Lindy hated what he'd done to her.
Loathed what he was still doing to her.
Her unknown nemesis had flipped all that she'd known, loved, and once held dear upside down and sent her moral compass spinning like an unmanned tilt-a-whirl on the verge of spinning dangerously off the precipice of its predestined track of control.
Taken the hard facts that had shaped her; the misery, loss, and guilt that had doggedly pursued her and driven her; the soul deep need for knowledge about her sister's disappearance and the deadly atrocities that had been heaped upon those who came into romantic contact with her past the hazy internal boundaries she'd once set for herself.
He'd been looking for an ideal; a type of feminine perfection that had never truly existed until he'd begun molding her through his insidious machinations for far longer than any of them had even suspected.
Each keystroke brought her that much closer to the horrific truth.
Each new piece of data that the flirtual killer revealed about her left another blood-soaked breadcrumb along a twisted trail of self-discovery until she could no longer deny the inevitable reality of what he'd been honing her to become for years now; his mirror perfect image.
He'd been grinding away her inhibitions, burning through her natural restraint, with a gruesome refiner's fire to become a killer just like him.
As she unwaveringly cocked the gun at his masked head in the cold darkness, Lindy couldn't deny it any longer; she'd finally become his perfection.