Chapter 12: The Writer's Room
The Printer's Devil was exactly what you'd expect from a bar that catered to writing students.
Dim lighting. Exposed brick. Bookshelves behind the bar stocked with paperbacks nobody read. The kind of place where people ordered whiskey and talked about narrative structure like it was life or death.
I arrived early, took a stool near the end of the bar, ordered a beer I planned to nurse all night. The bartender was young, bearded, probably a writer himself. He didn't try to make conversation, which I appreciated.
Beck's group arrived twenty minutes later. Six people, laughing at something Lisa had said. They claimed a large booth in the back corner, ordering pitchers and appetizers like this was ritual.
Beck sat on the outer edge of the booth. Accessible but not central. Still processing the breakup, probably. Social but not quite present.
I stayed at the bar for the first hour, making myself part of the scenery. Occasional glances toward the booth—nothing obvious. When someone from the group went for drinks, I'd nod acknowledgment. Building peripheral awareness without demanding attention.
The Social Invisibility helped. I could feel it working—attention sliding off me, memories failing to form. I was the guy who was there, sort of, maybe.
Around nine, Lisa waved me over.
"Fin, right? The displacement piece? Come join us."
I brought my beer, took the seat they made room for. Introductions circled the table: Lisa, Derek, Marcus, Yolanda, Sandra, Beck.
"The new guy," Beck said when my name came up. "Welcome to the madness."
"Thanks. Seems like a good group."
"We try. Thursday drinks are sacred. Professor Kramer started the tradition back in like, 2012." Lisa launched into workshop history—who'd gotten published, who'd dropped out, who'd had a breakdown during revision week.
I listened, laughed at appropriate moments, contributed nothing memorable. The goal was integration, not impression. Safe presence over time.
Beck participated in the conversation but with visible effort. Her laugh came a half-beat late. Her attention drifted toward her phone, checking messages, probably hoping one was from Joe.
He's already texting her, I realized. Already making himself necessary.
"You okay?" The question came from Sandra, directed at Beck. "You've been quiet lately."
Beck shrugged. "Breakup. You know how it is."
Sympathetic murmurs around the table. Lisa reached over to squeeze her hand.
"His loss," Derek said. "Anyone who leaves you is an idiot."
"Thanks." Beck's smile was genuine but tired. "It's fine. Just adjusting."
I filed the exchange in my Memory Palace. Beck was processing publicly, seeking validation, vulnerable to anyone who offered attention.
Joe would know this. Was probably already crafting his approach to exploit it.
I needed to work faster.
The conversation shifted to workshop business—upcoming deadlines, revision strategies, Professor Kramer's feedback style. I contributed a question about submission guidelines, establishing myself as someone engaged but new.
Around ten, the group started fragmenting. Derek had early morning plans. Sandra needed to catch a train. The booth emptied gradually until only four of us remained: Lisa, Beck, Marcus, and me.
"Another round?" Lisa asked.
"I should probably go," Beck said. "Long day tomorrow."
"I'll walk out with you." The words left my mouth before I calculated them. Instinct overriding strategy.
Beck's eyebrows rose slightly—first real attention she'd given me. "Sure. Thanks."
We said goodbyes to Lisa and Marcus, promised to see them next Thursday, headed for the door.
The night air was cool. September settling into autumn. Beck pulled her jacket tighter and started walking toward the subway.
"You live in the Village?" She was making conversation, nothing more.
"East Village. You?"
"Same area. Small world."
We walked in comfortable silence for a block. I let her set the pace, didn't push for conversation. Background energy. Unthreatening.
"Your piece was good," she said eventually. "The displacement story. Really vivid."
"Thanks. It's older work. Still figuring out my voice."
"Aren't we all." She laughed—self-deprecating, genuine. "I've been working on the same novel for three years. Every time I think I've found it, the whole thing falls apart."
"What's it about?"
She hesitated. "Loss, mostly. The way we carry people who are gone."
More than she knows.
"Sounds heavy."
"It's cathartic. Or supposed to be." She shrugged. "Some days I think writing is just therapy we pretend is art."
"Maybe both."
We reached the subway entrance. Beck paused at the top of the stairs, turning to face me.
"Thanks for walking with me. And for not making it weird."
"No problem."
"See you next Thursday?"
"Absolutely."
She descended into the station. I watched until she disappeared, then started walking toward my apartment.
First real conversation. Brief, unremarkable, friendly.
The foundation was laid. I'd entered her world the legitimate way—through shared interests, organic connection, nothing that would trigger suspicion.
Now I needed to build on it. Become the safe presence she could trust. The friend who happened to notice when things seemed off.
Joe was already texting her, probably. Already planning the next "coincidental" meeting. He had advantages I didn't—access to her phone, knowledge of her schedule, the charm of someone who'd practiced seduction for years.
But I had something he didn't: awareness that this was a war.
Joe thought he was hunting alone.
He was wrong.
Back at the apartment, I checked my phone. No new messages. The silence felt strange after weeks of surveillance and manipulation.
The laptop sat open on the desk, cursor blinking in an empty document.
I'd promised myself to write something original. Something that was mine, not the dead man's. A small gesture of acknowledgment for the life I'd stolen.
For a long moment, I just stared at the blank page.
Then I started typing.
The first thing I remember is concrete. Cold and wet and wrong.
The words came slowly at first, then faster. Not fiction—truth disguised as fiction. The awakening, the disorientation, the message burned into my consciousness.
I wrote for two hours without stopping. When I finally looked up, the document was five pages long and the sky outside was dark.
Not good writing. Not yet. But honest.
The original Fin Coulson had wanted to find his voice. Maybe, in some strange way, I was helping him.
Or maybe I was just trying to convince myself that theft could be transformed into tribute.
Either way, the words were on the page now. And next Thursday, I'd have something real to share.
The workshop continued. The mission continued. The strange double life I'd built continued.
Somewhere across the city, Joe Goldberg was probably composing the perfect text message, crafting the next step in his seduction of Beck.
And somewhere in the same city, I was writing the truth in fiction, preparing to become the friend Beck didn't know she needed.
Two men circling the same woman. One building a cage. One trying to build an escape route.
The race wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1