Chapter 19: Veiled Neighbors

The walk home from Madison’s house felt like trudging through quicksand, each step pulling Sam deeper into the mire of his own disgust. His skin still crawled from her touch—the way her hand had coaxed a betrayal from his body while the Andersons’ world crumbled on screen. He could still hear Mr. Anderson’s choked sobs, see Mrs. Anderson’s desperate embrace, all twisted into Madison’s perverse entertainment. And him? He’d come undone under her fingers, his release a shameful echo of their pain. “Parasitic,” he’d called her, but the word fit him too. What kind of person got hard watching someone’s life fall apart?

By the time he slipped into his room, the house was quiet—his parents out for the evening, oblivious to the monster their son was becoming. Sam collapsed at his desk, firing up his computer with trembling hands. The feeds beckoned like a drug, a way to numb the chaos in his head. Madison had her “partnership,” but this? This was his alone. No joint watching, no taunts—just the familiar glow of forbidden windows into other lives. Maybe spying on something simpler would drown out the echoes of that couch, the sticky residue of her control.

He scrolled through the hacked network, avoiding the Andersons’ feed like a raw wound. His cursor hovered over a lesser-known one: “Harrison Residence—Home Office Cam.” Mr. Harrison was the neighborhood recluse, a single dad in his forties who kept to himself since his divorce. Sam had glimpsed him before—picking up his kid from school, always looking harried but harmless. Tonight, though, something drew him in. Just a peek, he told himself. To clear my head.

The feed loaded silently, the office dimly lit by a desk lamp. Mr. Harrison sat hunched over his laptop, surrounded by crumpled papers and empty beer cans. His face was gaunt, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He wasn’t working; he was staring at a betting site, the screen flashing odds for some underground poker game. Sam’s pulse quickened—this wasn’t the lighthearted spying he’d craved. Harrison muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. “One more hand ... just to break even.” He clicked frantically, placing a bet, then leaned back as the virtual cards dealt out. Minutes ticked by, tension building. When the loss hit—another chunk of his savings gone—Harrison slammed his fist on the desk, a guttural curse escaping him.