lines into his face. "No, I don't."

"You met her yesterday," Vera said, her surprise melting into a faint, knowing smirk, her arms folding as she leaned forward. "I thought you were dodging her on purpose—playing coy." Her words carried a teasing edge, but there was a glint in her eyes, a spark of something deeper, watching for his reaction.

"When?" Syn's voice rose, his frustration boiling over, his hands dropping to his sides as he clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. His face was a mask of strain, the weight of her words pressing against the fragile threads of his composure.

"She brought us dinner," Vera replied, her tone softening as she tilted her head, trying to jog his memory. "White-haired, lean, quiet—you know, the one who played butler?" Her fingers mimed a tray, a faint mimicry of the woman's poised demeanor, as if that would summon her image.

Syn's mind raced, sifting through the blur of the previous night—the dinner, the clink of plates, the flicker of faces under Vera's crimson lights. There'd been a woman, yes—white hair cascading past her shoulders, her frame slight but steady, her movements silent as she served them. He'd barely registered her, dismissing her as a strong crew grunt, a shadow in the background. "Hmm..." he murmured, his brow furrowing as he dredged up the memory. "I remember her, but I don't know her." He shook his head, the realization sinking deeper, his voice tightening. "Why does she know me? How'd she get these pictures if she's here?"

Vera's smirk widened, a slow, creeping thing that sent a chill skittering down his spine. "She's your hardcore stalker," she said, her voice lilting with amusement as she pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "Or so she claims." A laugh bubbled up, bright and sharp, slicing through the room as she tilted her head back, her eyes glinting with mirth. "Remember when we were teens? You kept whining about feeling watched—someone lurking just out of sight?"

Syn's breath caught, his eyes widening as memories flickered to life—those restless nights in the Kingdom's underbelly, the prickle on his neck, the unshakable sense of eyes tracking him through shadowed alleys. He'd chalked it up to paranoia, a kid's imagination running wild, but now it snapped into focus, a thread stitching through years he'd thought secure. "That was Mia?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, the pieces locking into a picture he couldn't unsee.

"Yep," Vera said, her laughter swelling as she nodded, her hands clapping once with gleeful confirmation. "She's been stalking you for years—always there, just out of reach. You never caught on." Her mirth danced in the air, a stark contrast to the ice spreading through his veins, her amusement a spotlight on his obliviousness.

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"I thought it was a joke until now," she continued, her laughter tapering as she wiped a tear from her eye, her breath hitching with the effort. "Your face—it's priceless." She grinned, stepping closer still, her delight feeding off his stunned silence.

Syn stood rooted, his gaze dropping to the floor, the scattered canvases blurring at the edges of his vision. Vera's voice rolled on, a tide he couldn't stem. "She'd snap these pictures and sell them to us—kept us in the loop. I guess we made her a small fortune." She bent down, her fingers brushing the chair she'd claimed earlier, and pulled out a small wooden box from beneath, its hinges creaking as she flipped it open. A bundle of photos spilled into her hand—fresh, crisp, the latest harvest of his stolen moments. "These are the latest batch," she said, holding them out to him, her smile bright with a twisted pride.

He took them, his hands moving on autopilot, his fingers numb as he flipped through the stack. Each image was a gut punch—him in the Kingdom's corridors, him mid-drill, him laughing with comrades—all less than a week old, captured with a clarity that defied reason. His grip faltered, the photos slipping from his hands to scatter across the floor like fallen leaves, a silent cascade of his breached life. His mind blanked, a void swallowing thought, leaving only a churn of anger, sadness, and a creeping dread he couldn't name. Right or wrong, it didn't matter—his privacy had been peeled away, sold to the women he'd fled, by a stranger who'd haunted him unseen for years.

"Wait—don't look like that," Vera said, her laughter fading as she stepped toward him, her voice softening with a sudden concern. She'd expected a laugh, a shared jest, not this hollow silence etching his face. "I showed you because you look so good in them—every shot's perfect, not a bad one in the bunch." She knelt, gathering the photos with a quick sweep, holding them up again as if their quality could erase his dismay.

Syn's hand lashed out, a sharp slap against her wrist that sent the pictures tumbling back to the floor in a chaotic spill. "Enough," he muttered, his voice a low growl, thick with a fury he couldn't contain. He turned, his boots thudding against the metal as he strode out, the door hissing open and shut behind him, sealing Vera and her canvases away. The corridor stretched before him, dim and endless, and he walked, his steps heavy, driven by a storm he couldn't outpace—anger at Mia, sadness for his lost refuge, a creeping horror at how deeply they'd burrowed into his life.

They'd watched him—she'd watched him— threading through his days like a specter, and he'd been blind, betrayed by his own trust in his solitude. Vera's words echoed—Mia, a stalker who'd never touched his life directly, yet had stripped it bare, feeding it to Vera and the others like scraps at a feast.

He needed solitude, a corner to breathe where their eyes couldn't follow. He pushed open doors at random, peering into shadowed rooms—storage bays, empty quarters—until one yielded a dark, cluttered storeroom, its shelves groaning with crates and forgotten gear. He slipped inside, the door whispering shut, and sank into a corner, the cold metal floor biting through his clothes as he curled into the shadows.

No footsteps followed, no voices broke the stillness, and the quiet stretched—a sanctuary, or so it seemed. He'd hidden well, tucked away where no one would find him, a fleeting reprieve from their relentless pull. Or had he? The thought gnawed at him, a bitter echo of Mia's unseen gaze—was this safety, or another illusion he'd crafted, betraying himself again?