Collector's Item

Devon Harper thumbed through his LinkedIn messages, scanning for potential marks while his coffee went cold. Six new connection requests from middle-aged professionals with minimal digital footprints. Perfect.

Margaret Pennington's profile showed a seventy-something woman with silver hair behind wire-rimmed glasses. Director of the Meadowbrook Heritage Foundation. Widowed. Limited technology skills. No two-factor authentication enabled.

The algorithm had served her up like a gift.

Devon took a screenshot and posted it to his private Telegram group.

@KingCon: Found a whale. Heritage foundation director. Guaranteed six-figure operating budget, minimal digital security. Who wants to run numbers on potential yield?

His phone pinged almost immediately.

@Mal1c3: Bro, my aunt got scammed last month. Not cool.

@GhostMode: Shut up snowflake. @KingCon, I'll run background. Send profile.

Devon drummed his fingers on his desk. At twenty-eight, he'd been running social engineering scams for nearly a decade. What had started as revenge against his stepfather had evolved into a lucrative career. Last year alone he'd cleared half a million dollars, tax-free.

His laptop chimed with a notification. Devon glanced down to see two alerts - first, a daily text from his grandmother in Jamaica:

Granny Lou: Chapter 7 today, Devon. "At the window of my house I looked down through my lattice, and I beheld among the simple ones..." A proverb a day keep de devil away, child. Proverbs 7 on de 7th - you know what day it is now, yes?

Devon rolled his eyes. Every morning, another Bible verse matching the day of the month. Seventh day, seventh chapter. At least he never needed to check the date anymore. He swiped the message away, though the words "simple one" and "lattice" lingered briefly in his mind.

The second notification caught his attention. Devon smiled at the latest post from @WealthWarrior:

"The world consists of predators and prey. Which are you? #sigmamindset #grindculture"

Devon double-tapped to like it. He'd been following @WealthWarrior for years, embracing the influencer's philosophy that those with the courage to game the system deserved their rewards.

The phone buzzed with a text from his mother:

"Still waiting on that money you promised for my treatment. Doctor says we're running out of time."

Devon's jaw tightened. He turned the phone face-down and returned to Margaret Pennington's profile. He built a picture of her life through public records and data breaches. The Meadowbrook Heritage Foundation managed a modest endowment of $2.3 million. Margaret had signed on as director three years ago following her husband's death.

Most tellingly, she had recently posted about having trouble with her internet. Perfect timing for a tech support scam.

As he scrolled through her sparse social media presence, a strange sensation prickled at the base of his skull—a feeling of being watched. Devon glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Just shadows across his collection of limited-edition sneakers he'd never worn.

This job could set him up for months, maybe fund that crypto investment @WealthWarrior had been promoting.

Devon created a spoofed email account and called Margaret using a number that would appear to be from the foundation's web developer.

"Hello, Mrs. Pennington? This is Alex from WebSphere Solutions, your foundation's hosting provider." Devon's voice transformed to a gentle, higher pitch. "We've detected some unusual activity on your account."

"Well, hello there, Alex." Margaret's voice was warm honey, with a playful lilt that caught Devon off guard. Not the elderly tone he'd expected, but something rich and inviting that sent a current down his spine. "Aren't you a lifesaver, calling just when I need help."

Devon blinked, momentarily thrown. "Your information was flagged in our system, ma'am. We monitor all our clients' sites for suspicious activity."

"What a delicious coincidence," she said, her voice dropping slightly, creating an intimacy that made Devon lean closer. "I was just thinking I should find someone to help me with all this... technical business. Almost as if you read my thoughts."

Something in her phrasing made Devon's skin tingle. "Happy to help, Mrs. Pennington. We take security very seriously."

"I bet you do, Alex." There was a smile in her voice, an intimate warmth that created a picture in his mind of full lips curving upward. "You sound like such a... capable young man."

The veiled flirtation sent a thrill through Devon. Her voice had a strange quality - a youthful cadence beneath the maturity, as if two women were speaking in harmony. He guided her through installing remote access software.

"Now click 'Allow Access,'" Devon instructed, slipping into his most authoritative tone.

"Mmm, I do like a man who knows exactly what he wants," Margaret replied, her voice a deliberate purr. "So refreshing these days. Most men are so... hesitant."

Her laugh was low and musical, almost a purr, vibrating through Devon's headphones. He found himself leaning closer, picturing her lips near the microphone.

"You know," she continued, voice dropping to a confidential whisper, "at my age, you become invisible to most men. They look right through you. But you're really seeing me, aren't you, Alex?"

Devon swallowed hard. This was getting weird, but strangely intriguing. "Just doing my job, ma'am."

"Of course you are," she replied, a knowing smile in her voice. "And so professionally too. I imagine you're very good at everything you do."

As she followed his instructions with perfect timing, he felt an odd synchronicity developing between them, as if they were engaged in a dance rather than a scam. The professional script he normally maintained began to blur, her voice coaxing responses from him he hadn't planned.

"Perfect, Mrs. Pennington. I can now see your system."

"Take all the time you need, handsome." Her voice dropped to an intimate murmur. "I'm just grateful someone's looking out for me. It gets terribly lonely here since Harold passed. A big, empty house with just little old me. Sometimes I go whole days without speaking to another soul."

Devon found himself wondering what she looked like now, beyond the professional headshot on LinkedIn. Did she still carry traces of that bombshell from decades ago? He shook the thought away, focusing on the task at hand.

As Devon worked, two folders caught his eye: "Collectibles" and "Glory Days." Curiosity piqued, he clicked the latter first.

The folder revealed photographs from the 1960s. A stunning young woman with cascading dark hair stared back from vintage pin-up shots. "Maggie Penrose" read the captions. The same woman posed with Marilyn Monroe, somehow outshining her with a magnetism that reached through time and screen.

One photo showed Maggie in a red swimsuit, her expression knowing and inviting. There was something about her eyes - a predatory intelligence beneath the bedroom softness of her pose. Another showed her draped across a chaise lounge, hair tumbling over bare shoulders, staring at the camera with a gaze that felt eerily direct, as if looking at him personally across the decades.

Devon's fingers hovered over the keyboard, his breathing shallow. He clicked through image after image, each more captivating than the last. This wasn't just any pin-up model – this was a woman who had mastered the art of creating desire through nothing but a look, a pose, a suggestion.

"Finding anything interesting?" Margaret's voice floated through his speakers, startling him from his trance. The question held no accusation, only a teasing warmth that made his cheeks flush. "You've been awfully quiet, Alex. Or should I say, Devon?"

His heartbeat stuttered. She'd called him by his real name, but the shock was muted beneath the fog of fascination still clouding his mind from the photos.

"I, uh—"

"Don't worry," she continued, her voice silky. "I enjoy being looked at. Always have. That's me, you know. Before your parents were even born."

He quickly switched to the "Collectibles" folder while his password harvesting script ran in the background. Inside were hundreds of photographs of ceramic figurines – each meticulously cataloged with dates and names.

"I see you're admiring my collections," Margaret purred. "Both of them."

Devon's heart skipped. "These figurines are quite... detailed."

"My past and my figurines. You're quite the curious boy, aren't you?" Her voice took on a hypnotic cadence that seemed to synchronize with his heartbeat. "Each collection has brought me such joy. Different kinds of joy, of course."

The air suddenly felt thick. She had called him by his real name.

"How did you—"

"Know?" she interrupted, voice like warm caramel. "Oh, Devon. You're not the first young man to come looking for me. I can smell the... ambition on you. The hunger."

Devon tried to close the remote connection. Nothing happened. He tried to force-quit. Again, nothing. A faint memory of his grandmother's text flickered at the edge of his consciousness – something about looking through a lattice, watching the simple ones. He dismissed it.

"What's happening?" His voice betrayed his rising panic.

"Just a conversation between kindred spirits," Margaret said. "I recognize ambition when I see it. The hunger. The desire for more. You've been taking what you want for years, haven't you? And now you think you're taking from me."

On his screen, a window opened – a live feed from Margaret's webcam. She sat in a high-backed chair, silver hair perfectly styled, wearing a silk blouse in deep crimson. A web-shaped brooch glittered at her throat. Behind her hung a vintage poster of Margaret in her prime – the very image of desire from a bygone era.

Devon's breathing quickened. The elderly woman before him was still beautiful in a way that transcended age – high cheekbones, intelligent eyes, a graceful neck. But it was more than that. She carried herself with a power that made the years irrelevant.

"You look surprised," she said, studying him through the camera. "Did you expect orthopedic shoes and mothballs?" She laughed, the sound both musical and mocking. "Men are so predictable. You imagine we just... shrivel up and disappear after a certain age."

The disconnect between the elderly woman on screen and the voice whispering in his ear was disorienting. Devon felt simultaneously repelled and drawn in, like watching a snake coil before striking.

"I thought—"

"You thought I'd be an easy mark," she finished for him. "A confused old lady, desperate for help, for attention, for connection. So easy to manipulate." She tilted her head, her eyes never leaving his. "I understand. I've played that role many times. Works quite well, actually."

"I'm whoever you need me to be." Margaret leaned forward gracefully. "Some men need vulnerability." Her expression shifted, eyes widening helplessly. "Others need authority." Her posture straightened imperiously. "But men like you, Devon... men who take... you need to believe you're the predator."

She gestured to shelves of figurines surrounding her – hundreds with human faces frozen in terror.

"My collections," she said, her finger tracing from the poster to the figurines. "I collected admirers then." Her crimson nail tapped a figurine. "And different trophies now. Each drawn to me through their own desires."

"What are you talking about?"

Margaret leaned forward, her posture shifting from matronly to predatory. "Men have been falling into my web for decades. First they came for this—" she gestured to the poster, then traced a line down her throat. "—and now they come for what I pretend to be."

She smiled, revealing too-perfect teeth. Her tongue moistened her lower lip in a calculated gesture that would have seemed seductive if not for the predatory gleam in her eyes.

"Different bait, same trap," she whispered, leaning closer. "The same forces whispering through those influencers taught me to mirror what you want."

Margaret's eyes darkened, pupils expanding until they consumed the iris. "You thought you were the predator, Devon. But you were always the prey."

A tingling sensation spread through Devon's limbs. He looked down to see his skin hardening, taking on a ceramic sheen.

"What's happening to me?" he gasped.

Margaret approached the camera, her face filling Devon's screen. "You're becoming art, Devon. A perfect representation of your hollowness."

Devon tried to scream, but his jaw was stiffening. His screen flashed with images – his mother alone in a hospital; his sister's unanswered messages; people he'd stolen from.

"Men like you have been falling for women like me since time began," Margaret continued, tracing her finger along the screen. "You see a beautiful lie and follow it straight into the pit."

As the hardening reached his neck, Devon noticed Margaret's eyes weren't human – but depthless voids. Behind her, her shadow wasn't that of an elderly woman but something spindly with too many limbs.

"Who—what are you?" he choked.

Margaret's face shifted – for a moment the young starlet, then the foundation director, then something else – features rearranging like liquid beneath her skin.

"I've worn many faces. Played many roles." Her silver hair momentarily seemed dark and lustrous. "The seductress. The widow. The maternal figure. Whatever draws in my prey."

The transformation reached Devon's face, freezing him in a silent scream. The last thing he saw was Margaret blowing him a kiss, her lips too red against her pale skin.

"Another fly in my web." wasn't of an elderly woman but something spindly with too many limbs.

"Who—what are you?" he choked.

Margaret smiled, her face shifting – for a moment the young starlet, then the foundation director, then something else – features rearranging like liquid beneath her skin.

"I've worn many faces. Played many roles." Her silver hair momentarily seemed dark and lustrous. "The seductress. The widow. The maternal figure. Whatever draws in my prey." Her smile widened. "Men desire, pursue, then destroy themselves. I just... facilitate the process."

The transformation reached Devon's face, freezing him in a silent scream. The last thing he saw was Margaret blowing him a kiss, her lips too red against her pale skin.

"Another fly in my web. You won't be the last."

Three weeks later, @GhostMode posted to the Telegram group:

@GhostMode: Anyone heard from @KingCon? Been MIA for weeks.

@Mal1c3 replied:

@Mal1c3: Found his socials. Ghosted everyone, even his sick mom. Nothing for three weeks.

@GhostMode: Probably scored big and went dark. Lucky bastard.

@DeepPockets joined the conversation:

@DeepPockets: New here. Looking for mentoring opportunities.

@GhostMode: Fresh meat! Welcome to the jungle. What's your specialty?

@DeepPockets: I collect things. And I've been watching your group for quite some time. You all have such... potential.

In Margaret's new home, a ceramic figurine sat on a shelf among hundreds of others. A young man with a horrified expression, frozen reaching for his phone. His base bore a label: "Devon Harper – 2025."

Next to him stood an empty space, just the right size for a new addition. On her screen, a conversation with @GhostMode, eagerly sharing his scamming techniques.

Margaret adjusted her webcam, ensuring the vintage pin-up poster was visible. She applied fresh lipstick, tilted her head to catch the light, and began a video call.

"Hello," she said to the wide-eyed young man. "I'm Margaret. But call me Maggie. I'm not good with computers. Could you help? I'm worried about these security warnings."

The man – @GhostMode – straightened, eyes darting between Margaret's smile and the poster. "Of course, ma'am."

After ending the call, Margaret's reflection shifted to reveal something ancient beneath her human disguise. Her elongated fingers typed:

Margaret: You're such a gentleman. I'd love to continue this in person. I could really use your expertise.

Above her computer hung a delicate silver web. At its center, wedding photos of Margaret with three different men from different decades. Beneath it, an elegant note in her flowing script: "You're one in a million."

She glanced at her shelf of figurines – each one a man who thought himself clever.

Beside her keyboard lay a business card for the Meadowbrook Heritage Foundation's newest board member: @WealthWarrior. On the back, a single word: "Soon."