My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom - Chapter 13: Chapter 13
You are reading My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom, Chapter 13: Chapter 13. Read more chapters of My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom.
My breath hitched as my fingers closed around the knife.
Lucas Roland stared at me, bewildered.
"What are you doing?"
A realization struck me—he had no idea what I was really planning. This was my chance.
Before he could react, I flung myself against him, burying my face in his chest as sobs wracked my body.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" I wailed, my voice breaking. "I've been going crazy, stuck alone at home. I just—I just needed someone to talk to. I've always wondered about you, about your art, but I've never done anything like this before. I was terrified, but I couldn't stop myself. Senior year is killing me, and I—I don't know what to do anymore!"
Tears poured down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable, as months of bottled-up stress and loneliness spilled out.
Lucas hesitated only a second before his hand settled firmly on my back, his voice steady.
"Hey, it's okay. I get it."
Then, with surprising gentleness, he brushed the tears from my face, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"If you ever need anything, just knock. We're neighbors, after all."
Fifteen days had slipped by since I stashed Vincent Lowell's corpse.
My fellow artists would call me insane—and they'd be right.
This profession taught me one undeniable truth: perfection in art comes only from capturing raw, unfiltered moments.
That's why I'm different from those who find inspiration in still lifes and landscapes. I chase something far more elusive—human emotion in motion.
If I could freeze a single genuine emotion on canvas, just for a heartbeat, my work would shake the world to its core.
For years, I tried. For years, I failed.
Frustration gnawed at me. Humanity let me down.
No matter who they were or where they stood, people hid behind masks—habitual, suffocating disguises.
Because of that, I could never grasp the full depth of human nature. My art suffered.
Then, after three sleepless nights drowning in despair, it hit me.
People only reveal their true selves when they believe they're alone.
So I had to become invisible.
But reality struck fast—sneaking around in this world came with risks. One misstep, and my reputation would shatter. No one would ever see my art the same way again.
Yet without this, how could I breathe life back into my dying inspiration?
The agony nearly drove me to the edge. I even considered ending it all.
Until I found the space behind the mirror.
No one could fathom the thrill that surged through me then.
My deepest craving wasn't just to watch—it was to create.
Months later, Luna Valentine moved in.
And after witnessing her kill Vincent, I knew what I had to do.
I couldn't let his death ruin everything. So I scrubbed the scene clean, took the body, and used Vincent's phone to send Luna spiraling into terror.
It worked. She stayed trapped in that apartment, right where I needed her.
When she came to me that day, my shock was nothing but theater.
From the first moment I saw her, I recognized the poison festering inside her.
That kind of bitterness? It doesn't come from nowhere. It's born from scars.
A woman like her—drowning in rage, choking on it every day—would never visit a stranger without reason.
Her showing up at my door meant she suspected something.
And the second she stepped inside, I spotted the knife hidden on her.
She wanted to kill me.
Terrified of being exposed, she threw herself into my arms, playing the fragile, broken girl.
Pathetic.
Beneath that delicate act was a soul rotting with obsession and hate.
I understood her better than anyone ever could.
Because we were the same—both clawing our way through the dark, desperate for something to hold onto.
Desire was the only thing that could save us. Or destroy us.
Lucas Roland stared at me, bewildered.
"What are you doing?"
A realization struck me—he had no idea what I was really planning. This was my chance.
Before he could react, I flung myself against him, burying my face in his chest as sobs wracked my body.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" I wailed, my voice breaking. "I've been going crazy, stuck alone at home. I just—I just needed someone to talk to. I've always wondered about you, about your art, but I've never done anything like this before. I was terrified, but I couldn't stop myself. Senior year is killing me, and I—I don't know what to do anymore!"
Tears poured down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable, as months of bottled-up stress and loneliness spilled out.
Lucas hesitated only a second before his hand settled firmly on my back, his voice steady.
"Hey, it's okay. I get it."
Then, with surprising gentleness, he brushed the tears from my face, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"If you ever need anything, just knock. We're neighbors, after all."
Fifteen days had slipped by since I stashed Vincent Lowell's corpse.
My fellow artists would call me insane—and they'd be right.
This profession taught me one undeniable truth: perfection in art comes only from capturing raw, unfiltered moments.
That's why I'm different from those who find inspiration in still lifes and landscapes. I chase something far more elusive—human emotion in motion.
If I could freeze a single genuine emotion on canvas, just for a heartbeat, my work would shake the world to its core.
For years, I tried. For years, I failed.
Frustration gnawed at me. Humanity let me down.
No matter who they were or where they stood, people hid behind masks—habitual, suffocating disguises.
Because of that, I could never grasp the full depth of human nature. My art suffered.
Then, after three sleepless nights drowning in despair, it hit me.
People only reveal their true selves when they believe they're alone.
So I had to become invisible.
But reality struck fast—sneaking around in this world came with risks. One misstep, and my reputation would shatter. No one would ever see my art the same way again.
Yet without this, how could I breathe life back into my dying inspiration?
The agony nearly drove me to the edge. I even considered ending it all.
Until I found the space behind the mirror.
No one could fathom the thrill that surged through me then.
My deepest craving wasn't just to watch—it was to create.
Months later, Luna Valentine moved in.
And after witnessing her kill Vincent, I knew what I had to do.
I couldn't let his death ruin everything. So I scrubbed the scene clean, took the body, and used Vincent's phone to send Luna spiraling into terror.
It worked. She stayed trapped in that apartment, right where I needed her.
When she came to me that day, my shock was nothing but theater.
From the first moment I saw her, I recognized the poison festering inside her.
That kind of bitterness? It doesn't come from nowhere. It's born from scars.
A woman like her—drowning in rage, choking on it every day—would never visit a stranger without reason.
Her showing up at my door meant she suspected something.
And the second she stepped inside, I spotted the knife hidden on her.
She wanted to kill me.
Terrified of being exposed, she threw herself into my arms, playing the fragile, broken girl.
Pathetic.
Beneath that delicate act was a soul rotting with obsession and hate.
I understood her better than anyone ever could.
Because we were the same—both clawing our way through the dark, desperate for something to hold onto.
Desire was the only thing that could save us. Or destroy us.
End of My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom Chapter 13. Continue reading Chapter 14 or return to My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom book page.