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"Chivalry isn't Dead" - Choi Soobin (최수빈) x f!reader
The bill came. He reached for it. You stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Hey, let’s split it.” A flicker. Just a flicker. His eyebrow twitched. “What kind of man would I be,” he said, slower now, “if I let you pay the bill?”
content warning – This story contains stalking, coercion, manipulation, and non-consensual or dubiously consensual situations. It features explicit sexual content, mature themes, and intense power imbalances throughout. Sexual content includes dacryphilia, nipple play, oral sex (f!receiving), rough kissing, tongue biting, forced eye contact, choking, cervix fucking, and creampie. Depictions of physical aggression include manhandling, face slapping, rough physical contact, and controlling behavior. The narrative also contains heavy use of explicit dialogue and explores invasive, degrading, and psychologically intense dynamics. (lowkey subby soobin)
word count : 4.1k
“His name is Soobin. And he’s really sweet.”
That’s what your friend said. That’s what you keep repeating to yourself now, like a prayer or a curse, your body rising and falling beneath him, the headboard knocking a dull rhythm into the wall. Sweet. The word tastes wrong now, like something rotting behind a smile.
It started so softly. A blind date. “And he’s really handsome,” she cooed through the phone as you walked toward the restaurant, the evening light golden and harmless. “Okay, I’ll be the judge of that. I’m hanging up now.” You laughed. You remember laughing. You hung up and walked inside, greeted the host, gave the name. She led you to the table, and there he was. Already waiting.
Soobin stood. He opened his arms for a hug, and you accepted because that’s what polite girls do, isn’t it? That’s what sweet girls do. “Wow,” he said, his voice a low and silken thing. “You’re so pretty.” You laughed again. “You’re not too bad yourself.” And for one hour, one small stupid, hour you believed this was just a nice night.
But here’s the thing about nice nights. They end.
The bill came. He reached for it. You stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Hey, let’s split it.” A flicker. Just a flicker. His eyebrow twitched. “What kind of man would I be,” he said, slower now, “if I let you pay the bill?” The sweetness in his voice cracked like thin ice.
“It’s only fair,” you said, trying to smile, trying to ease whatever this was back into something normal. “No,” he said. “I got it.” But you didn’t back down because you are stubborn, because you are proud, because you didn’t know yet what happens to women who don’t back down. “No,” you said again. “We could split it.”
And then he repeated it. Louder. “No. I got it.”
The tables around you went quiet. You felt their eyes like small, hot coins on your skin. You laughed and now, with his hands on your hips and your head turned sideways into the pillow so he won’t see you cry, you understand that laugh was the moment he knew he’d see you again. Whether you wanted to or not.
He paid. You left. “This was nice,” you lied. You could already taste the lie going sour on your tongue. “Let’s do it again,” he said. And then, because he hadn’t yet shown you his teeth, “Wanna hit up a bar?”
You were already on your phone, scrolling for an Uber, heart rabbiting in your chest. “That sounds fun,” you said and you hate yourself for that, don’t you? For the smile you painted on. For the way you couldn’t just say no. “But I have work tomorrow.” His smile dropped. Not faded. Dropped. Like a mask slipping. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
Your Uber pulled up. “This is my ride,” you whispered. He smiled again and leaned in. A hug. A kiss. You didn’t wait to find out which. You dodged. Stepped back. “See you later,” you said, and you got in the car, and you waved through the window like nothing was wrong. You watched him shrink in the side mirror. He didn’t wave back. You told yourself, That’s the first and last time. You’ll never see him again.
But you were wrong. You were so wrong.
Because now his forehead is pressed against yours, and his breath is warm and wet on your lips, and his fingers are wrapped around your throat not squeezing, not yet, just resting there like a promise. And he is whispering something. The same thing. Over and over.
“What kind of man would I be if I let you go?”
You didn't tell your friend what happened. You just said you two didn't click. She understood. Didn't press. And you..God, you tried so hard to move on from that date. Erase him. The way his eyebrow twitched. The way his voice dropped. The way he looked at you when you dodged his kiss. You told yourself it was nothing. Just a bad night. Just a man with a bruised ego. You almost believed it. Almost.
You're behind the counter at the convenience store. It's late. The lights hum their sickly song. The air smells of stale coffee and bleach. You're stacking cigarettes, thinking about nothing, your feet hurt, your shift ends in an hour, maybe you'll watch something stupid on your phone when you get home. Normal things. Safe things.
Then the doorbell rings. That cheerful little chime you've heard a thousand times. You look up to greet the customer. And your body goes dead. Soobin.
He's standing in the doorway. The night behind him is black and wet-looking. He doesn't look surprised to see you. Not even a little. That's the first thing your brain registers the absence of surprise. He knew. Somehow, he knew you'd be here. He found out where you work.
But you don't run. You don't scream. You just stand there like a rabbit under a slow-moving car, because that's what happens, isn't it? Your body forgets how to obey you. Your blood turns to cold syrup.
He walks through the store aisles.. His fingertips skim the shelves like he's playing a piano made of cheap packaged goods. He doesn't look at you again. Not yet. He wants you to watch him. He wants you to feel every second of this. You hear his shoes on the floor. Hear him pick up a candy bar. Put it back. Pick up something else. He's taking his time. He's enjoying this. Your hands are shaking. You hide them behind the counter.
Finally, he comes to the register. A few items in his hands. Nothing you remember. Nothing that matters. He sets them down and you scan them. The sound is obscene in the quiet.
He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. You tell yourself, Just cash him out. Just get him out.
He pays. Card. No small talk. No how've you been. No fancy seeing you here. Just that smile. He takes his bag. He leaves. The doorbell sings again and the glass door swings shut behind him. You stand there in the silence. Your heart is a fist pounding against your ribs. You tell yourself it's over. He's gone. He didn't do anything. He just bought some things. That's not a crime.
But your hands won't stop shaking. And outside, through the glass, you see him. He's standing by his car. Not leaving. Not yet. Just standing there. Looking at the store. Looking at you through the window. And he's still smiling. That same smile from the restaurant. The one that dropped so fast. He raises his hand. He waves. Then he climbs into his car and drives off like nothing ever happened.
You tried your hardest to forget that fucking moment. But forgetting isn't the same as erasing, is it? The memory lives inside your skin now, a splinter you can't dig out. The way he waved. The way he smiled. The way he just stood there by his car, watching you through the glass like you were something he'd already decided to keep.
Your shift ended. A blur of counting change and wiping counters and pretending your hands weren't still shaking. You cleaned up. Cleared the register. Turned the lights off one by one each one plunging the store into deeper darkness until you were standing alone in the red glow of the exit sign. You exited. Locked the doors. The sound of metal sealing shut. Then you started walking home.
It's 1 a.m. The streets are dead. You're on high alert. Not just because of him. You tell yourself it's not just because of him. But your neck prickles anyway. Your eyes keep darting to parked cars, to alley mouths, to the dark windows of shops you passed a hundred times before. You walk faster. You make it to your building. The lobby is empty. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. You walk to the elevator and "Not in service."
A sign. Taped to the doors. Crinkled, like it was put there in a hurry. Or maybe that's just what you tell yourself. "What the fuck?" you mutter, and your voice sounds small and strange in the open space.
The staircase. Of course. You turn toward it, push the heavy door open, and start climbing. Four floors. That's nothing. You're grateful it's just the fourth floor. You climb. One flight. Two. Your footsteps slap the concrete. Your breath is loud in your own ears. Three. You're on the last flight when you hear it.
Something behind you. You stop. Your hand freezes on the railing. The stairwell goes silent, no footsteps, no breathing, nothing but the distant hum of the building settling. You look behind you. Nothing. Empty stairs. Pale walls. A flickering light. You tell yourself it was nothing. You keep climbing. There it is again.
Closer this time. A soft scuff. A whisper of movement. You whip around, heart slamming against your ribs, and nothing. No one stands on the stairs below you. No shadow detaches from the walls. You are alone in a concrete box with a flickering light and a heartbeat that won't stop screaming.
You quicken your steps. You don't look back. You just climb, climb, climb, your thighs burning, your keys already in your hand, because if you can just reach your door, if you can just get inside, you'll be safe. You'll lock the door. You'll turn on every light. You'll be safe.
Fourth floor. The hallway. Your door. You see it, number 4B, the little scratch on the paint, the welcome mat you bought on sale. Your fingers shake as you ruffle through your bag. Keys. Where are your keys? You find them. Fumble. Drop them. Pick them up. Slide the right one into the keyhole. Turn. Open.
You step inside. Your sanctuary. Your home. You reach for the door to swing it shut, to throw the deadbolt, to finally breathe, a hand stops it. Palm flat against the wood. Fingers curling over the edge. The door shoves open again, and Soobin's face comes into view. That face. Those eyes. That fucking smile.
You scream. His hand covers your mouth before the sound can finish leaving your throat. His palm is warm. Too warm. He pushes you backward stumbling, grabbing for anything and you crash into your own hallway as he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
The deadbolt turns. Not by your hand. By his.
He presses you against the wall. His body is hard and warm and wrong. His hand is still over your mouth. His face is inches from yours. His eyes are dark and soft and gentle in a way that makes you want to throw up. "Shh," he whispers. Like he's soothing a child. Like he's calming a frightened animal. "Shh, shh, shh."
You try to bite his hand. You try to knee him. You try to move. But he's stronger. He's always been stronger. And he's smiling that same smile from the restaurant. From the store. From the car. The smile that says, I told you I'd see you again.
"Take me to your bedroom."
Soobin doesn't ask. He never asked, did he? Not once. Not at the restaurant when he reached for the bill. Not at the store when he watched you through the glass. He orders. You try to swing at him.
His hand tightens on your mouth and he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head forward, and slams it back against the wall. White light explodes behind your eyes. Your ears ring. Something warm trickles down your scalp.
"Don't make me say that shit again."
Okay. Okay. Okay. Your hands rise in surrender. Your voice is a broken whisper behind his palm. You'll do anything. You'll say anything. You just want him to stop hurting you. He lets you breathe just long enough to walk.
You show him to your bedroom. Your safe space. Your soft sheets and the cheap fairy lights you hung up because you wanted your life to feel pretty. He shoves you onto the bed and you bounce once, twice, and instinct takes over, you scramble, claw at the blankets, try to make a run for it. You don't get anywhere.
His hand closes around your ankle and yanks. You're on your back again. The air leaves your lungs. And then he's there, settling between your thighs like he belongs there, like he's done this a thousand times before. Maybe he has. Maybe there are other women. Other apartments. Other walls stained with their tears.
He pushes your skirt up. Bunches it around your waist. His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, cheap cotton, the kind you bought in a three-pack, you never thought anyone would see them like this and your knees come up, a reflex, a pathetic little attempt to hide.
He sits up on his knees. Pushes your thighs down with one hand. And then he slaps you across the face. Crack. Your head snaps to the side. Your cheek blooms hot, then numb. Tears spill over before you can stop them. "Don't fucking try to hide from me."
His finger is in your face. Pointing. Accusing. Like you did something wrong. Like you asked for this. You stop moving. You stop fighting. You just lie there, shaking, as he makes his way back to your underwear and pulls them down your legs in one slow, deliberate drag. The fabric slides over your hips, your thighs, your knees. He brings them to his face. He smells them.
His eyes flutter closed. His lips part. He inhales like you're something sacred, something he's been starving for. And then he folds them carefully and puts them in his pocket. Your underwear. In his pocket. Like a trophy.
He lowers his face between your legs. You feel his nose first pressed against your clit, nuzzling, breathing you in. And then his tongue. Wet and warm and cruel in how good it feels. He fucks you with it, slow and deep, curling inside you like he's tasting something he plans to remember forever. But his eyes stay on you. Dark. Unblinking. Watching.
Every time you try to look away, every time your gaze drifts to the ceiling, to the window, anywhere but him he pulls off. His hand grabs your chin. Forces your face back down. "Eyes on me." Then he goes back.
He places his thumb on your clit. Circles it. Slow at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of his tongue inside you. You hate this. You hate this. But your body is a traitor. Your hips twitch. Your thighs tremble. A sound escapes your throat not a sob, not a moan, something in between. He hums against you. Pleased.
"You taste so fucking good."
You cry. Silent tears sliding down your cheek into your hair. And then God help you, you feel it. That familiar coiling. That heat builds low in your belly. Your body doesn't care that you're afraid. Your body doesn't care that you didn't choose this. He feels it too. He feels everything. "Am I doing a good job?"
What?
The question is so wrong, so out of place, that for a second your brain stops working. Why would he ask that? Why would he care? You don't answer. You can't. But he doesn't seem to need an answer. He just smiles against your skin, you feel the curve of his mouth and his thumb presses harder.
"Are you gonna come?"
His voice is soft now. Almost sweet. The same voice he used at the restaurant when he said you're so pretty. The same voice your friend heard when she said he's really sweet. "Come on my face, baby."
Your knee cramps. Your back arches. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as it crashes over you wave after wave, your body convulsing, pleasure and terror tangled so tightly you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. He stays right there. Mouth on you. Tongue gentle now, lapping, drinking you in.
He pulls off slowly. A string of spit and your own mess stretches from his lips to your skin. His face is wet. Shining. His lips are swollen and red. He sits up on his knees. Looks down at you. "Fuck," he breathes.
"You're so much more pretty when you are fucked out."
He's admiring you. That's the worst part. His head tilted. His eyes are soft. Like you're art. Like he painted you himself. And all you can do is lie there, exposed from the waist down, tears drying on your face, your thighs still shaking. All you can do is cry.
He reaches out. Wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Brings it to his mouth. Tastes it. "Don't cry, baby," he whispers. "We're just getting started."
He reaches down to your chest and unbuttons the cute shirt you put on this morning not knowing this is how you were going to end up. He throws the shirt open. Pushes your bra down, making your boobs pop out. And then his hands are on them. Kneading them. His fingers pinch your nipples, twisting until they're hard and aching, and your face twists in pain.
He makes a fake aww sound. "Is your nipples sore, baby? Let me help you."
His mouth is on you. Licking around your nipple, slow and wet, while his hand works the other. He sucks gently at first, then harder, drawing your nipple deep into his mouth, and his tongue circles the tip like he's tasting candy. He keeps at it while looking at you. Why the fuck does he keep looking at you? His eyes never leave your face. He watches every flinch. Every tear. Every time your breath catches.
He moves to the other nipple. Gives it the same treatment, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. He pulls off with a wet pop and smiles at the way your nipple glistens.
He pulls away. His eyes trail down your body, your neck, your chest, your stomach, the wet mess between your legs and then his mouth is on yours. His tongue explores your mouth, sliding against yours, and you taste yourself on his lips. Sweet and salt and you. You bite his tongue.
He just laughs. Keeps kissing you like nothing happened. Like you're two lovers in a movie. He pulls away, his hand holding your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin.
He sits back on his knees. Unbuttons his jeans. Unzips them. And he pulls himself out slowly, like he loves watching the way your face reacts to his movement. He's hard. Thick. The tip is red and wet, and he looks at it, then at you, and smiles.
He spits into his hand. Wraps his fingers around himself and strokes once, twice, three times. His head falls back just a little.
"Shit," he says. "Fuck, I can't wait to be inside you. I've been thinking about this since our date" He strokes himself faster, and his eyes find yours again. "You owe me this, pretty. You owe me."
He makes his way back between your thighs. His knees spread you wider, wider than before, until you feel the stretch in your hips. He uses one hand to grab your thigh and bend it to your chest, folding you almost in half, making you feel more exposed, more nasty than you thought possible. He uses his other hand to guide himself into you.
The tip presses against your entrance. Wet. Hot. He pushes just the head in, and his whole body shudders. "Oh god," he whimpers. His eyes close for just a second. "Oh fuck."
He looks at you as he pushes deeper. Your eyes close due to the stretch, the burn, the fullness, the way he splits you open inch by inch. "Eyes open," he says, and you obey because you're too afraid not to. "I wanna see your face when I fill you up." He pushes all the way in. Your mouth falls open. A sound comes out, half gasp, half sob and he groans, long and loud, his hips pressed flush against yours.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," spills out of his mouth. "Shit, baby. Your pussy is so fucking tight. You're squeezing me like a fucking glove. Oh shit."
He starts moving. Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that pull almost all the way out before slamming back in. You feel him everywhere, inside you, around you, your walls stretching to accommodate him. He's so deep. Too deep.
He leans forward. Places a kiss on your lips soft, almost tender. His tongue slips into your mouth again as his hips start slamming into you harder. The bed creaks. The headboard hits the wall. Your insides are on fire, and you feel him hitting your cervix with every thrust. He pulls back from the kiss. Look down at where your bodies connect. His eyes are dark, hungry, obsessed.
"Fuck," he laughs. "Is that your cervix? Is that where I'm hitting, baby? Do you feel that? You feel how deep I am?" He thrusts harder on purpose, making you cry out. "Yeah. That's it. That's your fucking cervix. I'm gonna bruise it. I'm gonna make sure you feel me for days."
He slows down. Starts moving in deep, rolling strokes like he's trying to memorize every curve inside you. His eyes drop to where you're connected, watching himself slide in and out of you, your wetness coating him.
"Ah, fuck. Look at that." He laughs again, soft and breathless. "Look at my cock inside you, baby. Look how pretty you look wrapped around me."
He speeds up again. Fucks you harder. The headboard slams against the wall…thump, thump, thump and his hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh hard enough to bruise. You turn your face to the wall, trying to black out what's happening, tears running down your face.
But he won't grant you that small mercy.
He grabs your neck. Forces you to face him. He's a blurry figure through your tears, but you can still see his smile. His hand leaves your hip and wraps around your throat not squeezing yet, just resting there, feeling your pulse hammer against his palm.
"Fuck," he moans. "You get so much tighter when I choke you. Shit, baby. You like that, don't you? You like when I take your breath away." He squeezes. Just enough. Your vision spots. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. And you feel him twitch inside you…that telltale pulse, that swelling, and you know what's coming.
"I'm gonna come," he gasps. "Fuck, I'm gonna come. I'm gonna fill this pretty little pussy up, baby. You want that? You want me to pump you full?" He slams into you one last time deep, so deep and his body goes rigid. His head falls back. His mouth opens in a silent groan. And you feel it. Hot. Spilling. Rope after rope inside you, filling you up, leaking out around him even as he stays buried to the hilt.
He stays there for a moment. His forehead drops to yours. His eyes are closed. His breath is hot on your lips. He's still inside you, softening now, but he doesn't pull out. Not yet. Then he places a kiss on your cheek. Soft. Gentle. Like he loves you.
He looks down at where you're connected. Pulls out slowly. You feel everything, the drag, the emptiness, the way his come immediately starts leaking out of you and onto the sheets. He looks at you. Your tear-stained face. Your bruised neck. Your naked body, still shaking, still spread open for him.
"Fuck, love," he whispers. His thumb traces your lower lip. "You looked so fucking beautiful. Every second of it. The way you cried. The way you came on my face. The way you squeezed my cock when I choked you." He smiles, horrible. "Wanna know something? You're mine now."
He leans down. Kisses your forehead.
And somewhere in the building, a door opens and closes. Footsteps in the hallway. People living their normal lives, not knowing that three doors down, something irreparable just happened. You lie there. Staring at the ceiling. Feeling him drip out of you.
Soobin stretches out beside you like he belongs there. Like this is the beginning of something. For you, maybe it is.
"No One is Coming" - Lee Chan-young (이찬영) x f!reader
“You just had to mind your fucking business.” His voice is eerily calm. Conversational, almost. He walks toward you slowly, like he has all night. “But no,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your bruised cheek. “You had to tattletale to my dad.”
content warning – This story contains a strong power imbalance and graphic descriptions of violence, including injury (such as a broken nose) and mentions of blood. It depicts non-consensual situations, breaking and entering, and instances of school violence, bullying, and injustice. The narrative explores coercive, harmful behavior within a tense and unsettling atmosphere.
word count : 5.3k
You tell yourself this is a beginning, not the end.
The train pulls away from the city with a soft, almost apologetic sigh, and you sit by the window watching your old life smear into streaks of grey and glass. It feels lighter out here already. Cleaner. You press your forehead to the cool pane and imagine the version of you that exists on the other side of this journey, someone unburdened. This new job had sounded like a gift when it found you. Better pay. Housing included. Fresh air, quiet, distance. Distance most of all. You said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.
By the time you arrive, the sky has softened into a pale gold, the kind that makes everything feel possible again. The countryside stretches wide and empty, fields rolling like open palms, the air smelling faintly of damp earth and something sweet you can’t quite name. It feels safe in a way that almost startles you.
The man who meets you at the station introduces himself as Mr. Lee. He smiles too much, but you tell yourself it’s just friendliness, the kind you forgot existed. His handshake lingers, but only for a second too long. You notice it but dismissed it.
The drive to the house is longer than you expected. Roads narrow into winding veins through dense woods, the trees pressing close, as if they’re leaning in to listen. You try to follow the turns, but soon it becomes impossible. Everything looks the same, green and shadow and silence.
“It’s easy to get lost out here,” he says lightly, glancing at you. “But don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.” You smile, because that’s what you do.
The house is smaller than you imagined but neat. The windows are spotless, the curtains freshly pressed. Someone has left flowers on the table white, tightly arranged, scent faint but persistent. There’s something about the stillness inside, the way the air feels untouched, like it’s been waiting.
“It’s all yours,” Mr. Lee says, watching you as you step inside. Not looking at the house. Looking at you. You thank him. Again. Too many times.
That night, you unpack slowly, trying to fill the quiet with movement. Every sound feels amplified by the creak of floorboards, the soft click of drawers, your own breathing. You tell yourself it’s just because you’re not used to the silence yet.
You tell yourself this is the start of something good.
A better school. Better funding. Polished hallways and bright futures. You stand outside Yoonseul High and let yourself feel it for a moment, the clean lines of the building, the quiet prestige humming beneath its glass and steel. This is the kind of place people envy. The kind of place that fixes things.
You smooth down your sleeves before stepping inside, rehearsing the version of yourself you want them to see composed, capable, unshakeable. Hopeful.
By 7:00 a.m., the corridors are empty. Your footsteps echo faintly as you find your classroom. It smells untouched, like fresh paint and expensive polish. Everything is pristine. Controlled. Perfect. You like that.
You step inside and place your bag down, exhaling slowly as you turn to the board. Your name looks strange written out so large, so permanent. You say it under your breath, testing your introduction, shaping your tone. Friendly, but firm. Warm, but not soft.
You don’t hear the door open. You don’t hear the footsteps. Just the voice.
“That was so cute.”
It slips into the room like something that’s always been there. You flinch. The chalk snaps between your fingers. When you turn, he’s already inside leaning slightly, as if he belongs in every space he enters.
You glance at your watch instinctively. 7:15. The bell doesn’t ring until 8. Your stomach tightens, but you force a polite smile. “Oh hi. I didn’t think..” He steps closer before you can finish. “Hi,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m the class president. Lee Chanyoung. But you can call me Anton.”
His voice is smooth. You hesitate for half a second too long, then place your hand in his. “I’m your new homeroom teacher,’ you say with a smile. His grip closes around yours. Firm. Too firm. You try to ignore it. Try to match his smile, but something about the way he’s looking at you feels… wrong. Not inappropriate. Not obvious. Just wrong in a way you can’t name yet.
You start to pull your hand back. He doesn’t let go. There’s a beat a small, suspended moment where your brain tries to catch up with what your body already knows. You laugh, light and nervous, tugging a little more. “Okay..” Still nothing.
His thumb shifts slightly against your skin. Not enough to be called anything. Just enough to make your skin crawls. You look at him then and he’s smiling, it unsettles you.
“I see you’ve already met my son.” The voice cuts clean through the moment. Your hand is released instantly. You step back without meaning to, your fingers tingling as if something has been left behind in them. Mr. Lee stands in the doorway, composed, immaculate. His presence fills the room in a way that feels heavier than it should.
“He’s a good kid,” he adds, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You nod quickly. “Yes, he…he seems very… polite.” Anton says nothing. You can feel him still looking at you, even as you turn toward his father. Mr. Lee gestures for you to follow him.
“The school can be a bit confusing at first,” he says. “I’ll show you around.” You’re grateful for the movement, for the excuse to leave the room, but as you step into the hallway, you feel it. That subtle awareness. Like something is watching you.
The tour is thorough.
Teachers’ room. Bathrooms. Offices. Doors that require key cards. Doors that don’t. Mr. Lee speaks with quiet authority, explaining things you’ll forget immediately, his tone calm, controlled. Reassuring.
When the tour ends, you thank him, your voice steady enough to pass. “Of course,” he says. “We take care of our staff here.” The words linger longer than they should. As you walk back toward your classroom, the halls remain quiet, but it no longer feels peaceful.
By 7:55 a.m., the school is alive in a way that feels almost reassuring. Voices echo down the hall, lockers click shut, shoes tap in hurried rhythms. It’s busy enough to quiet the unease still clinging to you from earlier. Busy enough to make you feel safe.
Students begin to filter into your classroom, filling the space with movement and noise. You greet them, steady now, your smile practiced but convincing. You write your name again on the board, clearer this time, stronger. You introduce yourself, your voice finding a rhythm that feels like control.
You move through the seats, learning names, repeating them, attaching them to faces. Some meet your gaze. Some don’t. Some look at you a little too long.
Anton doesn’t need to introduce himself again. He stares. That same stillness about him, that same quiet certainty. You avoid lingering. You don’t give him anything to hold onto.
The hours pass fast. By the time the final bell rings, the day has folded itself neatly into something manageable, something almost ordinary. You let yourself believe it the morning was just nerves, just adjustment. The classroom empties. Chairs scrape, laughter fades, footsteps dissolve into the distance until it’s just you again. You exhale, shoulders dropping, the silence settling in.
You begin packing up, methodical, focused on leaving. Papers stacked, pens gathered, your bag pulled closer. Then it slips. The bag falls from your desk, hitting the floor with a dull, abrupt sound that feels too loud in the empty room. You mutter under your breath and bend down to pick it up.
And that’s when it happens. A shift in the air behind you. Before your mind can catch up, your body reacts your muscles tightening, your breath stalling. There’s a presence there, unmistakable now, pressing into your space like it belongs.
Something brushes against you from behind, slow enough to register, deliberate enough to freeze you where you are. It lingers just a second too long, just enough to make your stomach drop, just enough to make your skin crawl as if something invasive has slipped beneath it. You’ve never stood up so fast in your life. The world tilts for a second as you turn and there he is. Anton. Standing directly behind you. Like he’d always been there.
His expression doesn’t change. No apology. No embarrassment. Just that same calm, unreadable gaze, fixed on you like you’re something he’s trying to understand… or something he already does. Your throat tightens.
“What are you doing?” you manage, your voice sharper than before, but not as strong as you want it to be. “Waiting for you,” he says simply. Like that explains everything. You glance at the door. Closed. You didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear him. Didn’t hear anything at all.
A cold realization creeps in, slow and suffocating…he never left the room. You take a step back, creating space, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t feel like it matters. “You need to leave,” you say, more firmly now, clinging to the words like it can protect you. Then, that faint, almost amused smile. “No I don’t.”
Your heart stutters. The silence stretches between you, thick, pressing, wrong. You reach for your bag again, your movements tighter now, controlled, every instinct screaming at you to leave, to get out, to put distance between you and whatever this is.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, already moving, already turning toward the door. “Of course,” he replies. Your hand grips the handle, colder than it should be. You pull the door open and step into the hallway, the noise distant now, muted.
You don’t look back and as you walk away, something settles deep in your chest.
A couple of weeks pass before you begin to understand how this place really works, and when it finally comes, it isn’t quiet. It isn’t subtle. It announces itself in sound. Something hard striking something softer. Again. And again. A dull, sick rhythm that crawls down the corridor and finds you and by the time you see it, it’s already happening.
Anton stands over a boy on the ground. He curls inward, absorbing it, like he knows resistance only makes it last longer. For a second, you freeze. Because this isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t roughhousing or just plain stupidity.
This is something else. You move before you can think better of it. “Hey stop!” Your voice cuts through the hallway. You reach him, grabbing his arm, pulling him back. He lets you. Too easily. That’s what unsettles you.
“What are you doing?” you demand, breath tight, pulse already racing. The boy on the floor doesn’t look at you. Not once. Anton does. And he laughs. Not loud. Not wild. Just… amused. Like you’ve said something funny.
“What are you going to do?” he asks, stepping closer. You don’t step back. Every instinct tells you to, but something stubborn, something still clinging to the idea of authority, keeps you in place. You hold his gaze, even as something cold coils low in your stomach.
“Stop it. Now.”
Your voice is steadier than you feel. For a moment, it looks like he might say more. His expression shifts, just slightly like he’s considering you in a new way, recalibrating. The bell rings. The moment gone. He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Saved by the fucking bell.”
And just like that, it’s over. He turns, walking away like nothing happened, a few others falling into steps behind him without hesitation. Without question.
You’re left standing there, the echo of it still vibrating in your chest. You bend down quickly, reaching for the boy. “Are you okay? Let me—” He jerks away from you. Hard. “Don’t touch me.” The words hit sharper than you expect. You pull your hand back instinctively, staring at him.
“What?” His eyes flick up to yours then, and there’s something in them, something almost furious. “You just made it a hundred times worse for me.” The words land heavy. Before you can respond, he’s already pushing himself up, ignoring you completely as he walks away, shoulders stiff, movements strained but determined. You stay where you are. Kneeling. Useless. The hallway is empty now, like nothing ever happened. But it did.
You try to report it. Of course you do. You find Mrs. Baek in the staff room later, your hands colder than they should be, your words already forming before you reach her. “It’s about Anton—” She cuts you off instantly. Just a quiet, sharp “No.”
It stops you mid-breath. She glances around, checking the room like someone might be listening even when no one’s there. Then she leans closer, her voice dropping. “Unless you want to get fired,” she says, each word measured, “don’t even try to report him.”
Your stomach tightens. “What do you mean?” you ask, but it comes out smaller than you intend. Her expression doesn’t soften. “Others have,” she says. “They don’t work here anymore.” There’s something final in the way she says it. Not a warning. Not advice. A fact. She straightens, stepping away from you like the conversation never happened. Like you never spoke at all.
By the end of the week, everything looks the same. That’s what unsettles you most. Your coworkers still smile. They still greet you warmly, still ask how you’re settling in. The students still laugh, still answer questions, still play their parts perfectly.
Everything is normal. Except now you can see it. The gaps. The silences. The way conversations stop just a second too early when certain names come up. The way no one ever says Anton’s name unless they have to. The way he moves through the halls untouchable.
And the worse is the way he looks at you now. Not the same as before. Not just curious. Something deeper. Something that lingers. Like he’s waiting. Like he knows something you don’t. Or maybe like he knows exactly how this ends for you.
You’ve just pulled into your parking spot, the engine ticking as it cools, one foot already on the ground when it cuts through everything. A yelp. Not the usual low hum of a school morning, no chatter spilling across the lot, no easy laughter.
Then a crack follows.
You hear it before you see anything, before you even have time to turn, and something in you tightens, goes cold, because your body already knows this isn’t something you can ignore, or explain away, or walk past like it didn’t happen.
You follow it. Of course you do. Around the side of the building, where the cameras don’t quite reach, where the walls feel closer, the air thinner you find them. Anton’s fist connects with another student’s face. Once. Twice.
A third time that lands with a sickening finality, and the boy’s nose gives way under it. Blood spills instantly, bright and fast, too much, too sudden. It runs over his lips, his chin, dripping onto the concrete like something being poured out. For a second, you stop.
Not because you want to. Because something inside you hesitates, some instinct whispering that stepping in doesn’t end this. It changes it. Then you run towards them anyway.
“Stop!”
You grab him, your hand closing at his collar, your other pushing hard enough to break his rhythm. He stumbles back, off-balance, hitting the ground with more surprise than pain. It takes him a moment to process what’s happened. That you touched him. That you interrupted him.
You don’t wait. You turn to the student, crouching, your voice urgent. “Are you okay? Can you..” But he’s already moving. Not toward you. Away. He scrambles to his feet, blood still pouring, eyes wide but not with relief. With fear. “Wait!” you call after him.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look back. And that’s when your breath catches. Your hair jerks violently backward. A sharp, blinding pull that snaps your head up, your spine following, your breath catching somewhere between shock and pain. Fingers tangled deep, unrelenting, dragging you into position like something being arranged.
You gasp, your hands instinctively reaching up, but he’s already there. Behind you. Your neck strains as he forces your head back, your line of sight tilting until all you can see is him. Anton. His face inches from yours, his grip tight. His expression has shifted now, no softness, no amusement. Something irritated.
“It was cute,” he says, voice low, almost thoughtful. “But now it’s getting on my fucking nerves.” The words land slowly, each one deliberate. Like you’ve crossed into something that belongs to him. You don’t think. You react.
Your elbow drives back into his chest with everything you have. It connects to something solid enough to make him loosen his grip, just enough for you to tear yourself free. You stumble forward, spinning to face him, your pulse roaring in your ears.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap, your voice shaking despite you forcing it steady. “Put your hands on me or another student again and I’ll report you.”
For a second. Nothing. Then he laughs. Not a nervous one, it was entertained. “I’d like to see you try,” he says. There’s something in the way he says it that sinks deep, heavy, like a weight pressing into your chest.
“Don’t forget,” he continues, stepping closer again “my dad is the fucking dean.” The words feel like a door closing. “I could get your fucking smart ass fired.” You hold your ground. Barely. Because now you understand something you didn’t fully grasp before this isn’t bluff. This isn’t arrogance.
This is a system that bends around him.
He brushes past you, his shoulder knocking into yours hard enough to unbalance you, deliberate enough that you feel it long after he’s gone. You turn, watching him walk away, his pace unhurried, like there’s nothing in this world that can touch him. No consequences. No fear. Just control.
The space he leaves behind feels wrong. Disturbed. Like something’s been taken out of it and something else left in its place. You stand there, your scalp still aching, your breath uneven, your hands trembling despite how hard you try to steady them.
“Fucking asshole,” you mutter under your breath, the words small, thin, disappearing into the empty air around you.
Your hand felt heavy knocking on the dean’s office door “Come in.” His voice had sounded warm from the other side. It doesn’t feel warm now. “Ah,” Mr. Lee says as you step fully inside. “There you are.”
The office smells faintly of polish and something older underneath, something stale that doesn’t belong in a place this pristine.
He smiles like this is expected. Like you were always going to end up here, sitting across from him, the door at your back, the handle just out of your line of sight. “Good evening,” you manage. “Sit,” he says.
You do.
Because that’s what you’ve been doing since you arrived following instructions, trusting structure, believing there’s something solid beneath all of this. The chair feels too low. Or maybe he’s just sitting too high. It’s hard to tell.
You fold your hands together in your lap to stop them from moving. Your mind runs through the words you practiced, the careful phrasing, the professionalism, the facts. But now that you’re here. They don’t come out right.
“I just… wanted to talk about Anton.” There’s a pause. Mr. Lee leans forward slightly, his expression attentive, almost concerned. It’s convincing. “Oh?” he says. “Is something wrong?” For a second, you almost believe he doesn’t know.
“It’s just that I’ve noticed him… bullying some of his classmates.” The word hangs there. Ugly. Heavy. And he laughs. Softly. Briefly. Like you’ve misunderstood something simple.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call that bullying,” he says, leaning back now, relaxed again. “Just a couple of students having a disagreement. Nothing too bad.” Your stomach drops. “No, sir,” you say quickly, the words pushing out before you can stop them. “He was..”
“You’re new here.” It cuts through you cleanly. You stop speaking. Because something in the way he said it tells you that finishing that sentence would be a mistake. “This is normal,” he continues, his tone even, almost bored now. “You should stay out of it. Let them work it out among themselves.” Normal. The word echoes, wrong in your ears, like something distorted. “But sir”
“Listen.”
This time it’s sharper. Not raised, but heavier. It lands with weight. He leans forward again, and now you see it, what was hidden beneath the politeness, beneath the professionalism. “Unless you don’t want to work here again,” he says quietly, “I suggest you stay out of it.”
Your chest tightens. “There are… dynamics at this school you don’t yet understand.” Each word is chosen carefully. “And it would be wise not to involve yourself in matters that don’t concern you.” But it does concern you. That’s what sits, choking, just beneath your tongue.
You open your mouth and close it again. Because suddenly, you understand something you didn’t before. This isn’t a report. This isn’t a conversation. This is a warning. You sit there, staring at him, the silence stretching too long, your thoughts scrambling for something to hold onto.
There’s nothing. No support. No authority. Nothing. Just him. Watching you. “Okay,” you hear yourself say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. “Sir.” His smile returns. Like a switch being flipped. “Good,” he says lightly. “Enjoy your weekend.” Weekend.
The word feels absurd now. Meaningless. You stand too quickly, the chair scraping softly behind you. The sound makes you flinch, and you hate that it does. You turn toward the door, your fingers closing around the handle.
The hallway outside feels colder, wider. You walk faster than you mean to, your footsteps uneven, your mind replaying everything, every word, every look. By the time you reach your car, your hands are shaking. You sit inside, staring straight ahead, the engine still off, the silence pressing in around you.
And it hits you. Slow. Heavy. You can’t report him because the person you were supposed to go to, The person who was supposed to stop this is part of it. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel.
You thought this place was structured. Safe but now it feels like something else entirely. And as you sit there, alone in the fading light, one thought settles in, quiet and suffocating, you didn’t just fail to report him. You just told the wrong person everything.
The clock on your nightstand reads 9pm when the smash comes from your living room, like something heavy and alive just shattered against your floorboards. You stop dead.
Your feet hit the cold carpet before your brain catches up. Heart slamming against your ribs. Breath shallow. You creep toward your bedroom door because what else can you do? There’s no back exit from this room, just that thin slab of painted wood between you and whatever is breathing on the other side. You press your ear to the grain. Listening. Nothing.
Then the door explodes inward.
The impact lifts you off your feet. One second you’re standing, the next you’re airborne, then you’re skidding across the floor on your side, your temple cracking against the hardwood with a sound, you feel more than hear. The world tilts. Spins. Warmth trickles down the side of your face, into your hair, pooling in the hollow of your ear. Blood. You know it’s blood because you taste metal at the back of your throat.
A hand closes around your ankle.
You’re being dragged backward like a carcass being pulled from a road. He flips you onto your back with one rough shove, and the ceiling light blooms above you like a white, staring eye.
Anton.
His face swims into focus. That sharp jaw. Those pale, empty eyes that never quite looked at you like you were human. He’s smiling.
“Get off me,” you snarl, and you mean it. Your hand connects with his face a backhand that snaps his head to the side. Then your foot finds his stomach, and you feel something give beneath your heel. He flies backward, hits the bedroom door frame with a grunt, and you’re up. Moving. Jumping over his crumpled body like a hurdle. You make it three steps into the hallway before the kick comes.
His boot connects with your shin; the bone-deep pain is instant, nauseating and your body folds sideways into the wall. Plaster cracks under your shoulder. You try to push off, to run, but his hands are in your hair now, fistfuls of it, and he uses your own skull as a hammer against the wall. Once. Twice. Your vision fractures.
Then he’s dragging you again this time by the hair, your heels scraping uselessly against the floorboards, through the hallway, into the living room. He doesn’t stop. He throws you. You clear the coffee table like a rag doll and land in a heap on the other side, ribs screaming, lungs empty. “Fuck,” you gasp. The word barely makes a sound.
“You just had to mind your fucking business.” His voice is eerily calm. Conversational, almost. He walks toward you slowly, like he has all night. You try to crawl. Your arms are shaking. He grabs a fistful of your hair again not to drag this time, but to lift. He hauls you up until you’re kneeling, then standing on your toes, your scalp screaming, your neck bent at a brutal angle. His other hand cracks across your face. Your lip splits open.
Then his fingers close around your chin. He tilts your face toward his, and his eyes roam over you like he’s reading a menu. There’s nothing behind those eyes. No anger. No hate. Just the flat, curious hunger. “But no,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your bruised cheek. “You had to tattletale to my dad.”
“Please stop.” Your voice comes out tiny. A child’s voice. The voice of a woman who has just realized that no one is coming. “Please.” He tilts his head. His mouth curls. “Please,” he mimics, high and sweet and mocking. Then he laughs, his head thrown back, throat exposed, a raw, jagged sound that bounces off your walls like shattered glass.
When he looks at you again, the smile is gone. “Fucking headache,” he says, like he’s disappointed in you. Like you’ve ruined his evening. And then he kicks you again. This time, you hear your ribs crack before you feel them. The pain comes a second later a white-hot flood that fills your chest, your throat, your mouth. You curl inward, hands clutching at nothing, gasping for air that won’t come.
He crouches beside you. His breath smells like coffee and something rotten. “Don’t worry,” he says softly, and his hand comes down to stroke your hair with grotesque tenderness. “We’re just getting started.”
The clock is still ticking somewhere. You can hear it between the wet sounds, between your own ragged breaths, between the thud of your heart trying to punch its way out of your chest. You feel his finger first. Tracing your side. Light. Almost teasing. The pad of his fingertip drags along your ribs, slow, deliberate, and something inside you snaps.
Your leg draws back. Your foot connects with his face.
There's a crunch and then blood. Not yours this time. His. It gushes from his nose in a dark cascade, flooding down over his lips, his chin, dripping onto the floor in hot, fat splatters. He reels back, hands flying to his face, and for one brief, glorious second, you think you've won. He looks at his palms. Red. Glossy. His own blood. And then his face changes.
It doesn't twist with rage. Doesn't contort with pain. It goes dark like someone snuffed out a light behind his eyes. The shadows in the corners of the room seem to crawl toward him, pooling under his skin, sucking the last traces of humanity from his features. He's not a man anymore. He's something else. He reaches for you.
You're flipped onto your stomach before you can breathe. Your cheek smashes against the floor. Your nightshirt rides up, you feel the cold air on your lower back, then your underwear being yanked down, past your hips, past your thighs, snagging at your knees.
"No," you gasp. "No, no, no!"
But his weight drops onto you. All of it. His chest against your spine, his hips against yours, and then the push, the brutal, invasive, splitting push and you scream. A raw, guttural sound that tears out of your throat like something dying. Because you are dying. Something inside you is tearing. You can feel it, the wrongness, the stretch, the way your body is trying to reject him but can't, can't, can't because he's too heavy and too strong.
"Fuck, you're tight." His lips brush against your ear. His blood drips onto your neck. "Loosen up a bit." Loosen up. As if your body belongs to him. As if your pain is an inconvenience. "Get the fuck off me!" You scream it so loud your throat shreds. You try to buck, to throw him, to do anything but his arm is around your neck now, forearm pressing into your windpipe, and your voice cuts out like a snapped wire.
You can't breathe.
You try to claw at his arm, but your hands are pinned beneath you, trapped by your own weight and his. Your fingers scrabble uselessly against the floor. Your vision spots. Your lungs burn.
"This is what you deserve," he whispers, and you feel his smile against your neck. He's moaning now, low guttural, almost lazy like he's enjoying a cigarette. "To be fucked like a dirty fucking whore." He laughs. The sound vibrates through your back, through your ribs, through the place where he's splitting you open.
And then he rises up. Just slightly. Just enough for his weight to lift off your spine and you lunge. Desperate. Frenzied. You almost make it. But his hands catch yours. Slam them down. Pin them at the small of your back with one palm, and you're immobilized again, face-down, helpless, as he drives into you harder now, faster, chasing something you will never understand.
"I'm gonna cum."
You shake your head. No. No no no no no. The word dies in your throat.
"I don't fucking care, bitch."
He laughs again and then his hips stutter, and you feel it. That hot, flooding realization. The way your body becomes a vessel for something you never consented to. The way every muscle in you goes slack, not in relief but in surrender. In defeat.
The fight leaves you like a ghost abandoning a body. He pulls out. You feel every inch of it, the wreckage he leaves behind. A wet sound. A cold rush. "Fuck," he breathes, almost satisfied. Almost bored now.
You lie there. Your nightshirt still bunched around your ribs. Your underwear around your knees. Your face pressed into the floor where a smear of your own blood has dried. He stands. Zips his jeans. Wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
"Try to report this one," he says, and his voice is light. Pleasant, even. Like he's reminding you of a trivial task. The front door clicks shut. You don't move. The clock ticks. And in the silence, you realize the worst part isn't what he did. The worst part is the tiny, whispering voice in the back of your head that sounds just like him.
No one will believe you.
No one is coming.
You let this happen.
You lie there until the shadows shift, until the blood on your neck dries stiff and cracking, until the only thing left in the room is the smell of him and the sound of your own breathing, shallow, broken, and utterly alone.
"Tuesday, 11:47am" - Song Eun-seok (송은석) x f!reader
He learned your routine in one week. It wasn't hard. You're a creature of habit, which he loves about you.
content warnings - This story includes stalking behavior, instances of violence. It contains explicit sexual content, including non-consensual and dubiously consensual situations, overstimulation and creampie, fingering, and clit slapping. Blood is mentioned. Reader discretion is strongly advised. (requested)
word count : 4.1k
an. I changed up the formatting a bit this time and hopefully it reads more smoothly. I also decided to try something a little different with the content warning, so let me know how it feels.
Eunseok noticed you before you noticed him. It was History of Modern Architecture, a Tuesday, 11:47 in the morning, and the professor asked some question about Frank Lloyd Wright that nobody wanted to answer because everyone was hungover or texting or whatever.
But you raised your hand. You raised it slow, like you were scared, and when the professor called on you, your voice shook a little, but you got it right. And then you smiled.
This tiny, relieved smile, like you'd just passed a test you didn't study for. And Eunseok looked at that smile, and he felt something click into place inside his chest. Something that had been loose his whole life, finally, finally tight.
He learned your routine in one week. It wasn't hard. You're a creature of habit, which he loves about you. You go to class, you go to the library, you go to the café on 8th and Maple. The one where he works. The one where he makes your drink before you even order it because he knows oat milk latte, extra shot, one pump vanilla. You always look surprised when he hands it to you, like you can't believe someone remembered.
He tells himself he's only following you to make sure you're safe. That's reasonable. That's what anyone would do. The world is full of bad people, and you're so soft, so trusting, walking around with your headphones in and your head in the clouds. Someone has to watch out for you. Someone has to be there.
Today was like any other, at first. You wrapped up your last class of the week, and he watched you pack your bag, watched you tuck your hair behind your ear, watched you take your time the way you always do. But then you didn't. You looked at your phone, and your face changed this little flicker of something, excitement maybe and suddenly you were shoving your books in your bag and heading for the door.
He had to push past three people to get out, knocked someone's coffee out of their hand, didn't care. He caught up to you half a block later, kept his distance, followed you home. You rushed inside like you had somewhere to be, and he stood across the street and watched your window until the light came on. second floor, second from the left. He smiled. You were home. You were safe.
He was already turning to leave for his shift when your door opened again.
And there you were. Different. You'd changed into a dress, something dark blue, something that showed your shoulders, and you'd put on makeup, and your hair was down and shiny, and you looked like a dream. You looked like someone he didn't know. You looked like someone going somewhere he couldn't follow.
But he followed. Of course he followed.
You walked to the nice part of town, the part with the valet parking and the restaurants that don't have menus in the window. You went into one of them, all candlelight and white tablecloths, and he stood outside and watched you through the glass. He watched you walk to a table in the corner. He watched you smile at someone sitting there. A guy. Dark hair, nice jacket, the kind of face that probably never had to try.
He thought, okay. A friend. You're meeting a friend. That's fine. You're allowed to have friends. And then you leaned down and kissed him. Not on the cheek. On the mouth. A real kiss, the kind that means something, the kind that means everything.
Eunseok doesn't remember walking away. He just knows that suddenly he's on the other side of the street, and his hands are shaking, and there's this noise in his head, this high, thin whine, like a tea kettle about to scream. Because that guy in there, with his hand on your waist, with his mouth on yours and he doesn't know you.
He doesn't know that you bite your lip when you're thinking. He doesn't know that you trace shapes on tabletops when you're bored. He doesn't know that you leave your blinds open at night, just a crack, and that sometimes Eunseok stands on the fire escape and watches you read, watches you fall asleep, watches you turn over and mumble things in your sleep. He doesn't know any of that.
That guy is a stranger. And you kissed him like he wasn't.
Eunseok stands on the street corner, and he watches the restaurant, and he waits. He'll wait all night. He'll wait forever if he has to. Because eventually you'll come out, and you'll walk home, and you'll be alone again. And he'll be there. He'll always be there.
You don't know it yet, but you're his. You've been his since that Tuesday at 11:47. You just forgot to tell that guy. He'll help you remember.
Eunseok had a plan. A good one. He was going to meet you, finally meet you, in a way that felt natural. Like fate. Maybe you'd drop your books at the café, and he'd be there to pick them up. Maybe you'd order your usual and he'd say something funny about the weather, something charming, and you'd laugh that pretty laugh, and he'd say, hey, I get off in an hour, if you want to hang out. And you'd say yes. Of course you'd say yes. Because you're supposed to be together. That's the whole point.
But then this stranger had to ruin everything.
Eunseok stood outside the restaurant, hands in his pockets, and watched you through the window. Watched you smile. Watched you eat. Watched you laugh at something that guy said, some stupid joke probably, and your head tipped back and your shoulders shook and Eunseok wanted to be the one making you do that. He wanted to be sitting across from you, watching your eyes crinkle, watching you forget the rest of the world exists.
Hours passed. He didn't move.
Finally they stood up. Paid. Left. And there you were, standing outside under the streetlight, looking up at the sky like a little kid. You pointed at something a star, a planet, who cares and that guy smiled at you like he had any right to look at you that way. You checked your phone, said something, and then you both turned and started walking.
Down the street. Toward your building. Holding hands.
Eunseok followed. Of course he followed. He stayed behind a parked car across the street. His heart hammering. You didn't notice him. You were too busy looking at that guy, smiling at that guy, your fingers tangled with his like they belonged there. Like they'd always belonged there.
And Eunseok looked at that guy's neck. Looked at the curve of it, the way it moved when he laughed. He thought about how easy it would be. How fast. One second, two seconds, and that guy would never touch you again.
You reached your building. You stopped at the door. And you smiled at him at that stranger, that nobody like you were in love. Like you were actually in love with him. And Eunseok felt something boil over inside him, something hot and ugly and red.
You kissed him. Not a long kiss, but long enough. Long enough to mean something. And then you said something, words Eunseok couldn't hear, and you walked up to your door. You turned around at the last second, and you blew a kiss. A flying kiss. The stranger pretended to catch it and you laughed. That pretty sound. The one that belongs to Eunseok. The one he hears in his sleep. And then you went inside.
The door closed. The guy stood there for a minute, smiling like an idiot, then turned and walked away. Eunseok watched him go. Watched his back get smaller and smaller. And he thought about how easy it would be. How fast. Next time.
He stayed there, behind the car, and looked up at your window. The light came on. second floor, second from the left. He saw your shadow move across the curtain. He imagined you taking off your dress, washing your face, climbing into bed. He imagined you thinking about that guy, smiling about that guy, falling asleep with that guy's name in your head. He waited until your light went out. And then he waited some more.
Eunseok waited until the street was empty. Until the cars stopped passing, until the windows across the way went dark, until the world felt like it belonged to just him and you. Then he crossed the street.
Your door. He'd imagined touching this door a thousand times. Running his hands over the wood, pressing his ear against it, wondering what sounds lived on the other side. And now here he was. Here he actually was.
His hand traced the wood. Slow. Reverent. Like touching something holy. He smiled, because this was happening, this was really happening, and then he bent down. The mat. The ugly little mat with the flowers on it, the one you never remember to straighten. He'd watched you lift it so many times, watched you crouch down and feel around for the key you always forgot, and he'd thought, someday. Someday I'll be the one reaching under that mat.
Today was someday.
The key glinted in the streetlight. Small. Ordinary. Everything. He picked it up, and his fingers closed around it, and he felt the warmth of it, the warmth of your hands on it, and he almost couldn't breathe. He put it in the lock. Turned. Heard the click. And then he was inside.
Your home. Your actual home. The air was different in here softer, warmer, and there was a smell, that sweet smell, the one that clings to your clothes and your hair and the back of your neck. He stood in the dark hallway and just breathed it in. Let it fill his lungs. Let it become part of him.
He gave himself a little tour. Why not? It's his home too, eventually. He walked through the archway into the living room. Cozy. That's the word. You made it cozy, with the soft blankets and the candles you never burn and the books stacked on the floor because you don't have enough shelves. He sat on your couch. Your couch. He could feel the dent where you sit, the way the cushion gives a little more on one side. He closed his eyes and imagined you there, curled up, reading, maybe wearing those soft socks with the patterns on them. And then he opened his eyes and saw the picture.
On the center table. Right there, like you wanted him to see it. You and that guy. That stranger. Your faces pressed together, smiling, happy, like you belonged to each other. Like you'd always belonged to each other. Eunseok picked up the frame. Held it in both hands. Looked at your face first, your pretty, pretty face and then looked at the guys. That stupid smile. That stupid jacket. That stupid hand on your shoulder like he had any right.
He ripped open the back of the frame. The little metal tabs cut his thumb, but he didn't feel it. He pulled the picture out and tore it right down the middle. Your half. Guys half. He dropped his part on the floor, let it fall like trash, because that's what it was. And the other half, your half, your beautiful half he folded carefully and slid into his pocket. Right over his heart. Then he stood up. There was more. There was always more.
He made his way up the stairs, slow, savoring. His hand traced the railing, and he imagined your hand doing the same thing every day. Your palm on this wood. Your fingers curling around it. He wondered if you ran up when you were excited or trudged up when you were tired. He wondered everything. The top of the stairs. A hallway. Two doors. One open the bathroom, he could see the edge of the shower curtain. One closed. Your bedroom.
He put his hand on the knob. Cold metal. Perfect. And he thought about how easy it would be. How fast. One twist, and he could be inside. He could lie on your bed. He could put his face in your pillow. He could wait for you to come home, and when you walked in, when you saw him there, you'd understand. You'd finally understand that this is where you belong. With him. Together. He didn't open the door. Not yet.
But his hand stayed on the knob. And he smiled. Because he could. That's the thing. He could do it whenever he wants. Tonight. Tomorrow. Any night.
Eunseok pushed the door open, and there you were. There you actually were.
In all your glory. Sleeping. Pretty. So pretty it made his chest hurt. The light from the window spilled a little light across your bed, just enough to see, just enough to drink you in. You were on your side, the sheet pooled at your waist, and your top half..god, your top half was covered by this little tank top, something small and soft, with a tiny bow right in the center. Right between your breasts. The swell of them moved with your breathing, slow and steady, like waves. Like you were dreaming something nice. Something peaceful.
Your skin. He'd imagined your skin a thousand times. Imagined what it would feel like, what it would taste like, whether you'd be warm or cool to the touch. And now here you were. Here he was. He sat down on the edge of your bed and the mattress dipped, just a little.
He reached out. He couldn't help it. His fingers found your neck, that soft curve where your pulse lived, and he traced it. Light. Gentle. Like you were made of glass. Like you were made for him.
He was so caught up…so lost in the feel of you, the warmth of you, the impossible reality of finally touching you that he didn't notice at first. Didn't notice that your breathing changed. Didn't notice that your eyes were open. And then he looked up. And you were looking at him.
Wide eyes. Huge eyes. The kind of eyes that see a stranger in their bedroom in the middle of the night. The kind of eyes that don't understand yet. "Hey babe," he said, and his voice came out soft, gentle, the way you talk to something frightened. "I missed you." You blinked. Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Who are you?"
The words hit him like a slap. Who are you. Like he was nobody. Like he was nothing. Like you didn't know that he's the one who makes your coffee every morning, the one who watches you walk home every night, the one who's been loving you since that Tuesday at 11:47.
"It's me," he said, and he tried to smile, tried to make it okay. "It's Eunseok." You pushed his hand away. Actually pushed it. Like he was garbage. Like he was the stranger. "Get out." Your voice was small but sharp. "Get out now, and I won't call the police." Police. The word hung in the air between you, ugly and wrong. Police. Like this was a crime. Like love was a crime.
Eunseok tilted his head. Frowned. You were confused, that was all. Still sleepy. Still not understanding. "Calm down, love," he said, and he reached for your face again, wanting to smooth the fear away, wanting to make you see. "You're probably still sleepy. Just—"
You slapped his hand. Actually slapped it. The sound cracked through the room, sharp and disrespectful. And Eunseok felt something shift. Something go hot and tight in his chest.
He reached for you again to grab you, to hold you, to make you understand and your fist connected with his nose. A punch. You punched him. Pain exploded across his face, hot and wet, and his head snapped back and he let go, hands flying to his nose, blood dripping through his fingers.
And when he looked at you again, everything was red.
He grabbed you by the hair. Handful of it, yanking, and you screamed, the kind that should wake the neighbors but he didn't care. He pulled you off the bed, dragged you across the floor, and you landed hard, the impact punching the air out of you. He stood over you, breathing hard, blood still dripping, and he heard himself yelling but the words didn't matter. What mattered was that you did this. You made it ugly. You made it violent. This could've been sweet. This could've been beautiful. But you had to be such a noisy bitch.
You scrambled up. Ran for the door. Fast, faster than he expected, but not fast enough. He caught you, grabbed you, slammed you into the wall. Your body hit hard, and he was on you, pressing against you, trapping you there with his weight and his heat and his anger. And then you stopped moving.
You went still. Completely still. And he knew why. Because you could feel him. Pressing into you from behind. Hard and ready and so desperate for you it hurt.
"You feel what you do to me?" he murmured, and his voice was soft again now, almost wondering. His nose nestled into your hair, breathing in. Roses. Sweet roses. Your shampoo. He'd smelled it a hundred times from across the café, but this…this was different. This was everywhere. This was everything.
"Eunseok… please get off me." Your voice was shaking. Begging. You turned your neck, trying to look at him, trying to reach him with your eyes. He smiled. "No, love." The words came out whiny. Needy. The way a child asks for something they want more than anything in the world.
"I need you. I need this." His hand slid around your body, down your stomach, lower, lower, until he found you. And when he did when he felt how wet you were, how ready he smiled against your hair. "And it seems you want this too."
You tried to squirm away, but he was faster. His hand grabbed the hem of your shorts, yanked them down, and they fell to the floor with your underwear, pooling around your ankles. His hand came back, found you again, and his fingers started moving. Circles. Slow at first. Teasing. Exploring. Your breath hitched. You couldn't help it. He heard it, felt it, and he smiled.
The other hand wrapped around your waist, pressing you harder into the wall, holding you steady while his fingers worked. Circles, then deeper, then a finger pushing inside. Slow. So slow. He wanted you to feel every second of it. Every inch. You groaned. Tried to hide it. Failed.
"Please," you whispered. "Please stop." But you were tight around him, and when he felt you clench, he sped up. Faster. Harder. Matching the rhythm of his own breathing, his own need. "You gonna come, love?" he whispered against your ear. "This pussy gonna come?"
You didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Your body was betraying you, arching into his hand, chasing something you didn't want to want. And when you came..when you finally shattered against his fingers, body lurching forward, a sound escaping your throat that wasn't quite a scream, he smiled. He pulled out slowly. Let you feel the emptiness. And then he tapped your clit. Lightly. Once. Twice. Three times.
You flinched with every tap. Every flinch made him laugh. "See?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. "I knew you'd understand eventually. I knew you'd feel it too."
He pulled back and turned you around to just enough to look at you. To see your face. Your tears. Your fear. And he smiled, soft and sweet, like this was exactly what he'd always wanted. “Fuck” he said looking at you.
He pushed you into the wall. Not hard, not mean, just firm. The way you push someone when you need them to understand something important. The wall shook a little but you didn't notice. You never notice anything. That's okay. He notices enough for both of you.
He kissed you like a hungry man. Like a man who'd been starving his whole life and finally, finally got to eat. His mouth on yours, taking, taking, because you'd been holding out on him and he deserved this. He deserved you.
His free hand, the one not gripping your waist, not holding you in place that hand went to his pants. Unbuttoned. Unzipped. Pulled himself out because he needed you to feel him, needed you to know what you did to him. He stroked himself while he kissed down your neck, slow, savoring, and then he found that spot, that perfect spot right below your ear, and he sucked. Hard. He was going to leave a mark. A big one. The kind that takes days to fade. The kind that makes people look and wonder and know. Know that you belong to someone. Know that you belong to him.
He grabbed your legs and you yelped, that little sound, that perfect little surprised sound and your hands flew to his neck, holding on, and your legs wrapped around his waist like they were made to be there. Like they'd always been waiting for this moment. He used one hand to reach under you, position himself, line up, and then he pushed in. The sound you made. God. The sound you made.
He smiled. He couldn't help it. Because you felt like home. You felt like everything. He started fucking into you, hard and fast and desperate, because he'd waited so long and he couldn't wait anymore. "Oh god," he said. "Fuck….Lord…" His voice came out whiny, high, like he was the one being taken apart. "Shit…Fuck….Oh god." He pressed his face into your neck, breathed you in. "God, baby, you feel so good. You feel so fucking good."
He lifted you a little, adjusted his grip, held you by the underside of your thighs so he could look at you. Really look at you. And there you were. Your face, that beautiful face, completely wrecked. Mouth open, little breaths puffing out, eyes half-closed, gone. You were gone. You were his.
He smiled again and walked to the bed. Dropped both of you down, never pulling out, never stopping, just kept moving inside you because he couldn't not. Because stopping would be like stopping breathing.
Your hands let go of his neck, fell above your head, and he looked at you. Your body on his bed..your bed, laid out like a offering. Pornographic. Perfect. He was close. So close. But he wanted to hold out. He wanted to make this last. "Baby," he chanted. "Baby, baby, baby." "Eunseok," you whispered. "Eunseok." Soft. Like a prayer. He loved the way his name sounded in your mouth. Loved it.
"You close, baby?" he asked, and his voice was sweet, so sweet, like he was asking if you wanted more cream in your coffee. "You about to come on my cock, huh, baby? You gonna do that for me?" He reached down and found your clit. Red. Puffy. He started rubbing, slow circles at first, then faster, because he knew what you needed even if you didn't. Your hand came up, tried to push him away. "Too much," you begged. "Too much, too sensitive—"
But Eunseok didn't care. He grabbed your wrist, pinned it down, used his other hand to keep rubbing. He pushed into you harder, faster, set a rhythm that left no room for argument. His thumb worked your clit at a ridiculous speed, merciless, because mercy was for people who didn't understand what this was.
"Too sensitive," you begged again, and your voice broke, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. "Come on this cock, baby," he said, and he knew that didn't make sense, but nothing made sense anymore except you. "It's yours. It's always been yours. So make it yours. Come. Come for me, baby."
"Shit," he gasped. "I'm cumming. I'm—" And he did. He came inside you hard, painted your walls, filled you up, and some spilled out, leaked onto the sheets, and he kept moving, kept going, because you weren't there yet, you weren't..
And then you were. Seconds later. Your body spasming around him, pulling him deeper, and he felt every pulse, every clench, every tiny movement you made. He stayed inside you after. Didn't want to leave. Didn't want to ever leave.
When he finally pulled out, he laid next to you. Your fucked-out body, limp and spent and perfect. He turned to look at you. Smiled. Reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, the way he'd imagined doing a thousand times.
"Now," he said, soft and sweet, like this was normal, like this was how people said hello. "Let's try this again. Hi, babe. I missed you."
"I've wanted you for so long" - Nakakita Yuma (中耒田悠真) x f!reader
"Don't be afraid," he murmured, and his hand found your cheek again. "I'm not him. I'll never be him. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything. You'll never have to be afraid again." The ceiling stain watched you from above. The crack in the plaster seemed to widen, just slightly.
content warnings - depictions of an abusive relationship, graphic violence, and non-consensual/dubious consent. Includes bodily harm, oral (f!receiving), creampie, character death, unsettling behavior, pervasive dread, and a sense of hopelessness.
word count : 6.3k
This is the sixth and final installment of The Silver Screen Haunting Series.
“You don’t want to miss it. Not after everything it took to bring you here.”
There he was again. Across the street, standing so still he might have been a fixture of the twilight, a shadow that had learned to stand upright. You told yourself it was a trick of the light, a fugitive from a nightmare you hadn't quite woken from, but no. He was there, his face a pale smudge in the gloom, watching. A part of you, a small, frayed part, wanted to march over, to demand what he wanted, to scream until the world made sense again. But the impulse died as quickly as it came, smothered by a heavier, more familiar dread. You had to get back. He'd be home soon.
The house swallowed you whole, its silence a held breath. You moved through the kitchen on autopilot, your hands chopping, stirring, but your attention was snagged on the clock. Its second hand didn't tick it crawled, each sweep a tiny, deliberate scrape against your nerves. You counted the increments, a private liturgy of anxiety, watching the numbers on the stove flicker towards the appointed hour.
You were reaching to switch off the burner when you heard it the crunch of tires on the driveway, precise as a metronome. Your eyes darted to the clock. 5:00. On the dot. As always. You were at the door, a smile already pinned to your face, when he came in. You didn't need to look at his eyes to know the air around him seemed to curdle, to shrink. You were already moving, bending to pluck his shoes from his feet, your movements quick and appeasing. You straightened up, offered him the smile, a little wider now, a little brighter. "Welcome home." He tapped your head, once, a perfunctory pat. Then a kiss on your forehead, his lips dry and cool. For a heartbeat, the world felt almost safe. Then the sweetness evaporated.
"Why are you so happy?" His voice was soft, too soft. His eyes, however, were not. They were flat, dark, and utterly familiar in their capacity for sudden violence. The silence that followed your own was a physical weight. Before you could even formulate a reply, his hand connected with your cheek. The crack was sharp, brittle, and your head snapped to the side, a constellation of pain flaring behind your eye. But his hand was there instantly, gripping your chin, forcing your face back to his, his fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath your jaw. "Wipe that fucking smile off your face. Okay?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He just shoved your head away, a gesture of utter dismissal, and began to tear at the knot of his tie, the silk hissing against itself as he walked past you into the house, leaving you standing in the hallway, the ghost of a smile still stinging on your lips.
You followed him to the bedroom, your footsteps careful, placing each one as if the floor might register your weight and betray you. He stood with his back to you, working the knot of his tie, and you began the familiar ritual of helping him undress, your hands hovering near his jacket, his shirt, never quite touching until absolutely necessary. The air in the room felt thick, used up. You had something to ask him. The words sat in your throat like something spoiled. "Hey," you started, and the syllable hung there, fragile. "Can I go visit my mom? For a couple of days." He didn't turn. His shoulders moved slightly as he worked his arms free of the jacket. "Mmh," he said. "Sure."
You almost didn't register it. You'd been braced for the push-back, the questions, the narrowing of his eyes that preceded the shift. But it came so easily a grunt of assent, dismissive as a wave. You felt yourself smile, a reflex you couldn't suppress. "Thank you." He turned then. The jacket was off, draped over one arm, and his face was unreadable in the grey light filtering through the curtains. "When do you plan to leave?"
You hadn't thought that far. You hadn't thought at all beyond the asking, beyond the hope of permission. Now the question sat between you, demanding an answer. "Day after tomorrow," you heard yourself say. The words came from somewhere automatic, somewhere that knew better than to hesitate. "So Friday." "Yeah." You nodded, a little too eagerly. "I can stay the weekend. Be back before you get home from work on Monday."
He looked at you for a moment longer than felt comfortable, then left the room, his cologne trailing behind him like something dead. You stood very still, listening to his footsteps recede down the hall. Then, alone, you let yourself breathe. Two days. You could survive two days. And then you would be rid of him forever.
Because you weren't going to your mother's. That was a lie, soft and necessary as a bandage over a wound you couldn't show anyone. You were leaving the country. You had to. You couldn't stay here with him, couldn't keep walking these eggshell floors, couldn't keep measuring your breaths to his moods. You would rather die than stay and that thought, once admitted, opened something in you, a space where a plan could grow. You just needed a reason not to be home. Just a few days' head start. Just Friday. You smiled to yourself in the dim bedroom, and the genuine smile felt strange on your face, like a muscle you'd forgotten how to use.
After dinner you stood at the sink, your hands submerged in water gone grey with grease, watching the window above the faucet reflect the kitchen back at you. The light inside made the glass a mirror, and you could see yourself there, a woman moving slowly, methodically, as if afraid that any abrupt gesture might shatter something. The dishes clinked softly against each other, a sound like distant wind chimes in a house with no wind. Then something fell in the living room. Not loud just a soft, furtive thump, as though someone had bumped against a piece of furniture and caught themselves just in time.
You turned off the tap. The water's sudden absence left a ringing silence. You called out to him. Your voice sounded thin, unused. But you could hear the shower still running down the hall, water drumming against tile, and no response came. You dried your hands on your trousers as you moved through the house, not wanting to leave damp prints on anything, though you couldn't have said why that mattered. The living room was dim, the lamp in the corner doing little more than push the shadows back a few feet. Nothing seemed out of place. The cushions on the sofa still held the shallow indentation where he'd sat before dinner. The television stared blankly at nothing.
You looked around, your gaze traveling slowly, not quite sure what you were searching for. Then your foot nudged something on the carpet. You looked down. A photograph lay face-up on the floor, its glass unbroken, its frame knocked askew. You bent to retrieve it, your knees cracking softly in the quiet, and when you saw what it was you felt something tighten in your chest. It was you on your wedding day. You were smiling, truly smiling, the kind of smile that comes from somewhere deeper than the mouth. You remembered that day. You remembered believing things would be different. If you had known then if someone had leaned close and whispered what your life would become, what he would become, the shape he would carve out of you. You would have run. You would have gathered your dress in your hands and run until your lungs burned.
But no one had told you. And here you were. You placed the photograph carefully back on the end table, next to the lamp, adjusting it until it stood straight. You didn't look at it again. You turned and walked back to the kitchen, to the waiting dishes, to the grey water, to the window where a woman watched you with your own face.
You didn't notice the figure behind the wall.
You didn't see the shape that had been standing there all along, pressed into the narrow space between the bookcase and the hallway, breathing in shallow, silent pulls. You didn't feel its gaze on your back as you passed, didn't register the way the shadows seemed thicker in that corner, didn't hear the almost imperceptible shift of weight as it watched you return to your chores.
It watched you go. It watched you slip through the kitchen door and vanish from sight. Then, slowly, it stepped into the room. It moved toward the photograph you had just straightened, studying it in silence, as if committing every detail to memory. After a moment, it turned and climbed the stairs without a sound. Up to your bedroom. Back to its hiding place. Under your bed.
The two days passed in a haze of small motions, the kind of time that slips through your fingers no matter how tightly you try to hold. You went through the motions: morning coffee, his exit at precisely the same minute, the long hours of waiting punctuated by the small rituals of survival. But something gnawed at the edges of your awareness, a persistent itch you couldn't quite locate.
Things kept disappearing. Your mother's locket, the one you'd hidden in a sock at the back of your drawer. Gone. A photograph of you and your sister as kids, tucked inside a book you hadn't opened in years. Vanished. Underwear, too, pieces you'd folded and placed carefully, only to find gaps in the stack like missing teeth. You looked for them sometimes, absently, your hands patting empty surfaces as if the objects might materialize through sheer confusion. But mostly you didn't care. You were leaving. None of it would matter soon. The thought sustained you, a tiny flame you cupped against a wind that never stopped blowing.
Friday evening arrived with the quality of held breath. You sat across from him at the dinner table, the same table where you'd sat a thousand times, the wood marked with the ghost rings of a thousand glasses. You were eating or pretending to, pushing food around your plate in patterns that might suggest appetite when he stopped. His fork clinked against his plate. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping the floor in a way that made your teeth ache. He left the room. You heard him in the study, opening a drawer, closing it. Then footsteps returning, measured, unhurried.
He placed your laptop on the table in front of you. The screen was lit, and on it, displayed as if waiting for your attention, were your plane tickets. One-way. To England. The date was Monday. The name was yours. The spoon fell from your hand. It hit the floor with a sound too small for the terror that flooded through you, and you watched it bounce once, twice, before coming to rest against the table leg. Then you looked up at him. He was standing over you, and he was smiling. You knew that smile. You knew it the way you knew the creak of a particular floorboard, the way you knew the precise moment the light left a room when he entered. That smile meant you had already paid for something you hadn't yet done.
You stood. The chair scraped back, caught on the rug, tipped slightly before righting itself. You stepped away from the table, your hands rising in front of you as if they could ward off what was coming. "Please," you heard yourself say. The word didn't sound like yours. "Please, I can explain, I wasn't really—" He took a step towards you. Then another. His feet moved with the patience of someone who knew there was nowhere to go. You turned and ran.
The living room opened before you, the front door a dark rectangle at the far end, so close you could almost feel the handle in your palm. Your feet pounded the carpet, your breath tore from your throat, and then something hit you from behind, hard, driving you forward, driving you down.
The floor rose to meet you. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, left you gasping, your cheek pressed against the fibers of the carpet, the smell of dust and footsteps filling your nose. Before you could move, before you could even understand what had happened, his weight was on you. His fist connected with the side of your head. The world dissolved into light, into ringing, into a sound like bells heard underwater. Another blow, and another, each one driving you further from yourself, further from the room, further from the front door that had been so close, so close, and now might as well have been in another country.
He got up. You felt the weight lift, felt the pressure release, and for a moment you thought it was over. But then his foot connected with your ribs and you folded around the impact, a sound escaping you that wasn't quite a scream. He kicked you again, turning you over, and the carpet fibers scraped against your cheek, your nose, the soft skin beneath your eyes.
His foot kept coming down. Ribs, hip, thigh each blow landed with a hollow thud that you felt in your teeth, in the back of your skull, in places you didn't have names for. His voice came to you in waves, rising and falling like a signal struggling through interference. "...think you could leave me... bitch... belong to me..." The words slipped in and out of focus. You heard "kill" and "before" and "fucking" and the shapes of them registered somewhere, but they seemed to belong to another language, another life, another woman who wasn't lying on this carpet with her blood spreading in patterns she couldn't see. "...I'll fucking kill you before you even try."
Your eyes were closing. You didn't decide to close them. They simply grew heavy, too heavy, and the light diminished to a thin grey line, then to nothing. The sounds continued for a while the impact of his foot, the grunt of his effort, the wet sound of your own breathing but they were receding, traveling away from you down a long tunnel. Then something changed. A sound like wet fabric tearing. A spray across your face, warm and sudden, shocking in its intimacy. A thud, heavier than the others, that seemed to shake the floor beneath you.
Then hands. Not his hands these were different, softer, trembling. They touched your face, your shoulders, your arms, and a voice was saying something, asking something, the same thing over and over. "Are you okay? Can you hear me? Are you okay?" You tried to answer. You tried to open your eyes, to see who had come but you had no energy left.
When you came to, you were in your bedroom. The ceiling was the same ceiling a hairline crack you'd traced a thousand times with your eyes, a water stain in the corner that had always reminded you of a map of somewhere you'd never go. The light was different, though. Softer. You couldn't tell if it was morning or evening, couldn't piece together how you'd gotten from the living room floor to here, couldn't feel anything but a vast, hollow ache that seemed to occupy the space where your body used to be. How long had you been out?
The door opened before you could move, before you could even think about moving. And he walked in. The man from across the street. The one who'd stood in the twilight like a shadow with patience, watching you. He was inside now, inside your bedroom, and you should have been afraid, should have screamed, should have done something, but your body wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't do anything but lie there and watch him approach. "Hi," he said.
The word was so ordinary, so casual, that it seemed to belong in a different room entirely. He pulled the chair from your dressing table and sat down beside the bed, close enough that you could see the pores of his skin, the way his eyes moved across your face as if reading something written there. "It's me," he said. "Yuma." You stared at him. The name meant nothing. It floated in the space between you, empty as a cup with no bottom.
"Who?" The word slipped out before you could stop it, and you watched something cross his face. A flicker. A shadow behind the eyes. Sadness, maybe. Or disappointment. The look a teacher gives a student who should know better. Then he smiled. It wasn't a warm smile it was the kind of smile someone wears when they've decided to be patient with you, when they're willing to wait for you to catch up. "Well," he said, "it has been a long time since we last saw each other. We went to high school together."
And something clicked. A door opening in a part of your mind you hadn't visited in years. You saw fluorescent lights, scuffed linoleum, the smell of cafeteria food and sweat. You saw a boy at the back of the classroom, always at the back, never speaking, never raising his hand, never looking at anyone. His hair hung in his face. His clothes were always a size too big. You'd felt sorry for him once, walking past his desk, and you'd said hi. Just hi. Just that one word, tossed like a coin to a beggar. You'd never actually talked to him. Never thought of him again after your parents moved. Until now.
He was still smiling, watching you remember. And you lay there in your bed, in your room, in the house where your husband had been beating you on the living room floor however long ago, and you tried to understand why this man was here, why he was sitting in your chair, why his smile didn't reach his eyes, why he'd been watching your house, why he'd come inside or was he always inside. You tried to understand, but your thoughts kept sliding away, slippery as something wet, and all you could do was lie there and feel the ache in your body and watch him watch you back.
There wasn't any logical reason for him being inside your house. The thought circled you, a moth bumping against a lamp, as you lay there trying to piece together the minutes, the hours, the gap in your memory where the world had gone dark. And your husband, where was he? Not that you cared, but you needed to understand. You needed to know what had happened, what was happening, what shape this new terror was taking. You did what you'd always done. You remained calm. You pressed yourself flat against the bed and became the person you needed to be.
"Yes," you said. "I do remember you." The smile he gave you was almost gentle. He leaned closer, and his hand found yours, his fingers wrapping around your knuckles with a possessiveness that made something inside you shrivel. Every instinct screamed at you to pull away, to yank your hand back and hide it beneath the covers, but you didn't. You couldn't. You sat there and let him hold you and listened to him talk.
He spoke about high school. About the day you'd said hi to him, the only time anyone had spoken to him like a person, like he mattered. He spoke about watching you leave, about the years that followed, about searching for you, about finally finding you. His voice was soft, almost reverent, and it filled the room until the walls seemed to press closer. You waited for a pause. Any pause. And when it came a breath, a moment of silence between his words and you seized it. "Can I use the bathroom?"
The question hung there, small and ordinary. He looked at you for a long moment, his head tilting slightly, and you wondered if he could see through you, if he could read the escape plan written behind your eyes. "Oh," he said. "Of course." He stood, helped you rise from the bed. Your head rang with the movement, a high, thin sound like a distant alarm, but you focused. You focused on the door, on the hallway, on the stairs beyond. You focused on getting out. "Can you wait here?" you asked.
"Yeah." He sat back down in the chair, settling into it as if he belonged there. "Come back quick." You walked towards the bathroom. His eyes followed you. You could feel them on your back, on your shoulders, on the space between your shoulder blades. You kept walking, kept your pace steady, kept yourself from running too soon. The bathroom door was inches away and then in a quick motion you turned and ran.
The bedroom door slammed against the wall as you tore it open. The hallway blurred past the familiar wallpaper, the photograph you'd straightened days ago, the narrow space that had never seemed so long. Behind you, his footsteps started. Not running at first, just quick, purposeful steps, the steps of someone who knew they'd catch up. "Don't—" His voice came from behind you, thin and urgent. "Don't go down there!" You hit the stairs. Your feet tangled, you grabbed the railing, you nearly fell, nearly tumbled headfirst into whatever waited below. But you caught yourself, gathered yourself, skipped the last step entirely and landed hard on the floor of the living room. And stopped.
The body lay sprawled on the carpet, arms and legs at angles that suggested something other than sleep. You stared at it, at the shape of it, at the clothes that were so familiar, at the stillness that was so absolute. You stepped forward. Your foot touched something an arm, a hand and you nudged, and the body rolled, and you saw his face.
Your husband's face.
His neck was open. A wide, dark smile cut across his throat, the edges of it curled slightly, revealing things beneath that should never be seen. The carpet around him was dark, so dark, and the smell was already beginning to rise. You stepped back. Your hand covered your mouth. Your mind refused to accept what your eyes were showing it. Behind you, footsteps on the stairs. Soft, unhurried. Coming closer.
You jumped. You leapt over your husband's body, over the ruin of him, over the arm that lay across your path like an obstacle placed deliberately. But even in death, even with his throat opened and his blood soaking into the fibers, he was still in your way. Your foot caught on his hand. You stumbled. The coffee table rushed up to meet you, and your head connected with its edge, and the world became a spinning thing, a tilting thing, a thing that wouldn't hold still.
Soft feet crossed the floor. Hands found you, lifted you, held you close to a chest that rose and fell with steady breath. "Let's go back to bed," Yuma said. And all you could think, as the darkness folded around you again, as the pain in your head pulsed like a second heart, was that you'd escaped one psychopath only to find yourself in the hands of another. The thought followed you down into unconsciousness, a small, bitter flame that refused to go out.
He carried you back to the bedroom, but something had shifted. The gentleness he'd shown before, the careful way he'd helped you from the bed, the reverent holding of your hand all of it was gone, shed like a skin he no longer needed. He dropped you. Just let go, and you hit the floor hard, your hip striking first, then your shoulder, then the side of your head where the coffee table had already left its mark.
The door slammed shut. His foot connected with it, a kick that rattled the frame, and then he was pacing, his hands pressed to his head, his fingers curling into his hair. His white t-shirt had ridden up, and you saw it a tattoo peeking from his hip, dark lines against pale skin, shapes you couldn't quite make out in the dim light. You didn't want to see more. His smile was gone. In its place was something raw, something fraying at the edges.
"I didn't want you to see that," he said. The words came out in bursts, pushed through clenched teeth. "I didn't want you to—down there—I didn't want—" He paced. Back and forth, back and forth, a path wearing itself into the carpet. You crawled towards the bed, slowly, carefully, not wanting to draw his attention, not wanting to become the focus of whatever was building in him. Your back pressed against the mattress. Your fingers found the edge of the duvet and held on. Then he made a grab for you.
Your hand came up, slapping at his, pushing him away, a reflex you couldn't control. It didn't matter. His hand found your neck anyway, fingers wrapping around your throat, and he lifted not hard enough to choke, just hard enough to move you, to toss you onto the bed like something weightless, something that belonged to him. You knew that gaze. You knew it the way you'd known your husband's, the way you'd learned to read the weather in a shift of expression, a tightening of the jaw, a flicker in the eyes. You knew what he wanted. You knew what was coming.
So you did what you'd always done. You did what you needed to survive. He stepped between your thighs. His hands found the hem of your dress, hiked it up, bunched the fabric around your waist. You didn't fight. You didn't move. You turned your head to the side and stared at the ceiling, at the hairline crack you'd traced a thousand times, at the water stain in the corner that had always reminded you of a map of somewhere you'd never go. You got yourself ready. You made your mind a small, still place, a room within a room, a place he couldn't reach. And you waited for it to be over.
What you didn't expect was his tongue. You'd braced yourself for the weight of him, the crushing familiarity of it, the thing you'd learned to endure with your mind in that small, still room behind your eyes. But instead warmth. Wetness. A pressure that made your whole body seize, your hips lifting off the bed before you could stop them. You looked down. He was on his knees.
The sight of him there, between your thighs, his face pressed to you, his nose nudging against you with an intimacy that stole your breath it didn't match anything you understood. This wasn't how these things went. This wasn't the taking, the using, the quick, brutal transaction you'd learned to survive. This was something else entirely. His tongue moved, and your leg jerked, your knee coming up, your hands reaching down to push at his shoulders, his head, anything to make it stop. It was too much. The sensation was too sharp, too bright, too present in a body you'd trained to feel nothing.
"Stop—" you heard yourself say, but the word came out wrong, breathless, nothing like the command you'd intended. He didn't stop. His free hand came up, pressed flat against your chest, and pushed you back down into the mattress. His fingers found your breast under your dress, cupping it, thumb brushing across the nipple in a way that made your back arch. And still his mouth worked, his tongue tracing patterns you couldn't follow, couldn't predict, couldn't defend against. Your hand found his hair. You didn't remember reaching for him, didn't remember deciding to touch him, but there your fingers were, buried in the strands, and instead of pushing him away they were pulling him closer, pressing him harder against you, demanding more. You needed more.
He gave you more. His fingers joined his mouth, sliding into you, and your hips rose off the bed to meet them, to meet him, your body betraying every careful wall you'd built, every trick you'd learned for surviving the thing that men did to you. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to push him away, to reclaim some piece of yourself before it was too late. But your body, your traitorous, hungry body only wanted more.
You didn't know when your hands had moved from his hair to the sheets. The fabric was bunched in your fists, twisted tight, the tension traveling up your arms and settling somewhere in your chest. He surfaced for a moment, just long enough to smile at you, soft at the edges and then his lips found the inside of your thigh. He kissed you there like a lover, like someone with all the time in the world, like the violence downstairs and the hand-print on your neck belonged to someone else entirely. His hand left your chest. You felt the absence as a coolness, a small loss, and then his fingers were wrapping around your thigh, drawing you closer to his face, and he went back to what he'd been doing. The room had shrunk to the space between you, to the rhythm of his movements, to the heat that was building whether you wanted it or not.
You held the sheets tighter. Your eyes found the ceiling, the hairline crack, the water stain. But it looked different now. The stain seemed to pulse, to breathe, to shift in the corner of your vision. You couldn't look away from it, couldn't focus on anything but the shape it was becoming, the way it seemed to reach towards you across the plaster. "Are you close?" His voice rose from somewhere below you, soft as a question asked in church. So different from what you knew. So different from what you'd braced yourself for.
You nodded. Your throat wouldn't form words, wouldn't make sounds, wouldn't do anything but let out the small, involuntary breaths that escaped without permission. He smiled again you saw it, just for a moment, before he lowered his head and then you were gone, your body rising and then falling back to the mattress, your dress clinging to your skin like something alive. He kissed you there. Gently. Reverently. Then he was rising, his hands finding your face, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that made your chest ache in ways you couldn't name. He kissed you deeply, and you tasted yourself on his tongue, salt and something else, something intimate.
When he pulled back, his hands went to his pants. His fingers worked the buckle of his belt, slow and deliberate, and through it all his gaze never left your face. He watched you the way you'd watched the ceiling, the way you'd watched the crack, the way you'd watched the stain that was no longer just a stain. "I've wanted this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've wanted you for so long. Do you know how many nights I've thought about this? About you? About finally having you here, like this, with no one else in the way?"
The belt came free. His eyes held yours. "You're so beautiful. You've always been so beautiful. Even back then, when you said hi to me, when you were the only one who ever saw me. I knew. I knew you were the one. I knew I'd find you again." He stepped closer. The bed shifted under his weight. "Don't be afraid," he murmured, and his hand found your cheek again. "I'm not him. I'll never be him. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything. You'll never have to be afraid again." The ceiling stain watched you from above. The crack in the plaster seemed to widen, just slightly.
He pushed in with a gentleness you had long forgotten existed. Not the careful restraint of someone trying not to hurt you that you knew, that you'd learned to read in the tension of a jaw, the flex of a hand but something else entirely. Something that made your chest ache in ways you didn't want to examine.
He moved slowly at first, and your body responded before your mind could catch up. It welcomed him. Opened for him. Needed him in a way that felt like betrayal and survival tangled together, impossible to separate. He wrapped your legs around his waist, his hands finding the sides of your head, cradling you like something precious, something breakable. His eyes stayed on your face for a long moment, and then they drifted down, watching the place where you were connected, watching yourselves become one thing instead of two.
Your body rose to meet his. A small movement, involuntary, honest. He let out a sound that might have been a laugh if laughter could hold so much wonder. "Shit," he breathed. "Babe. You're so pretty. Fuck, I'm gonna—I'm gonna come." His face found your neck. His teeth pressed into the soft skin there, not quite breaking through, just holding, just marking, like a man who hadn't eaten in years and had finally found something to sustain him. The bite sent a shiver through you, a complex thing you couldn't name.
"Do you know," he murmured against your throat, his voice muffled, urgent, "this is my first time. My first time ever. I saved myself for you. I waited. I always knew it would be you." The words washed over you, but you couldn't hold onto them. The tension was building again, that familiar rise, that gathering in your core that demanded attention. You couldn't think about what he was saying, couldn't process the weight of it, couldn't do anything but feel.
"I'm never letting you go," he whispered. "Never. You're mine. You've always been mine." "Shit," he gasped. "Shit—Fuck" You felt him come. Felt the warmth of it spill inside you, felt his body shudder against yours, felt the way he held you tighter, pulled you closer, buried his face in your neck as if he could disappear into you. When he pulled out, the absence was sudden, almost cold. He collapsed beside you on the mattress. His breathing was uneven, quick, slowly evening out. His hand found yours, interlaced your fingers, held on like you might dissolve if he let go.
"That was..." He trailed off, turned his head to look at you. His eyes were soft, almost wet. "That was everything. You're my everything. I knew you would be." The ceiling stain watched from above. The crack in the plaster seemed to have grown, or maybe it was just the light, just your exhausted mind playing tricks. You couldn't tell anymore. You couldn't tell anything except that his hand was still holding yours, and that somewhere downstairs a body was cooling on the carpet, and that you had no idea what came next.
"Try Harder Next Time" - Murata Fuma (村田風雅) x f!reader
You belonged to him. Every flinch, every silence, every carefully measured smile had been shaped by his hands. By his voice. By the quiet threats that never needed to be spoken twice. If someone had pulled you from the water…
content warnings - abusive behavior, stalking, possessive tendencies, references to violence, bodily harm, blood, and death; the presence of a knife as a threatening element and non-consensual sexual content, including hair-pulling and fingering.
word count : 4.6k
This is the fifth installment of The Silver Screen Haunting Series.
“Come stand where I can see you. The performance requires an audience.”
“Hey, Fuma.” Nicholas didn’t knock. He never did. He strolled into the office like he owned part of it. A carry-on suitcase bumped against his leg, still tagged from Nagasaki, as if he’d come straight from the airport just to deliver whatever expression was stretching his mouth into something sinister. Fuma kept his eyes on the document in front of him. Numbers. Contracts. Things that behaved predictably. Unlike people. Nicholas dropped into the chair opposite his desk and leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “You look awful.”
“Jet lag’s contagious now?” Fuma replied dryly. Nicholas’s smile twitched. “Funny.” Silence settled, thin as tissue paper. Fuma signed his name at the bottom of the page, precise and controlled. He didn’t like being watched. He especially didn’t like being studied. “I swear to God,” Nicholas began, his tone shifting, “I saw someone who looked identical to your wife.” The pen slipped from Fuma’s fingers.
It hit the desk first. Then the floor. The sound was small. The reaction wasn’t. He bent to retrieve it, giving himself three seconds to breathe. One. Two. Three. When he straightened, his face was composed. Almost bored. “You’re sure?” he asked.
Nicholas leaned forward now, elbows on knees. “I’m not exaggerating. They could’ve been twins, Fuma. Same hair. Same walk. Even the way she tilted her head like she was listening to music only she could hear.” Fuma’s jaw tightened, barely. “Where?” “A café near the harbor. I was inside, looking out the window.” Nicholas snapped his fingers as if replaying it. “She walked past. I nearly spilled my coffee.”
“And you’re certain it was Nagasaki?” Fuma asked, too quickly. Nicholas’s eyes flicked up. “Pretty sure geography hasn’t changed since I landed.” A beat. Nicholas watched him carefully now, the way a man watches ice beginning to crack beneath his feet. “I almost called her name,” Nicholas added lightly. “But then I thought no. Impossible. She’s dead.” “Yes,” Fuma said. “She is.” The words felt heavier than they should.
Nicholas stood, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. “Anyway. Weird coincidence, right? Maybe everyone has a double wandering around somewhere.” “Maybe,” Fuma replied. Nicholas headed toward the door, then paused. “You know what really got me?” Fuma didn’t look up this time. “What?” “She looked… happy.” The door clicked shut. The office felt smaller. Fuma stared at his reflection in the dark computer screen. He reached for his phone. And hesitated. Because if Nicholas had seen her in Nagasaki…is she alive?
The plane touched down in Nagasaki with a shudder, tires screaming briefly against asphalt, and for a fleeting second he imagined the sound was you. The way you’d screamed that day on the boat the sound sharp, startled, cut short by water. He adjusted his cuff-links before the seatbelt sign had even switched off. Months. It had been months. No body recovered. No official confirmation. Tragic accident. Sudden storm. Rough waters. A simple afternoon boat ride turned fatal.
They said it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Fuma almost laughed every time he heard it. The words felt rehearsed, like condolences printed inside a sympathy card no one had bothered to sign. He can still see you standing too close to the edge of the deck, your dress snapping sharply in the wind like a warning flag. Your hair kept catching in your mouth, dark strands sticking to your lipstick. The sky had already begun to bruise, clouds folding over one another in heavy, grey swells. You didn’t look frightened. You looked happy. As if the weather itself had made you smile. “Sit down,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice level.
You didn’t turn around. “I like the view.” You always did like the view. And you always liked testing him more. The boat had been restless all afternoon, slicing through the water with an impatience that matched your own. Fuma remembers thinking the sea felt watchful. Waiting. Then the wave came. The boat lurched violently to one side, throwing everything off balance. The glasses, cushions and you. He remembers your hand reaching for something, anything. He remembers the flash of your wedding ring. He remembers missing it.
That is the part that wakes him. There was a scream. He isn’t sure if it was yours. Then the sea swallowed you. It was indecently quick. One moment you were there and the next there was only the churn of grey water folding over itself, smoothing out as though nothing had disturbed it at all. He had frozen. Just for a second.
He tells himself that often, as if repetition might sand down the truth. He did shout your name. He did lunge toward the railing. He did bark at the captain to turn back. His voice had cracked in a way that humiliated him. Search teams combed the coastline for days. Divers slipped into the cold, opaque depths. Helicopters stitched the horizon with noise, their blades chopping the air into something frantic and useless. They found your dress miles away. Nothing else. No body. No closure.
He told himself he was here for business but that lie sounded stupid he thought as he stepped into the humid Nagasaki air, adjusting his immaculate coat, he felt something unfamiliar curling beneath his ribs. Irritation. Nicholas’s voice replayed in his mind. I saw someone who looked identical to your wife. Identical. Fuma had asked for the café’s name with a smile. “Probably mistaken,” he’d said. But Nicholas had hesitated. “She looked happy.” Happy. The word lodged like a splinter. You hadn’t looked happy in months. Not with him. Not under his gaze. Happiness, in his experience, was a resource he controlled. Allocated. Withheld.
The taxi ride into the city felt too slow. His reflection in the window stared back at him sharp suit, perfect posture, eyes like polished obsidian. People trusted faces like his. They leaned toward him. They apologized when he frowned. You used to apologize all the time. The café sat near the harbor, modest and forgettable. The kind of place no one would look twice at. He paid the driver and stood for a moment on the pavement, studying the windows. His pulse was steady. Of course it was. You were dead.
He had watched you disappear. He stepped inside. The bell above the door chimed, bright and careless. Conversations hummed. Cups clinked. No one noticed him at first. Then they did. They always did. He chose a table near the window the same vantage point Nicholas had described. He ordered coffee he wouldn’t drink. His gaze swept the street with methodical patience. If you were alive, he would know.
You belonged to him. Every flinch, every silence, every carefully measured smile had been shaped by his hands. By his voice. By the quiet threats that never needed to be spoken twice. If someone had pulled you from the water… If you had crawled onto some distant shore and decided not to come back…The thought tightened something inside him not fear. Not quite. Possession.
He imagined you walking past that window. Different clothes. Different name. Maybe you’d cut your hair. Maybe you thought you could become someone else. He almost admired the audacity. But he knew you. You startled easily. You bit your lip when nervous. You checked over your shoulder without meaning to. The door chimed again. His eyes lifted lazily at first. Then sharpened. A woman stepped inside, brushing rain from her sleeves. The weather here shifted quickly like it had that day on the water. For a moment, his heart did something unfamiliar. It stumbled. The tilt of the head. The curve of the mouth. The way her fingers tucked her hair behind her ear.
You.
She hadn’t seen him yet. Fuma didn’t move. Didn’t blink. A slow smile touched his lips, cold and deliberate. He adjusted his cuffs once more, already mapping out the next steps in his mind. Conversations. Pressure points. The soft, careful unraveling of whatever fantasy you’d built. If his theory was right, this wasn’t a miracle. It was a mistake. And you had always paid dearly for those.
He stayed exactly where he was. Patience had always been one of his better qualities. People mistook it for calmness. It wasn’t. It was control. He could have walked up to you when he first saw you. Could have said your name softly, watched the color drain from your face. But that would have been messy. Public. No. He would wait.
He followed at a distance that felt almost polite. Close enough not to lose you. Far enough that you wouldn’t feel him breathing behind you. The town was small, the pavements narrow, the afternoon light too bright for his liking. You walked through it as if you belonged there. As if you hadn’t died. You laughed at something a shopkeeper said. You stopped to speak to a man outside a bookshop. Fuma slowed, positioning himself beside a newspaper stand, pretending to scan headlines he didn’t read. The man touched your arm. Familiar. Comfortable. You smiled at him in a way that made something cold and precise settle in Fuma’s chest.
Then you hugged him. It wasn’t a long embrace. Not intimate. But it was enough. Fuma watched your hands flatten briefly against the stranger’s back before you pulled away and continued down the street without looking behind you. He memorized the man’s face. He would deal with him later. You walked as if you were free. Swinging your bag lightly at your side. Pausing to look into shop windows. You had faked your death.
The thought did not anger him in the way it should have. It impressed him. All that planning. All that effort. You had underestimated only one thing: him. He let you lead him through the quieter part of town, where the pavements cracked and the houses grew smaller. You turned onto a narrow lane lined with identical white fences, each one pretending to guard something precious. There it was.
A small white house with a neat gate and curtains drawn just enough to suggest privacy. Modest. Careful. Safe. You reached into your bag and produced a key. Fuma stopped walking. You pushed open the gate, stepped inside, then paused. Something in you stiffened. You turned slowly, eyes scanning the street with a caution that hadn’t been there earlier.
Fuma moved without thinking, slipping behind the low brick wall of the neighboring garden. He flattened himself against it, breath measured, heartbeat steady. From here he could see the side of your face but not your eyes. You searched for him. You wouldn’t have known what you were looking for, but some part of you must have felt it. The shift in the air. The weight of being watched. After a few seconds, you seemed satisfied. Or perhaps simply tired of being afraid.
You turned back toward the house and walked up the short pathway. Your shoulders relaxed as you reached the door. Another key. Another click. Then you disappeared inside. The door shut. Silence settled over the street. Fuma waited. He counted to ten. Then twenty. Only when the curtain in the front window twitched closed did he step out from behind the wall. He stood in the open now, looking at the house with something close to affection. You had chosen well. Quiet. Hidden. Unremarkable.
He smiled. He would not rush this. You had gone to such trouble to build your little sanctuary. To create a life where you could pretend he had never existed. It would be cruel to shatter it too quickly. His gaze lingered on the gate. The path. The door that now stood between you and him. He couldn’t wait to have his hands on you again. To feel the tremor in your body when you realised escape had only been an illusion. He had missed you. And this time, he would make sure you never tried to disappear again.
He waited. That, he had learned, was the most important part. Waiting until the world believed it was safe. Waiting until routines settled. Waiting until fear went to sleep. Across the street, the little white house went dark room by room. First the kitchen light then the living room. A pause. A longer one. Finally, the bedroom. Fuma watched until the last glow vanished and the windows became black mirrors reflecting nothing at all.
Only then did he move.
Gravel shifted under his shoes as he crossed the road, but he did not hurry. He never hurried. Urgency led to mistakes. And he didn’t make those. He didn’t approach the front gate. That would have been expected. Instead, he circled the house slowly, studying it the way a stranger might. The siding. The narrow strip of garden. The single back light you had forgotten to replace. You had always been meticulous once. He wondered when that had changed.
At the rear of the house, he found what he was looking for: a small window, half-hidden by overgrown shrubs. Dark. Unwatched. He tested the latch. It lifted too easily. A smile touched his mouth. “Dumb girl,” he whispered, the words barely sound at all. He pushed the window open and pulled himself inside with controlled ease, landing in a crouch. The floor gave a soft, traitorous creak, but the house did not respond. No movement. No startled footsteps. Just silence.
He straightened slowly. The air inside felt different. Warmer. It smelled like you. Not perfume. Not anything obvious. Just that faint, familiar trace he would have recognized anywhere. Soap. Fabric. Something clean layered over something anxious. He closed the window behind him. For a moment he simply stood there, listening to the quiet you had built around yourself. Then he began to walk.
His hands moved along the walls as he passed, fingertips grazing the paint, the door-frames, the edges of furniture. He wasn’t searching for anything yet. Just mapping. Learning. The house was sparse. Too sparse. No photographs. No stacks of books. No scattered remnants of a life being lived. It looked less like a home and more like a place someone was borrowing. Temporary. Careful. Like you had planned to leave again if you had to.
Fuma paused in the middle of the living room, taking it in. The absence of you was louder than any evidence could have been. You hadn’t settled. You were still running. Another smile, slower this time. Good. That meant some part of you already knew he would come.
He took the stairs slowly. One step at a time. His hand slid along the banister, fingertips gliding over the polished wood as though reacquainting himself with something familiar. The house remained silent. At the top of the stairs, he paused. There was a small landing, dimly lit by the spill of moonlight through a narrow window. Three doors. All closed. All ordinary. He didn’t hesitate. He already knew which one was yours. The door at the far end.
He crossed the landing and rested his hand on the handle. For a moment, he simply stood there, listening. A faint sound reached him. Slow. Rhythmic. Breathing. He turned the handle and eased the door open. The room was washed in silver light. Curtains stirred gently in the night air, carrying in the distant hush of the sea. Nothing moved except the fabric… and you. His eyes found you instantly.
You were lying on your side, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, the other resting loosely against the pillow as if you had fallen asleep mid-thought. The blankets rose and fell with each breath, steady and unaware. Peaceful. Your face, softened by sleep, looked younger. Untroubled. Almost luminous in the pale light, like something carefully placed rather than real. Anyone else might have thought you looked angelic, untouched by the world outside that room. Fuma stood in the doorway and watched.
He noticed the details. The ones no one else would. The slight tension still held in your shoulders. The way your fingers curled, not quite relaxed. Even in sleep, some part of you was braced. Waiting. You had never truly learned how to rest. His gaze moved slowly around the room, taking in every precaution, every careful choice, every attempt to build a life that did not include him. Then it returned to you. Still. Quiet. Breathing. Unaware you were no longer alone.
He moved closer to the bed without making a sound. For a moment, he simply stood over you, watching the rise and fall of your chest. The steady rhythm. The illusion of safety. Moonlight pooled across your skin, turning you pale and almost translucent, as though you might dissolve if touched. He reached out anyway. His fingertips brushed your cheek first barely there, a whisper of contact. He traced the curve of your jaw, the familiar slope of your nose, committing it all to memory again. You felt warm. Real. Not the cold, grey phantom the sea had pretended to give him.
You shifted slightly beneath his hand. A small frown tugged at your brow. Your body reacted before your mind did, instinctively retreating from the touch. He stilled, watching the way unease flickered across your sleeping face. Then he leaned down. His lips pressed against your forehead, soft and intimate, the way they had a thousand times before. Your eyes snapped open. For a split second, confusion. The fragile space between dream and waking. Then recognition.
You surged upward with a sharp inhale and your hand connected with his face in a clean, cracking sound that split the quiet room in two. The force of it surprised him. He stepped back instinctively, more from shock than pain, his hand rising to his cheek. The sting bloomed slowly beneath his skin. He stared at you, almost impressed. You were already scrambling backward against the headboard, eyes wide, breath ragged. Not angelic now. Not peaceful. Terrified. And alive.
He rubbed the reddening mark on his face and then, unexpectedly, he began to laugh. Low at first. Then fuller. Not hysterical. Not angry. Just… delighted. “Gosh,” he said, shaking his head slightly, as if you had just told an amusing joke. “I missed you.” The words hung in the air between you, heavy and wrong. He looked at you the way someone might look at something misplaced and finally found. Something that had always belonged to them. “You shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.”
You were talking. He could see your mouth moving. Words were coming out fast, sharp and desperate but he wasn’t listening to them. Not really. His attention kept snagging on the rise and fall of your chest. Too quick. Too shallow. Like a trapped animal’s. Alive. You were alive. Your hands were moving too. Searching. Scrambling across the sheets as though the bed might suddenly offer you an escape. He watched the calculation in your eyes, the way they darted, measured, planned. Then your hand disappeared beneath the pillow. Fuma’s smile deepened.
When you pulled the knife free, it caught the moonlight in a thin silver line between you. “Leave me alone!” you screamed, the sound cracking at the edges. He didn’t stop smiling. Your hands trembled around the handle, so you grabbed it with both of them, trying to steady the blade. He could see the effort it took just to hold it level. You were terrified. Of him. Of what you might have to do. Your eyes filled with tears you refused to let fall. “Baby,” he said softly, almost kindly, “you didn’t think you could leave me without consequences.” He took a step closer. You flinched. Another step.
The mattress dipped as he reached the edge of the bed. The knife remained between you, your grip tightening, knuckles whitening. He leaned down until his face was level with the blade, so close he could see his own reflection warped in the steel. “Come on then,” he murmured. “Stab me.” You didn’t move. His smile widened, “Stab me, bitch!” He shouted again. “Leave me alone!” Your eyes squeezed shut for the briefest second.
That was all he needed. His hand shot forward, grabbing the blade itself. Metal bit into his palm, slicing deep, but he didn’t react not to the pain, not to the blood already slipping between his fingers. It was nothing compared to the fury that had lived inside him since the moment he was told you were gone. You tried to pull back, but he wrenched the knife from your grasp and flung it across the room. It struck the wall with a violent clang before clattering to the floor.
The sound hadn’t even finished echoing when his other hand tangled into your hair. He dragged you backward and slammed the back of your head against the headboard. The room fell into a sudden, suffocating silence except for your breathing, his breathing, and the slow, deliberate drip of blood hitting the floor.
Your breath was uneven. Each inhale catching as though the air itself had turned against you. He held you there for a moment, fingers still twisted in your hair, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his grip. His own breathing had slowed now. He leaned closer. Close enough that you could see the line of red cutting across his palm. Close enough to smell the metallic sharpness of it. His bloody hand rose between you.
You tried to turn your face away, but his grip on your jaw tightened, forcing you to look at him. His thumb pressed into your cheek as his blood smeared across your skin in a slow, deliberate stroke. It painted your mouth. Your chin. A streak of dark red against tear-slicked skin. “There,” he murmured, almost thoughtfully. “Now you look like you’ve missed me too.”
You shook your head, tears spilling freely now, but he only tightened his hold, fingers digging into the hinge of your jaw until your lips parted in a silent gasp. He brought his mouth to yours. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was possession. His lips crushed against yours, the copper taste of blood mixing with your breath. You tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. His hand fisted harder in your hair, anchoring you in place as his other hand held your face steady, unyielding.
For a second, the world narrowed to heat and iron and the suffocating closeness of him. Then he bit down. You gasped against him, the sting immediate as he pulled back just enough to look at what he’d done. His thumb brushed your swollen lip, smearing the fresh red with what was already there. His eyes searched your face, not for love, not for forgiveness. For recognition. For understanding.
“You don’t get to disappear,” he said quietly, his voice no longer raised, no longer laughing. That was somehow worse. “You don’t get to decide I’m dead to you.” His forehead rested briefly against yours, an almost intimate gesture that felt entirely wrong. “I found you,” he whispered.
He couldn’t wait. Why should he? you were his. His hands found your hips smaller than they used to be, he noticed. He'd have to mention it later. For now, he flipped you over, pulled your back against his chest, feeling the familiar give of your body beneath his hands. The nightie rode up under his fingers. Silk. His hand slid into your underwear and you made that sound. "Oh baby, so tight. Shit, I missed this pussy."
He pressed his nose to your neck, kissing the spot he knew you liked or used to like, before you got quiet, before she started looking at him like he was a stranger in his own house. Your skin smelled the same. That was something. You tightened around his fingers. Made the sound. The right sound. He pulled out. Let your body drop.
He ripped the underwear off. The fabric caught, stretched, tore and he didn't care. Didn't notice the way it bit into your skin, leaving red marks that would bloom purple by morning. His blood was on everything he touched, wasn't it? The way he liked it. His belt. Christ, his hands were shaking. Like a virgin. Like a boy. Pathetic. But he was so needy, so desperate to be back inside you, to feel that familiar heat swallow him whole. You'd been gone too long. He pulled himself out, pushed in. His breath hitched embarrassingly, really but the warmth welcomed him like it always did. Like it should.
"Shit." The word slipped. So did another. Louder. Filthier. He couldn't help himself. Why should he? He started pounding. The way his hips met your ass, the slap of skin against skin, the thump thump thump of the bed rocking into the wall it was a rhythm. His rhythm. The only one that mattered. You used to make noise. Used to meet him halfway. Now you just... took it. Like you were somewhere else. He didn't like that.
Your hands tried to push away. Push him away. Cute. He grabbed your wrists and pressed them into the small of your back, using them as leverage to push you harder into the mattress. Deeper. Until there was nowhere left to go. He felt it building. The familiar tightening. The end. He leaned down, mouth to your ear, breath hot and wet and his. "I think it's time to expand our little family."
The change was instant. Electric. You started thrashing beneath him really thrashing like a real fight. Like you meant it. He laughed. The sound was low, genuine, almost tender. Because you didn't understand yet. You thought thrashing helped. Thought fighting changed things. Thought your body was still your own. He'd taught you better than that. He'd show you better than that. His hand pressed harder into your back. His hips never stopped. What was about to happen was already decided. It had been decided the moment he found you and there was nothing. Nothing, you could do to stop it.
He heard you beg. Please. I'll come back. Don't do this. I'm not ready. Your words slithered across the bedroom floor like something wounded, reaching for him, grasping at ankles that refused to stop. "I don't care." His voice was calm. Calmer than yours. Calmer than it should have been. This way you can't leave me again.
He meant it. Every syllable. Every thrust. Every time he pulled you back when you tried to crawl away, every time his fingers dug into your hands hard enough to break it. He meant it when he took what he wanted, the way he always had, the way he always would. You were still crying but he didn’t care. Still begging. He came so hard it, the way his body convulsed like it was trying to punish you from the inside out. He stayed there for a moment, breathing, feeling you shake beneath him like a small animal caught in something sharp. Then he pulled out.
He sat back on his heels and admired the mess he'd made of you. The red marks on your wrists. The wetness. The way your back heaved like you'd been running from something your whole life. Which you had. From him. But you'd never be fast enough. You'd never be smart enough. You'd never be anything enough to escape a man who'd already decided he'd rather see you broken than see you go.
He flipped your body like you weighed nothing because to him, you did and waited until your eyes found his. They were red. Puffy. Beautiful. He lightly tapped your cheek. Not hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to remind you he could. Try harder next time. He laughed.
Heyyyy guysss! I’m sorry for disappearing like that 🩷 I had a super busy January and then needed a little break, but I’m back!! I’m wrapping up my &TEAM series this week, and I’ve got some requests coming soon, so stay tuned 💕
Heyy, love! I love all your work. I appreciate all your time and effort and yes, they all have me licking me fucking screennn. But the visuals?!! How do you make your banners?!! I see you and other writers and banners and their SOOO fucking good?!! It's only if your comfortable sharing the info. Thanks and keep going, I'm almost there~!
Ahh thank you!! 💗 I love creating headers and banners and being a graphic designer, making things look aesthetic just comes naturally to me and yes, I’m totally happy to share what I used! I work with a mix of After Effects and Photoshop 💻💖
"A Private Collection" - Shigeta Harua (重田美琉愛) x f!reader
“Wow,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s so easy to get inside your apartment.”; You stopped breathing. When he finally lifted his gaze to yours, his smile was wrong. “So easy,” he repeated. And you realized, you should never have handed him your phone.
content warnings - stalking, phone hacking, privacy invasion, breaking and entering, police negligence, physical intimidation, restraint, threats with a weapon, psychological terror, torture violence, and non-consensual sexual act/themes.
word count : 9.4k
This is the fourth installment of The Silver Screen Haunting Series.
"Come closer. The show is ready to start whether you’re ready or not."
You were halfway through tearing apart your apartment, couch cushions overturned like crime-scene evidence when your landline finally rang. An unknown number. Your heart tripped. “Hey,” a man said, a little breathless, as if he’d jogged to make the call. “I, uh… found this phone on the bus yesterday and clicked on the first number I saw in the contact” You exhaled so hard your shoulders sagged. “Oh thank goodness. I thought I lost it forever.” You paced the living room, hand pressed to your forehead. “Is it okay? Please tell me it’s okay.”
There was a pause, then a wince you could practically hear. “About that… the screen’s cracked. I think someone stepped on it.” “Oh no.” You sank onto the arm of a chair. “Of course they did.” “I can drop it at a repair shop,” he offered quickly. “Incheon Repair. I know the owner. I’ll cover the cost, so just… pick it up whenever.” “That’s really not necessary—” “Already done,” he said, almost shy but determined. “And, um… you’re welcome.” You started to thank him, but he hung up before you could finish the sentence. Just a soft click, leaving you staring at your wallpaper and wondering who exactly had just played good Samaritan with your entire life. By the time you made it to Incheon Repair, your nerves were still buzzing. The bell over the door gave a bright ding, slicing through the quiet shop. The guy behind the counter looked up.
He was not what you expected. Light flashed off his glasses as he straightened, eyes meeting yours with a quick, almost startled focus like he’d been waiting without admitting he was waiting. “You must be…” He checked the ticket in his hand. “The one who lost her phone?” You laughed, heat brushing your cheeks. “Guilty.” His mouth curved, slow and a little crooked. He lifted the phone gently, like it was something fragile and worth protecting. “Your Good Samaritan asked me to make it perfect.” The repairman scratched the back of his neck, suddenly less cool as he handed the phone over. You took it carefully, offering a grateful smile. “Thank you!” you called over your shoulder, giving a quick wave as you pushed through the door.
You stepped out of the shop with a faint, lingering smile still warmed by the unexpected kindness of a stranger, still buoyed by the relief of getting your phone back. The late-afternoon air felt gentler, almost hopeful. What you didn’t know was that this small, ordinary victory marked the last trace of normal you’d feel for a very long time. Your life was already shifting, the ground already tipping beneath your feet. And the worst was coming. You just hadn’t seen it yet.
“You got your phone back?” your coworker asked the moment you dropped into your desk chair. You set the device down beside your keyboard, the weight of it suddenly too noticeable. “Yeah,” you said, exhaling a small laugh. “I was terrified I’d never see it again.” “I remember,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a relieved grin. “You were a mess.” “Well,” you continued, smoothing a thumb over the screen, “someone found it on the bus. The screen was smashed, but they had it repaired for me.” You smiled, half at the memory, half at the absurd luck of it. “Wow.” She shook her head. “There really are good people in the world left.”
You nodded, letting the warmth of the moment settle you. Then you turned to your computer, pressing the power button to start the day. Nothing happened. You frowned, pressing it again. Harder. The monitor stayed black, stubbornly blank. “What the hell…” you muttered, pushing back your chair. Your fingers searching for the cable, the outlet, any explanation for the sudden silence of your workstation. The cord was plugged in. You pulled your hand back from the outlet, frowning. “It’s plugged in,” you muttered. You were already reaching for your phone to call tech support when the monitor suddenly flickered and then flashed on in a burst of cold white light. “Oh.” The word slipped out, you didn’t know why you were this jumpy. Just a glitch, you told yourself. Computers acted up. Nothing unusual. You eased back into your chair, sliding it toward the desk until it clicked into place. You exhaled, steadied yourself, and turned back to the screen ready to salvage what was left of the morning.
But your desktop was empty. Every folder. Every file. Gone. “No…” you whispered, moving the mouse faster now, clicking through search bars, directories, anywhere they might be. But it was useless. The computer wasn’t missing your files, they were gone. You didn’t hear your coworker walk up until she spoke. “Everything okay?” You straightened sharply. “Everything’s okay. Yeah. Everything’s fine.” You lied, the words barely forming around the tightness in your throat. Somehow, despite the setback, you managed to rebuild enough of your work to get through the day. The hours blurred, the familiar rhythm of tasks barely keeping your thoughts from circling back to the empty screen. By late afternoon, you shut down the computer, listening to the soft whine as it powered off. You gathered your things, slung your bag over your shoulder, and headed for the door.
Dinner was supposed to be quiet. A small mercy after a day that hadn’t offered any. You set the plate on the table, steam rising, the smell finally coaxing your shoulders to loosen. Fork in hand, you were halfway to the first bite when a sound rattled from inside your bag. Another buzz. You pushed back from the table and crossed the room. Your phone screen was lit inside the half-unzipped bag, the glow cold, intrusive. When you pulled it out, the Instagram icon blinked at you. Your notifications stacked like bricks. Your account. A new post. Your heart hiccuped, then slammed into a sprint. What the hell? You opened the app. The world dropped out from under you. It was you more like your body, unmistakably yours, unmistakably naked. Your breath went razor-thin. You didn’t remember taking this photo. You didn’t remember posting anything. Your fingers shook hard enough to blur the screen as you stabbed at the delete option, deleting, deleting, God, delete. But the damage was already done. Messages detonated in your inbox. Friends. Coworkers. Numbers you didn’t recognize. And then Mom. The screen kept flashing, vibrating in your hand as if possessed. The room felt too small, the air scraping your lungs. Someone had been in your account. Someone had been in your life. Someone had seen you more than you’d ever meant for anyone to see. And they wanted you to know.
“What do you mean you can’t help me?” Your voice cracked through the cramped station lobby, sharp enough to draw a glance from a passing deputy. The officer in front of you didn’t flinch. He just stood there broad-shouldered. A brick wall wearing a badge. “Someone hacked into my account,” you pushed on, words tumbling, breath thinning. “They posted a naked photo of me. Me! There has to be something you can do.” The officer exhaled, the kind of breath that said he’d rehearsed this line far too many times. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But there’s nothing I can do at this time.” Nothing. The word detonated in your skull. “You’re all fucking useless,” you spat, heat and humiliation burning up your throat. He didn’t react. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even shift his weight. Just stood there like the human version of a locked door. You snatched your phone off the table so fast. The screen lit up again more notifications, more messages. You turned, storming toward the exit, the officer’s non-answer echoing behind you as the door slammed shut.
It took you nearly an hour to work up the nerve. Your phone lay faceup on the couch cushion beside you, screen lit with 20+ messages from Mom, each one a tiny landmine waiting to detonate. The sheer number of them made your anxiety spike, breath thinning, palms damp. Texting back felt impossible. Calling felt worse. But you hit Call anyway. She answered on the first ring. “Honey! Why would you post such a ridiculous picture of yourself?” Her voice blasted through the speaker judgment braided into every syllable. “Mom, do you really think I would post that myself?” The words tore out louder than you intended, raw and defensive. “Then how the hell was it posted?” she fired back. “I was hacked,” you said, the truth scraping your throat. Silence crackled on the line she replied, “Oh.” Just oh. As if that explained everything. As if that made any of this better. “Of course you’d think the worst of me, Mom,” you said, your voice breaking at the edges. “I’m sorry, but that picture has been the talk of the family for hours,” she rushed out, voice tight, embarrassed. “Did you go to the police? Please tell me you did.”
“Of course I did.” You let out a breath that felt like it might take your lungs with it. “And they were plenty of help.” “Really?” Her voice softened, suddenly hopeful. “No.” You sank to your knees on the living room floor, the phone slick against your cheek. “They were useless, Mom. Completely useless.” A shudder ran through you, and the words spilled out before you could stop them. “I don’t know what to do.” The admission cracked something open. You felt yourself fold, breath hitching, the weight of everything finally dragging you down as you broke apart on the other end of the line.
You walked into work with your head lowered, shoulders tight, every step heavier than the last. The office hummed with the usual morning noise but underneath it, you heard it. The whispers. Not loud, not obvious. Just enough for your skin to prickle. Enough for you to feel the weight of every pair of eyes tracking you from behind computer screens and half-closed cubicle walls. Even your coworker, who was normally an unstoppable ray of sunshine, didn’t look up. No cheerful “Good morning,” no wave, no smile. She just kept typing, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on her monitor as if you weren’t standing right there. You slid into your chair, hands slightly trembling as you began setting up your workstation power button, login screen, email loading. A routine you could normally perform blindfolded, now suddenly difficult, every movement stiff and self-conscious. You were reaching for your headset when you heard it: Your name.
Not whispered this time. Spoken clearly. You looked up. Your boss stood at the door to her office, one hand braced on the frame, the other motioning you forward with a small, grim nod that told you everything you needed to know. You exhaled, slow and resigned, dread crawling up your spine like something alive. You knew exactly what was coming. And there was no avoiding it. You walked into her office with your head still down, the door clicking shut behind you. “Take a seat,” she said. You did. The chair felt colder than it should have. She folded her hands on the desk, eyes pinning you with a mixture of discomfort and corporate detachment. “There’s no easy way to say this,” she began, voice tight. “But we’re going to have to let you go.” The words landed with the weight of a physical blow.
She continued, each syllable another crack in the floor beneath you. “Some of our clients saw the photo circulating. They threatened to close their accounts if we didn’t take action. We can’t afford that kind of loss.” A breath. “I’m sorry. Please clear out your desk before the end of the day.” Sorry. As if the word meant anything now. You didn’t argue. Didn’t defend yourself. Didn’t even trust your voice enough to try. You simply stood, numbness settling in like frost, and walked out without looking back. Your desk felt foreign as you emptied it, drawer by drawer, item by item, your life reduced to a cardboard box. Around you, the office buzzed on as if nothing had changed, as if you hadn’t just lost the last piece of normal you’d been hanging on to. And no one said a word.
Carrying the cardboard box through the city made you feel smaller than you’d ever felt in your life. On the subway, it sat heavy in your lap, your name still scrawled across the side in black marker one more reminder of everything you’d just lost. Every lingering stare felt like a spotlight. Did they see the photo? Did they recognize you? Your chest tightened each time a man’s gaze drifted across your body. You kept your eyes down, fingers clenched around the box, silently praying Please don’t let them know. Please. Paranoia chased you all the way to your stop and up the stairwell to your apartment building. You climbed fast, head low, breath unsteady. But when you reached your floor, you froze. Your apartment door sat slightly open. A thin, dark gap. Just wide enough to say: someone’s inside. Your pulse thudded in your ears. You nudged the door with your foot, listening for movement. Nothing.
You stepped in, placing the box on the floor as quietly as you could, the soft thud sounding unbearably loud in the silence. You moved deeper, heart banging against your ribs. When you reached the living room, the scream tore out of you before you even felt it rising. Your photo, those photos hundreds of them, were plastered across your wall. Row after row, like a grotesque collage. Your body duplicated, exposed, weaponized. Every inch of the wall covered. You stumbled back, panic choking you, and bolted. Down the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the building. You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and your legs turned to water. Only then did you call the police, your voice shredded, hands trembling so violently you almost dropped the phone. They took their time. Of course they did. By the time they arrived, you could barely speak. You led them upstairs, your body shaking, every step slower than the last. You pushed open your door, pointing to the living room and stopped cold
The walls were clean. Every photo was gone. Not a scrap. Not a corner. Not a trace. The officers exchanged looks, each wearing some variation of annoyance and disbelief. But you just stood there, staring at the blank wall where your nightmare had been only 30 minutes before, knowing with perfect, ice-cold clarity: Someone had been here. Someone had waited for you to see. And they wanted you to know they could come back. The lecture felt longer than a walk back from hell. One officer paced. The other crossed his arms. Both made it clear you’d wasted their time. But you didn’t back down. “I want a report filed,” you repeated, voice frayed but steady. They exchanged a look like you were the unreasonable one, not the person who’d broken into your home and wallpapered your trauma across your living room.
Begrudgingly they took the statement. Every pen stroke sounded irritated, rushed. By the time they left, their irritation lingered in the air like smoke. The apartment felt wrong the second the door clicked shut behind them. But you had nowhere else to go. You’d lost your job. You couldn’t afford a hotel. And your parents lived hundreds of miles away, far enough that running to them wasn’t an option, not tonight. So you sat on the couch in the dark, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the blank wall where the photos had been. You didn’t trust the shadows. You didn’t trust anything. Your phone buzzed. A single vibration that sliced through the silence. You glanced at the screen, heart stumbling…
Unknown Number: did you like my gift?
The room shrank around you. Your fingers went cold. And for the first time since this started, true fear settled in your chest. Your hands shook so badly you almost dropped the phone. You swallowed hard, forced your thumbs to move, and typed the only words your brain could scrape together:
You: what the fuck do you want?
The message sent, the screen went white with waiting. The typing bubble appeared. A tiny pulsating dots. But in the dark of your apartment, it felt like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to you. You stared at it, praying God, please let this be a mistake, a prank, something stupid and explainable anything but real. The bubble blinked on. Off. On again. And then the response appeared.
Unknown Number: you.
For a moment, everything stopped your breath, your pulse, the air in the room. Your skin crawled. Your stomach lurched. Those three letters pinned you in place like a hand around your throat. A claim. And the worst part was the certainty that whoever sent it… meant it.
You didn’t remember walking to the repair shop only the cold air, the pounding in your skull, the feeling that you were being pushed forward by nothing but fear. But somehow you ended up standing at the counter again, staring at the familiar clutter of tools and phone parts scattered beneath the fluorescent lights. Harua looked up from the device he was working on, his expression softening when he saw your face. “Rough night?” You let out a humorless laugh. “My life has gone to shit,” you said, launching into the story, the hack, the photos, the messages. By the time you finished, your voice felt scraped raw. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” Harua said quietly as he slid a new SIM card into your phone with careful, steady hands. His kindness was disarming, painfully so. “Nobody deserves that.”
“Yeah.” You exhaled slowly. “I just… I need something to make it stop.” He snapped the back of your phone into place and handed it to you. Then he reached for a sticky note, scribbling down the new number in neat, quick handwriting and pressing it into your palm. “Here. And seriously let me know if I can be of any more help.” “Thank you,” you said, managing a small smile. It felt brittle, but it was the best you had. You turned, walked halfway through the doorway, the cool air brushing your face And then an idea hit you. You stopped. Turned back. “Harua…?” He glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?” You walked back to the counter, fingers tightening around the sticky note. “Can you trace an unknown number?” His expression changed subtle, but unmistakable. “Why?” he asked quietly. But you already knew he was going to say yes.
You and Harua agreed on a day your apartment, his equipment, one last shot at tracing the number the police couldn’t be bothered to take seriously. It felt risky, maybe even stupid, but desperation drowned out caution. When he arrived, you opened the door before he could knock twice. “Thank you for this,” you said, stepping back to let him in. Your voice sounded thin, worn down from too many sleepless hours. “It’s no problem,” he replied, offering a small, steady smile as he stepped past you. The calmness in his tone scraped against your nerves, but you forced yourself to breathe through it. “You can set up in the living room,” you told him. “I’ll get you something to drink. Water or coffee?” “Water is fine,” he said, already dropping his backpack onto the couch and unzipping it, taking out his laptop.
He worked with quiet efficiency, as if this was something he’d done a thousand times before. You turned toward the kitchen, the weight of his presence settling into your apartment. Some part of you dared to hope this might finally give you answers. Another part of you wasn’t sure you actually wanted them. “Here you go,” you said, handing him the bottle of water. “Thank you.” He took it with a polite nod, lifting it for a slow sip watching you over the rim longer than necessary. “Give me your phone,” he said next. You hesitated only a second before placing it in his hand. He plugged it into his computer, fingers gliding across the keyboard with a confidence that didn’t match his laid-back smile. Lines of code or whatever he was doing reflected off his glasses, the light turning his eyes into unreadable mirrors. A faint click echoed from the machine. Then another.
He leaned back into your couch, studying the screen with a soft, almost amused huff.
“Wow,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s so easy to get inside your apartment.” You stopped breathing. The room felt smaller. The air heavier. Something in your gut twisted hard, sharp, a warning you wished you could ignore but couldn’t. He didn’t look up right away. He let the silence stretch, thick and suffocating, a quiet reminder of exactly how much he wasn’t saying. When he finally lifted his gaze to yours, his smile was wrong. “So easy,” he repeated. Your pulse thudded in your ears. And you realized, too late, you should never have handed him your phone.
His smile wasn’t the innocent one you’d seen in the shop. It sharpened now, edged with something you should’ve recognized earlier. And then it hit you, sudden and electric, like a flash of memory snapping into place. This all started the day you got your phone back from the repair shop. Your body acted in second as you lurched to your feet, instinct taking over. You didn’t think. You just moved toward the door, toward anything that meant escape. But he moved faster. Fingers tangled in your hair, yanking you backwards with a force that stole your breath and sent your balance collapsing. The floor came up hard, the shock of it rattling through you, scattering your thoughts like broken glass.
The room spun. Your vision doubled, then steadied in small, trembling pieces. He crouched beside you, too close, his shadow folding over your body like a second skin. “This,” he murmured, voice soft enough to make your stomach twist, “is going to be so much fun.” The smile he wore wasn’t just of excitement but also with possession. Certainty. Like he was already writing the ending and you were the only one who hadn’t read it yet. You tried to push up, to get space, but his grip crushed into your head, slamming you down with bone-rattling force, your vision detonating into black while his laughter drilled into the fading edges of your awareness. “Come back to me, baby.” The words floated to you through a fog soft, coaxing, almost affectionate. A light tapping brushed your cheek, just enough to pull you toward consciousness. You blinked. Once. Twice. The world smeared at the edges, colors bleeding into one another. Your head rang or maybe it was your ears an unsteady hum that made it impossible to tell which way was up. You tried to focus.
Shapes shifted. Shadows moved. Someone was standing in front of you. For a second, you told yourself it was a trick of the blurred vision, your mind filling in the blanks of what you feared most. But then the haze cleared just enough. And the glint you saw wasn’t imagined. A knife. Sharp and very fucking real. Your stomach dropped, fuck. He tilted his head, that same too-soft smile touching his voice before it reached his lips. “There you are,” he murmured. “Let’s have some fun.” You tried to scream your breath already gathering in your chest when something pulled tight against your lips. Pressure. Fabric. The bitter taste of whatever he’d used to silence you. A gag. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Harua said lightly, as if apologizing for tracking dirt on your rug instead of tying you up. “Couldn’t let you make any noise. Might attract… uninvited guests. You get what I mean?”
His laugh was soft, too soft, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. A strand of blond hair fell across the lenses of his glasses, and he pushed it back with a casual flick of his hand. That’s when you noticed the gloves. Black. Fitted tight to his fingers. Not for warmth. Not for style. To avoid leaving fingerprints. A coldness crept through you, settling deep. Your mind scrambled for answers, for logic, for something in your past that could explain any of this but nothing made sense. Nothing added up. What had you done? Why had he chosen you? Harua smiled again, the kind of smile that told you he already knew the answer and that you weren’t going to like it. “So,” he said, rocking lightly on the balls of his feet, as if this were a casual story told over coffee instead of… this, “you might be wondering how you got yourself into this situation.” The sing–song cadence of his voice scraped down your spine. You stared up at him, breath caught in your throat, as he continued. “It all started on that one fateful day on the bus.” His tone turned almost whimsical, as if savoring the memory. Your eyes widened.
“Oh yes,” he said, catching the reaction instantly. “I was the one who ‘found’ your phone.” He paused, head tilting. “And honestly? ‘Found’ might be a bit of a stretch.” A laugh slipped from him. “You were napping,” he said. “Head against the window, breathing all soft and quiet. That’s when your phone slipped out of your pocket and hit the floor.” He mimed the motion, fingers fluttering. “And when you got up to leave, I picked it up. I was going to run after you, actually. Hand it back. Do the decent thing.” He leaned in slightly, the air between you thick enough to choke on. “But I knew you weren’t going to spare me a single glance.” His voice dropped, “So I had to do something to get your attention.” The way he said it made your stomach lurch. “Lucky for me,” he went on, “I was the only one on that bus.” His eyes flicked to your face, watching every reaction. “So I smashed the phone. Right there on the floor. Then I came up with this whole little story. Something gentle. A good Samaritan routine to get you to come meet me.” He lifted his gloved hands, flexing the fingers slowly. “And I knew,” he said, smiling, “I’d have to give you a reason to need me. To trust me. To let me in.”
He spread his arms suddenly, jazz–hands and all. “And here we are! ta-da!” Your pulse hammered against the gag. What the actual hell? His smile widened, pleased with your shock maybe even feeding on it. “This,” he whispered, “was always going to be our story.” You couldn’t stop the tears. They came hot and fast, blurring your vision, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to hold them back. The shift in his expression was instant. The smile vanished wiped clean, as if someone had pulled a curtain across his face. “Hey… no. None of that.” His hand came up, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that felt more terrifying than any blow. His breath brushed your skin, soft as his voice. “Shhh. Shhh.” You flinched. The cold edge of metal touched your skin. A reminder of how little space existed between you and whatever he decided came next. “Shhh,” he murmured again, almost tender, as if soothing a frightened child instead of trapping you in the dark. “No crying. I don’t want you scared.” But the tears kept falling, unstoppable. And his eyes never left your face.
When he saw the tears still streaming, something snapped in him. “Stop it,” he hissed. “Stop it.” He backed up a single step just enough space to make his next move unpredictable then lunged forward again, fingers clamping around your jaw, forcing your face toward his. “You better stop it,” he warned, the words low, trembling with a control he was barely holding onto. “I said stop.” He shoved you back into the couch cushions, the impact knocking the breath from your chest. The room tilted for a second, but then something clicked into place, an opening he hadn’t noticed, a mistake he’d made. He hadn’t tied your legs. Instinct took over before fear could shut it down. You swung your leg out hard, aiming for anything you could reach. Your heel connected with the side of his knee. He gasped more shock than pain stumbling backward. His balance broke cleanly, and he dropped to the floor with a heavy thump, air punching out of him.
“I’m trying to be nice,” he said as he pushed himself back to his feet, breath coming sharp, temper flaring just beneath the surface. “I was going to be gentle with you. I was going to lead you into the next act.” He took a step closer, the shift in his expression turning the air colder. “But of course,” he spat, voice twisting, “someone like you can’t see the good that’s right in front of you.” The anger rolled off him in waves. His hands flexed at his sides, the black gloves creaking faintly as he stared down at you as if you’d broken a rule he’d never bothered to explain and whatever he considered “the next act”… you didn’t want to find out. He stepped toward you with a slow step. His gaze dipped down your body, not with desire, but with a chilling sort of curiosity, as if mapping out the places he could break you. Instinct roared through you. You kicked out again and again, wild, desperate. Anything to keep him away. He caught your ankle mid-strike. His smile got bigger. “Oh shit.” One swift pull, and the floor slammed into you, the impact rattling through your skull. The room spun, the breath punched from your lungs. Before you could recover, he was on you settling his weight across your thighs, pinning you like you were nothing more than a thrashing inconvenience. “Shh,” he crooned, patting the top of your head with a gloved hand. Mocking. Affection twisted into cruelty. “You make everything so dramatic.”He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, eyes widening with a feverish, almost childlike fascination. His gaze flicked to your lips.
A knock shattered the moment. His entire body went still. His head snapped toward the door, the shift in his expression instantaneous a flash of cold calculation slicing through whatever twisted game he’d been playing. Then he looked back down at you, and the difference in his eyes made your blood ice over. Gone was the teasing cruelty what stared back at you now was the real version of him. A psychopath deciding whether the person on the other side of the door would become part of his story…or a loose end. His smile didn’t return. Instead, he bent down until you felt the heat of his breath against your cheek. “Listen carefully,” he whispered, voice so soft it scraped like a blade against your ear. “If you make a sound..any sound..I’ll open that door and let them watch what happens next. And I promise you… they won’t be able to stop it.” Your entire body went rigid. Another knock. Firmer this time. He moved fast.
A gloved hand clamped over your mouth, the other curling around your arm as he hauled you across the floor. Your legs scraped uselessly against the hardwood, your breath choking behind his palm as he yanked you toward the shadowed space between the sofa and the wall. “Stay,” he murmured, forcing you down, his grip crushing your shoulder for a beat too long. “Don’t test me.” You barely had time to brace yourself before he straightened, the monster inside him folding away with terrifying ease. You watched from your wedge of darkness as his posture softened, shoulders loosening, expression smoothing into something friendly. Harmless. The kind of man who’d offer to help you with your groceries. The knock came again. “Coming!” he called out, cheerful, your blood turning to ice as the transformation completed. He took two steps toward the door, then paused deliberately, tilting his head just enough so you could see the small, private smirk aimed directly at you. He undid the deadbolt with an easy, pleasant laugh…and opened the door in the voice of a man who had never hurt a soul.
The door swung open, and Harua’s entire demeanor shifted into something warm. You couldn’t see the visitor from your angle, only the polite murmur of a woman’s voice drifting in. A neighbor. Your stomach dropped. “Oh—hey! Sorry I took a second,” Harua said, rubbing the back of his neck like a man embarrassed to have been caught off guard. “Didn’t expect anyone.” He was good. Too good. The neighbor’s voice floated in, apologetic. “I heard a thump. Sounded like someone fell.” Harua laughed, the perfect neighborly chuckle. “Yeah, that was me. Tripped over my own bag. I swear, if clumsiness were a sport, I’d be a gold medalist.” The woman gave a sympathetic noise. He reeled her right in. “But thank you for checking,” he added, leaning casually against the door frame. “This building needs more people like you.” The charm was effortless but beneath the sugary tone, you could hear it. He was gauging her, measuring how easily she believed him, whether she’d stay, whether she’d leave, whether she’d ever think to look behind him.
Your pulse hammered against your ribs. This was your only window. Your only chance of being heard or seen before he sealed you back in that suffocating silence. You twisted your hands slowly, working your fingers beneath the rough knot. Each movement had to be tiny, almost imperceptible. If the rope scraped too loudly, if the couch creaked, if he sensed even a ripple of movement. He’d be on you before you could blink. The neighbor’s voice floated through the room, oblivious. “Are you sure you’re okay? That fall sounded awful.” “Oh, trust me, I’ve survived worse,” Harua said lightly. “I’m just glad you came by.” You tugged harder, the knot giving the smallest shiver beneath your fingertips. Not much, but enough.
In the next moment A shift in Harua’s tone. A slight one. But you recognized it instantly. His charm thinned. His attention sharpened. “Actually,” he said, voice sweet but carrying an edge meant only for you. “Would you mind holding on a second? I think I left something by the couch.” Ice shot through your spine. He was coming back. You worked faster three frantic tugs, the knot loosening another fraction your pulse roaring in your ears. You didn’t dare look up. Didn’t dare breathe. You kept your hands moving, praying he hadn’t heard the fibers stretching. His footsteps began crossing the floor. You forced your hands to still, wrists burning, breath lodged in your throat as his shadow spilled across the living room floor…growing closer…closer…
The neighbor’s voice tried to follow him in. “Oh—do you need help with someth—?” “No,” he interrupted, that practiced warmth returning like a mask being snapped back into place. “I’ve got it.” But the look he sent into the room wasn’t warm at all. And it landed directly on you. Harua’s shadow reached you before he did. Then his sneakers appeared. A predator savoring the inches between him and his prey. He crouched down without a word. You tried to pull your hands subtly back into place, too late. His gaze flicked to your wrists, and the smile that bloomed across his face wasn’t human. “Well,” he murmured, voice a thread of delighted cruelty, “someone’s been busy.” He touched the rope with two fingers, almost lovingly, then tightened the knot in one practiced jerk. Pain flared, hot and immediate. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. “Clever,” he whispered so quietly the neighbor couldn’t possibly hear. “But not clever enough.”
The front door opened by an inch light, uncertain. “Is everything alright in there?” the neighbor yelled out by the door. “Do you need—?” Harua didn’t turn fully. Just angled his head enough for her to hear that the warm, friendly voice. “All good!” he said cheerfully. “Just…dropped something. Clumsy me.” He leaned down again until his mouth hovered by your ear. His next words were a cold whisper meant only for you. “If you make this woman suspicious…if you so much as twitch the wrong way…I will bring her into this.” A pause. “And trust me—she won’t fare better than you.” Your breath stopped in your throat. Harua rose smoothly, dusting off his hands as if all he’d done was pick up a fallen pen. The neighbor hovered at the doorway, brows drawn, instinct tugging her toward concern. He gave her that warm, earnest smile the one you now knew was nothing but lacquer over rot. “Really, thank you,” he said, stepping closer, gently herding her backward without ever touching her. “It’s been a long week. I’m exhausted. Last thing you need is my clumsiness bothering you.” “Oh—I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, still uncertain.
“You didn’t,” he reassured, lowering his voice with the perfect blend of sincerity and harmless charm. “But I’m fine. Promise. Get some rest, okay?” The woman wavered, then nodded. Harua closed the door with a soft, grateful laugh then locked it. Slowly. The metallic click rang through the apartment like a verdict. When he turned back toward you, the smile vanished, wiped away so cleanly it was as if it had never existed. He crouched again, forearms resting casually on his knees, studying you with a calm that chilled your bones. “You almost ruined everything,” he said quietly. “You almost dragged that woman into something she didn’t deserve. You almost got her hurt.” His voice softened, almost gentle. “Do you ever think before you act?” Shame burned hot beneath your skin. You knew it wasn’t fair, you knew it wasn’t true but the words landed anyway. “You’re smart,” he continued a slow shake of his head. “You couldn’t even wait five minutes. Couldn’t stay quiet. Couldn’t keep yourself safe.”
He touched the tightened rope around your wrists. “You nearly killed that woman,” he whispered. The manipulation settled like poison in your chest, and for a horrifying moment, you felt it the creeping belief that maybe you had been stupid. That maybe this was, somehow, your fault. His smile returned, small and patronizing. “That’s why you need me to handle you,” he murmured. “You can’t even protect yourself.” The moment you tried to shift, he noticed. The last trace of gentleness vanished from his face, he seized your bound wrists, the rope cutting deeper as his grip clamped down. “No more hiding,” he murmured, a terrifying lilt in his voice, as if dragging you out of the shadows was a game he’d been waiting to finish. He yanked you forward. Your body scraped across the floor, helpless, the living room spinning around you as he hauled you into the open like you were nothing more than a piece of furniture he’d grown tired of misplacing.
In one brutal motion he grabbed you and hurled you. The world snapped sideways. Your jaw cracked against the edge of the coffee table, a burst of white pain searing through your skull. You tasted blood instantly, your lip splitting under the impact. You winced, choking back a cry. The makeshift gag loosened in a sudden droop and slid out of your mouth. “Oh,” he said lightly, as if he’d dropped a dish instead of a person. “Sorry about that.” The mock apology was worse than the pain. He flipped you over with one hand, rolling you onto your back, studying you with cold curiosity like he was studying the injuries he’d made. You gathered the blood in your mouth and spat splattering his cheek, his glasses, the corner of his lip. The room settled into a deeper silence. His face twisted into something far more dangerous. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged his thumb across the smear at the corner of his mouth, examining the dark red streak as though it fascinated him and he tasted it. Just a small, deliberate flick of his tongue across his thumb. His eyes never left yours. “Well,” he whispered, voice soft as a lullaby and twice as chilling. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
He moved fast. Before you could suck in a breath, the gag was shoved between your teeth strangling whatever protest you tried to make. The world blurred as his hand knotted into your hair again, twisting deep, controlling every inch of your movement and started dragging you. Your heels scraped violently across the floor, kicking instinctively. Each kick thudded against furniture, against door frames, against nothing at all. He didn’t even flinch. Your struggles were an annoyance, nothing more. “Easy,” he murmured, breathless with a kind of delighted cruelty. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” He hauled you down the hallway, your shoulder catching on the wall, pain blooming across your ribs. You tried twisting away, tried bracing your feet, but he yanked harder, your scalp screaming as he dragged you into the bathroom. He dropped you beside the toilet with a thud. The cold tile bit through your clothes. The room spun. Without looking at you, he turned the faucet, the tub filling with a rush of water that echoed against the porcelain. You started shaking.
Your eyes locked on him, wide, pleading. Every inhale was a whimper trapped behind cloth. You tried to speak, to beg but the gag turned your voice into muffled, panicked noises. He heard them anyway. He glanced down at you, breathing steady, as if he were taking in a painting instead of a terrified person on the bathroom floor. His hand drifted absently to the blood you had left on his lip, thumb brushing it with almost scientific fascination. Then his gaze slid back to your face. “God,” he whispered, adjusting his glasses with one slow, deliberate finger, “you’re so fucking beautiful like this.” The water kept rising behind him. And he kept staring at you with the calm, admiring gaze of a man appreciating his favorite piece of art, not bothered by the terror shaking through your body.
His gaze drifted back to the tub. One controlled twist of his wrist, and the faucet stilled. Silence dropped hard, thickening the air until it felt dense enough to choke on. No running water now only your breath, broken and uneven, catching on every inhale. A thin whimper slipped out. He rose to his full height, every step, every shift of muscle, carried the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how this would end. He looked down at you with the calm interest. “Good,” he said, voice low, steady, eerily patient. “Let’s teach you some manners.” No. No, no, no. The word was a scream inside the vault of your skull. Your body scrambled backward, feet slipping on the wet tile, pressing into the unyielding wall as if you could phase through it. A trapped animal with nowhere to run.
His hand closed on the nape of your neck. Fingers like steel bands. You were dragged forward, your body a dead weight he handled with ease. The cold of the ceramic tiles bit into your knees, a sharp, grounding pain. Then his lips were at your ear, his breath a warm, intimate violation against the shell. “Just remember,” he whispered, the words dripping with a twisted sincerity. “This is for your own good.” His other hand drifted up, brushing your cheek with a softness that didn’t belong there, then locked onto the knot behind your head. A single pull. Fabric slid free. Air hit your lips. You screamed and the world tore sideways. Your head was driven down, into the shocking, breath-stealing cold of the water. Instinct screamed, a white-hot fire in your nerves. Your body bucked, arms flailing, connecting with nothing. Your mouth opened on a silent scream, and the water rushed in, cold and dark and final.
He kept you under just long enough for the panic to burn white in your lungs. Then his grip eased, and the world lurched upward. You broke the surface with a choking gasp, water streaming down your face, vision smeared and shaking. You tried to brace yourself, to grab something..anything but your bound hands slid uselessly across the slick porcelain. Fingernails scraped tile, caught nothing. Air tore into your chest in ragged, desperate gulps. He leaned in. Warm breath brushed your cheek as his lips hovered just beside your skin, not touching yet somehow more invasive than if they had. “Are you gonna behave now?” he murmured. The softness in his tone didn’t match the fingers still clamped at your neck, digging in just enough to remind you how little control you had. His breath ghosted over your cheek, hot, wrong, intimate. Your entire body trembled. Terror clawed beneath your ribs. But rage found a crack to climb through. “Fuck you,” you rasped, voice fractured, raw from screaming.
The shift in him was instant. No warning. No hesitation. His fingers tightened and the world snapped downward again. Water swallowed your scream before it could form. Cold pressure crushed against your skull, driving you into the silence. Tile bit at your knees. Your pulse hammered in your ears. His grip at the back of your neck held steady, unrelenting, pushing harder, deeper, as if proving a point he felt no need to say aloud. He hauled you up by your hair, breaking the surface with a brutal jerk. Your lungs seized, expelling a torrent of bathwater in a racking cough that tore at your raw throat. The world was a blur of steam and terror. “Wanna listen now?” he snarled, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your wet skin. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a word past the burning in your windpipe. All you could manage was a frantic, jerking nod. Survival. It was the only signal your brain could fire.
A cruel smile slithered across his lips. “Good choice. See? You can be taught.” He released his grip, letting you slump to the floor. “Get up.” Your legs were jello, your muscles screaming in protest. You pushed yourself up, swaying, the world tilting on its axis. Every instinct told you to collapse, to play dead, but the fire in his eyes promised a worse hell if you did. “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” he commanded, his voice a low. You wobbled out of the bathroom, the damp hallway carpet rough under your bare feet. He was right behind you, so close you could feel the heat of his body. The bedroom door at the end of the hallway, a gateway to deeper horrors. But the front door was to the left. An inch past the bathroom threshold, a primal surge of defiance overrode the paralyzing fear. You spun, putting all your weight, all your shattered hope, into the motion. You shoved him, hard, directly in the chest.
He was heavier, stronger, but he was off-balance, his sneakers sliding on the wet tile you’d just tracked out. A grunt of surprise. A sickening, wet crack as the back of his head connected with the sharp porcelain edge of the tub. “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” The roar was guttural, filled with more pain than rage. It was the fuel you needed. You didn't look back. You ran. Your body, moments ago a leaden weight, was now pure adrenaline. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles. The front door. Your focus narrowed to that single brass deadbolt. You could hear him scrambling behind you, a cacophony of curses and slipping feet, his sneakers losing purchase on the slick floor. Your fingers work through the binds, numb and trembling, fumbling with the lock. Click. You ripped the door open, the cool night air hitting your face like a sudden blessing. You had no idea how long this had lasted but freedom was a mere step away.
You were halfway across the threshold when his hand fisted in your soaked hair. A scream ripped from your torn throat as he yanked you back with unimaginable force. Your feet left the ground for a terrifying second before he slammed you, face-first, into the wall beside the door. The impact exploded stars behind your eyes. The door slammed shut. The lock turned with a final, deafening noise. Silence, broken only by the ragged, animalistic sound of his breathing. He didn't move, his body a barricade against your only escape. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a furnace of fury. He slowly turned, his shadow engulfing you. His voice was a whisper of pure venom when he finally spoke. "Now," he breathed. "Why did you have to do that?" The glasses didn’t hide it. Nothing could. The evil was right there, a flat, cold light in his eyes that had nothing to do with the room’s dimness. It was a predator’s gaze, and it was fixed on you. He took a slow step forward. Then another. His hands were busy, methodical, peeling off the leather gloves. Finger by finger. “I’m getting fed up with this cat and mouse shit,” he stated, his voice a low thrum of contained fury. In one brutal motion, he yanked you to your feet. Your shoulder screamed in protest as he dragged you, stumbling, into the living room. The air changed, from the damp confinement of the bathroom to the staged normalcy of a space you once thought was safe.
“I was gonna be a gentleman when I fucked you,” he snarled, his face close to yours. His blonde hair was plastered to his forehead, dark and wet from the struggle at the tub, giving him the look of something dredged from the deep. “But you’re too fucking stupid to understand nice.” He shoved you forward, bending you over the hard edge of the coffee table. Your cheek pressed against the cold, polished wood. The same table. The same table where he’d so kindly set up his laptop to help you. The memory was a sickening lurch. Now, as your vision blurred and refocused, you saw it. The laptop was open, the screen a stark, bright rectangle in the dim room. And you were staring at yourself. A girl with wide, terror-stricken eyes, her face pale and smeared with tears and grime. A stranger. You couldn't place her. The person you used to be was already gone, erased by the man whose weight now pinned you to the table. All that was left was this animal fear, staring back from the screen.
You ducked your head, a futile attempt to escape the person on the screen. That hollow-eyed stranger wasn't you. Couldn't be you. Harua denied you even that small dignity. He moved behind you, a cage of muscle and intent. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back. A sharp, bright pain shot through your scalp, forcing your gaze upward, forcing you to meet the terrified animal on the screen. Your own wide, pleading eyes stared back, a silent scream frozen in digital amber. You could feel him then, the hard, insistent pressure of him grinding against you. His mouth was against your hair, his breath hot and damp through the strands. "Look," he commanded, his voice a low rasp. "Look at what you made me do." You trembled, a violent, uncontrollable shiver that started deep in your bones. His free hand began a slow, possessive journey down the arch of your back, over the curve of your hip. A mockery of a caress.
"Don't worry," he murmured, the words a vile secret whispered into your skin. "This is just for me to look at later. A private collection." He leaned back, just enough to give his hands room to work. His fingers, cold and deliberate, traced the waistband of your shorts. Then his thumbs hooked into the fabric—shorts and underwear together. With one slow, inexorable pull, he began to drag them down, baring you to the cold air and his colder gaze. The air left your lungs in a sharp. The shorts, the underwear a puddle of discarded cotton at your knees, trapping your legs, making you helpless. His one hand stayed fisted in your hair, a brutal anchor point, tilting your head back at a painful angle. You could feel the other hand behind you, the frantic rustle of denim, the sharp clink of a belt buckle giving way. There was no time. No breath to prepare. When he pushed into you, it was a brutal invasion. A scream tore from your throat, raw and involuntary. Instantly, the hand in your hair disappeared, only to slam over your mouth, smothering the sound before it could form. The pressure ground your lips against your teeth, sharp and punishing, while your bound hands were crushed mercilessly into your stomach. The world narrowed to the searing stretch, the feeling of being filled beyond capacity.
“Damn, baby,” he groaned, his voice a ragged, hot whisper against the sweat-damp skin of your neck. “You’re so fucking tight. You’re making it hurt.” He didn’t wait for you to adjust. He started to move, a punishing, relentless rhythm that drove you forward with every thrust. The coffee table rattled violently, a percussive counter beat to the slap of skin on skin. “Look at you,” he snarled, his breath hitching. His other hand, the one not silencing you, gripped your hip like a vise, fingers digging into the bone, holding you in place for his use. “Taking it just like this. My good little cock sleeve.”
You could feel a strand of his perfectly styled hair, fallen loose, brushing against your temple. You caught a glimpse of his glasses on the laptop, slightly askew, fogged with the heat of his exertion. The contrast of his disheveled intellect and this raw, feral act sent a shocking jolt of heat straight to your core. “That’s it,” he panted, feeling the betraying clench of your body around his. “Fight me all you want. Your body knows who it belongs to.” The world had narrowed to the brutal rhythm of his body. You could feel he was close, a tightening in his hips, a guttural hitch in his breath. He pulled out, a cruel, teasing inch, only to slam back into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting and swimming. The hard, unyielding press of his chest kept you pinned to the table, the wood groaning a protest you could no longer voice.
A low, primal sound ripped from his throat. “And… God… I’m coming.” You felt the hot, pulsing release deep inside you. He stayed there, buried in you, for a few endless seconds, as if marking his territory, ensuring the claim took root. Then, he pulled out. A shudder wracked your body at the sudden emptiness, followed immediately by a hot, shameful trickle as he dripped out of you. The sensation was obscene, a leaking reminder of the violation. Before you could even process it, his hand was on you again. He grabbed your jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and wrenched your head to the side. Your own soulless eyes stared back at you from the screen of the open laptop on the table. He had angled it perfectly. In the reflection, you saw a stranger hair matted, face pale and slack, eyes hollowed out. A used thing. His face moved into the frame, his blonde hair falling across his brow, partially obscuring the cool, intellectual gleam of his glasses. The contrast was chilling the disheveled and broken creature beneath him.
His voice was a whisper, intimate and horrifying. “See?” he breathed, his grip tightening, forcing you to look, to truly see. “See how beautiful you look when you’re completely fucked out?” Hope wasn't just dying in that moment. It was being methodically erased, replaced with the dreadful, absolute certainty that he was right. There was only this table, this dripping warmth between your thighs, and the hollow-eyed reflection of a girl who was already gone.
Btw how are you doing? Hope everything is going well 😁
I haven’t watched it yet. Life has been horrible I lost my grandma over the weekend, and it’s been really hard. All updates and stories will be paused until further notice. ❤️🩹
"Nothing left that isn’t mine." - Wang Yixiang (王奕翔) x f!reader
What began as a charming date spirals into a nightmare. You are barefoot, bleeding, and hunted by something not human. The city turns its back, and he wants more than your life. He just wants to break your spirit first.
content warming - I used the words “dinner” and “kitten” a lot, stalking, unsettling predator–prey dynamics, power imbalance, blood mentioned and blood-sucking, non-consensual acts, fear play, degradation, humiliation, non-consensual groping, fingering, nipple play, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), loss of virginity, creampie, breeding kink, and more plot driven chaos than porn.
word count : 15.3k
This is the third installment of The Silver Screen Haunting Series.
Take a breath, take your seat. Round three is ready to unfold.
You don’t want to go. That’s the first thing. You tell yourself it’s because you’re tired, because your day has already been too long, because your heels are pinching the skin at the back of your feet. But that’s not it. Not really. The truth sits lower, heavier like a stone lodged in your stomach. Something about this feels wrong. He calls you into his office just before the day ends. His voice floats across the room casually, almost lazy but it prickles at the back of your neck. And then you see it. That smile. The one he wears when he wants something. The corners are too tight, too fixed. The smile of a man who has never heard the word no.
Your pulse ticks up, a quiet flutter in your throat. What could he want? A favor? Another late-night task that will spill into your weekend? You pause at your desk a moment too long, pretending to shuffle papers, stalling, hoping maybe he’ll change his mind, forget. But the air seems to close in. His door is open, waiting. And you can’t help but think, whatever happens in there, you won’t come out quite the same.
“Hey,” he says, his voice light, airy, as though this is some sort of gift he’s about to bestow. “I’ve got a client you’d be perfect for.” You laugh softly, but it’s the wrong kind of laugh, too brittle. “Perfect for?” you repeat, not sure if you’ve misheard. He waves the question away with a flick of his hand, already brushing aside your uncertainty. “Important man. Wealthy. Influential. I think he’ll appreciate your company.” The word company lands oddly, heavy, almost barbed. You feel it snag at you, like a tiny insult hidden inside the compliment.
Your stomach knots. There’s something in his smile that makes you want to back away, but you don’t. Instead, you say lightly, “Actually, I’ve got an event later this evening.” A flimsy shield. You hear yourself offering it, your own voice sounding false, like it belongs to someone else. He doesn’t miss a beat. “Cancel it,” he says. Just that. Flat, final. His eyes hold yours a fraction too long, daring you to argue.
You try another route, polite refusals about your schedule, your workload, how late it is. But his smile hardens as though chiseled into place. “It’s just dinner,” he says, and that’s the end of it. When you leave, the office is quiet, too quiet. You hold the scrap of paper with the address written on it, the ink already smudging against your damp palm. You tell yourself it’s only dinner, only a client. But your chest feels tight, your throat raw. And deep down, under the excuses, you know you’re not walking into a simple meal. You’re walking into something else.
The evening is sliding into dusk, the sky a pale, washed-out blue that seems to fade even as you look at it. The air is cooling fast, the kind of chill that creeps beneath your skin. You walk quickly home, your thoughts crowding in on you, pressing hard against your ribs. You can feel the tension in your jaw, the stiffness in your shoulders. In the privacy of your hallway mirror you practice the smile you’ll use professional, but not too professional. Friendly, but not warm. A mask you’ve perfected over years of being a woman in rooms where men hold all the power. Where your only armor is how well you perform. Tonight, you need it again, though something in your stomach twists as you pull it into place.
You choose the red dress, the one that skims your knees, not too much, not too little. Black heels, though you know they’ll hurt before the evening is done. Minimal makeup, just enough to soften, to please. You pause as you fasten the strap on your shoe, a sharp thought breaking through: What if it’s too much? The question lingers as you stand, fully dressed, the room around you suddenly too quiet. You smooth the fabric over your hips, check your reflection once more, and feel the weight of expectation pressing in, heavy and suffocating, until it’s all you can do to take a breath.
You look at yourself again. Your face looks tired, older somehow, hollows deepening under your eyes, your mouth pressed tight in a line of defeat. Just dinner, you whisper to the glass, but the words fall flat, dull, unconvincing. You reach for your phone, thumb hovering over the taxi app, when a sharp honk slices through the quiet. You move to the window, and there it is, a car already waiting at the curb. By the time you’ve locked the door behind you, the sky has collapsed into a black, starry night, the air turning cold, brushing your bare arms like a warning.
You walk toward the car with leaden steps, slip inside, the door closing behind you with a thud that feels more like a seal than a sound. The driver glances at you in the rear-view mirror, his face unreadable. “Mr. Wang sent me to pick you up,” he says. You laugh, the sound is unfamiliar even to your own ears. “Oh.” You hold up the folded slip of paper your boss had pressed into your hand earlier, then shove it into your bag. “Guess I won’t be needing this.”
The car pulls away, streets sliding past in streaks of dull light, neon smeared against the glass. You lean your head against the cool window, but it doesn’t soothe you, the cold seeps in, making you shiver. Your phone buzzes from your bag. A friend’s name lights up the screen, a reminder about the event you’d promised to attend. You don’t answer. You can’t. “Long day?” the driver asks after a silence, his voice calm. “Something like that,” you murmur.
He nods once, satisfied, eyes flicking back to the road. The car hums around you, steady, enclosing. But inside your chest, the dread tightens, spreading like a bruise. You know it now that tonight is already slipping out of your hands, spiraling into something worse, something you can’t stop. Outside, the city rolls on, alive with other people’s evenings, laughter spilling from open doorways, figures bathed in the glow of streetlights, lives continuing in careless, ordinary ways. And all you can think of is your bed. The warm, empty and waiting for you.
But the moment you arrive, your resolve begins to slip. The house looms ahead of you, enormous and gleaming, its sleek lines and wide, glassy windows catching the last scraps of night light. The driveway curves on and on, endless, as though you’re being drawn into something you won’t easily step back from. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a stage, polished and waiting, built for displays of power.
You sit in the back seat too long, staring at the gates, your hand frozen on the door handle. Breathe. Act normal. Let’s get this over with. But your lungs don’t seem to cooperate, each breath shallow, unsatisfying. When you finally press the bell, the door opens at once, too quickly like he was already standing there, waiting. And it’s him. Not a housekeeper. Not an assistant. Nicholas. He smiles as if you’re already his, his teeth a perfect, unsettling white. His gaze lingers on your face, unwavering, before sliding lower, deliberate, then climbing back up. You can feel the weight of that look, how it strips you down to something small, something exposed, in a matter of seconds. “Goodnight, love,” he says, voice warm, rich and controlled. “At last.”
You smile back, because that’s what you do. You smile when your stomach knots so tightly it hurts. You smile when every nerve in your body whispers run. You smile when men like this think they own you. And in that moment standing in the threshold of his vast, gleaming house you feel the air pressing in, pressing down, as though the walls themselves are leaning closer, ready to swallow you whole. He is dressed with the precision of a man who knows exactly what effect he has. A black, military-cut jacket threaded with gold embroidery, heavy with buttons that gleam in the low light. Beneath it, a deep burgundy silk shirt, loosened at the throat, the suggestion of ease unraveling into something darker, more dangerous.
His sharp eyes framed by delicate chain-draped glasses that lend him a faintly scholarly air, lips soft, full, faintly parted. Strands of dark hair fall across his brow, shadowing the hard line of his jaw, intensifying his gaze. Unreadable. Consuming. He looks every inch the mysterious prince, the kind who could summon devotion with a word or ruin you with a smile. He steps back, a slight bow of his head, granting you space to enter. And you do, because what else is there to do? Inside, the air smells expensive. Everything gleams too much. You glance around as you follow him, noting the quiet, the hard surfaces, the way nothing feels soft or lived in. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels more of a carefully constructed trap. He speaks as he leads you deeper into the house, his tone casual, his words chosen with the ease of someone who doesn’t need answers so much as confirmation.
“So,” he says, glancing back at you with that unreadable half-smile. “Your boss speaks highly of you.” You manage a steady, “I’m glad to hear that.” “And you trust him, yes? Your boss?” The pause that follows is deliberate. Weighted. His eyes hold yours as he asks it, too still, too searching. Your throat tightens, but you nod anyway. “Of course.” He seems satisfied, though you feel the scrutiny press harder, like the air thickening around your chest. Without realizing it, you’re already mapping out the room. The door, the windows, the narrow hallway you passed. A mental escape route. A private calculation you pray you’ll never need.
He moves to a sideboard, uncorks a bottle of red wine. The liquid pours slowly and thick into a crystal glass, dark as blood. He turns to you with a little flourish, presenting it like a gift already claimed. “For you,” he says. You take it. You have no choice. You lift it to your lips, let it brush against your mouth before lowering it, untouched. He notices. His eyes catch the movement, follow the line of your mouth. His eyes darken, just for a moment. “Not thirsty?” he asks softly. Your laugh is quick. “Not yet.” His smile deepens at that, and the silence that follows seems to spread, filling every corner of the room until it feels as though the house itself is leaning closer, listening, waiting.
“You’re nervous,” he says. The words are simple but they cut through the air. You laugh too quickly, too high. “It’s been a day,” you say, your voice thinner than you meant it to be. His smile shifts. Just slightly. The warmth that had seemed almost convincing a moment ago slips away, leaving behind something colder, harder. His eyes move over you slowly, like he’s cataloging you, piece by piece. An appraisal. An ownership.
That’s the moment your body screams at you. Leave. Now. Every instinct flares, sharp and insistent. But you stay seated. Because women stay. Because we’ve been taught to be polite, to be agreeable, to keep the edges smoothed over no matter how sharp the blade is pressing in. He leans closer across the table, closing the space between you. His hand finds your arm, light, almost delicate, and yet the weight of it drags your stomach down, heavy, sickening. “You’ll relax,” he says, his tone low, assured. “I promise you will.” You force a smile, nod once, eyes darting toward the clock on the wall, the door beyond him, the exit you can’t yet take. Your chest feels tight, your breaths too shallow, your heart beating in your throat.
“Will dinner be quick?” you asked, your voice an attempt at breezy that lands flat. “I should be home before too late.” He laughs at that. Not loud, but deep enough to fill the silence between you. “Oh,” he says softly, his eyes holding yours with unnerving patience. “There’s no rush.” And with those words, the room itself seems to shrink, the walls leaning closer. All you can think about is how badly you want it over, how badly you want out, and how certain you are that he knows it.
Dinner was a blur, fragments instead of moments. The food looked beautiful on the plates. You barely touched yours. Every mouthful felt impossible, your stomach knotted too tightly to take it in. He asked about your past, his voice smooth, unhurried. You gave him only the surface: your work, your schedule, scraps of information polished safe. Still, he listened intently, nodding, smiling, as if your vagueness was exactly what he had expected.
His laughter came too loud, too sudden, erupting in the quiet at times that didn’t deserve it. His compliments slid in like blades wrapped in ribbons: sharp, deliberate, always aimed a little too close to where you felt exposed. When you glanced at your phone, hoping for a moment’s escape, his voice cut in. Soft, almost gentle, but threaded with steel. “You don’t need that,” he said. “Not with me.” It hadn’t been a suggestion. Your hand stilled. You slipped the phone back into your bag, feeling the dread rise in your chest like a tide you couldn’t stop.
His gaze was constant. Relentless. His eyes held yours across the table, too steady, too direct, until you felt yourself shrink under the weight of it. Small. Pinned. You saw his satisfaction in the way his smile curved, he liked that he could make you feel this way. And every so often, his gaze dropped. A subtle flicker downward, over your body, then back up again. Each glance felt like a mark, a silent tally, ownership claimed without a word. You told yourself.. Get out. Never come back. But then he said it. “You’re different,” he murmured, voice low, eyes locked hard on yours. “Not like the others.” The words settled on the table between you, heavy, inescapable. He smiled as he said them, but they hadn’t felt like a compliment. They landed like a warning, like a claim, like a threat dressed up in charm.
You make your excuse. Something about an early meeting, a busy schedule, a need to be elsewhere. You stand, smoothing your skirt, and for the briefest moment, you believe you’ve managed it you’ve made it out. You thank him for the dinner, already turning in your stomach. But then his hand closes around your wrist. A tether disguised as touch. “Don’t,” he says, the smile still curving his mouth, though his eyes remain fixed on yours. They hold you with an intensity that makes you feel smaller than you’ve ever felt, as if the entire room has folded inward and pressed you into the narrowest corner. He likes the way you shrink under that gaze. You can see it in the faint flicker of satisfaction that sparks there. You laugh, trying to twist free, hoping it looks playful, casual. “I really should—”
His grip tightens. Not rough, but firm enough that you understand there’s no pretending anymore. The smile stays, but it no longer reaches his eyes. Those eyes roam, unapologetic, lingering just a second too long where they shouldn’t. A subtle appraisal cloaked in charm. You feel heat crawl up your neck, though it isn’t desire but dread. “You’ll stay,” he says softly, almost coaxing. You felt your body go cold. Because now you know. This was never dinner. This was never about business. This was never about you fitting the part for a client. This was always about him. His appetite. His power. The way men like him enjoy watching you realize you were never in control. You open your mouth, try to shape words of protest, some reasoned way out. But he tilts his head, cutting you off with the smallest gesture, as if your voice is already boring him.
“You don’t understand yet,” he murmurs. His tone is almost tender, almost gentle, like a lover whispering a secret. And then, as quick as a curtain drawing closed, the smile returns polished, practiced, a mask snapped firmly into place. And you know, with the certainty of something already written, that you are prey. That he enjoys the fear coiling inside you. That the night is only beginning, and it belongs entirely to him.
His hand is still on your wrist, warm and heavy, when the air in the room shifts. It’s subtle at first, like a faint draft you can’t quite place but then it deepens, darkens, until it feels as though someone has opened a door onto a storm. The atmosphere thickens. Your skin prickles. The low hum of unease that’s been threading through your veins all evening swells into a siren now, shrill and undeniable. You smile because that’s what you’ve always done, the way you were taught to smooth and to make yourself small and agreeable. But the smile feels cracked on your face, the corners of your mouth trembling as if they know they don’t belong there. You hear the falseness in your own voice as you say lightly, almost flippantly, “You’re right. I can stay a little longer.”
His eyes narrow. The weight of his gaze, He doesn’t need to grip tighter. His look alone does it. You feel the walls close in, the air grows thinner. You try to keep breathing normally, but your chest feels tight, your pulse too loud. “Good girl,” he says. Two small words, spoken softly, almost kindly. But they sink into you like claws, leaving an echo that vibrates against your bones. You flinch before you can stop yourself, and his eyes flicker with something that makes your stomach want to throw up. Satisfaction. Enjoyment. The room feels smaller now, every object looming with menace. His hand remains and it feels like a shackle, an anchor dragging you down into something you can’t climb out of. And still, you smile.
He releases your wrist, but you know better than to believe it means freedom. His touch lingers in your skin, an echo you can’t rub away. The silence that follows is thick, oppressive, the kind that swallows sound whole. He’s watching you, and the expression he wears now is stripped bare. There’s no charm, no courtesy. His face has gone flat, emptied of all the practiced civility he wore like clothing. “You’re wondering what this is,” he says at last, leaning back in his chair as though you’re a performance he’s in no rush to end. One hand curls loosely around the stem of his wine glass, casual and almost lazy. The other rests on the table, fingers tapping once, twice. The sound makes your stomach knot.
You force a laugh, brittle and too high, and shake your head. “It’s just dinner.” He tilts his head, the movement sharp as a blade. “Dinner,” he repeats, rolling the word around in his mouth as though it tastes wrong, bitter. And then, softer, a whisper that slides under your skin: “No, Kitten. It’s never been just dinner.” The way he says it makes your body tighten with unease. That nickname lands like something sticky.
He stands suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor, the sound jagged and jarring. The sharpness of the movement makes you flinch, step back before you can think better of it. His smile is gone now, wiped away completely, and what’s left in its place makes your throat close. Hunger. Naked. Raw. “You’re going to learn something tonight,” he says. His voice is so controlled it makes your heart trip over itself. “About men like me.” He takes a step closer. “About yourself.” Another step. Your own voice betrays you, comes out small, strangled. “I need to go.” He shakes his head slowly, almost sadly, as though you’ve disappointed him. “No, you need to listen.” And then he strikes. It happens so fast.
His hand snaps up, closing tight around your throat, crushing your windpipe, making each breath thin, desperate. His other hand slams against your hip, driving you back into the wall. Your shoulder blades hit the plaster with a dull crack, the jolt knocking the air from your lungs. “Stop—” you rasp, the word shredded, barely sound at all. His grip tightens, merciless, and your pulse hammers against his palm. You claw at his wrist, kick wildly, panic howling through every nerve. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, the struggle sharpens the hunger in his eyes. “You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs. His face is close now, his breath warm and sour against your cheek. “The fear. It strips you bare. Nothing false left. Just the real you.”
You’re gasping, vision narrowing, gray seeping in at the edges. You manage a broken whisper: “Please… please let me go.” He tilts his head, studying you. His eyes drag over your shaking form, not like a person seeing you but like a collector looking at a specimen, noting every flaw and weakness. The corners of his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, but something colder. “Look at you,” he says softly. “So weak. So small. And you think you matter outside this room?” His thumb presses harder against your throat, not enough to finish you, just enough to remind you how easily he could. “No. This is who you are. Helpless. Nothing but prey.” Your nails dig into his skin, your legs kick, but every movement feels swallowed by his strength. “Please,” you beg again, tears streaking hot down your face. Your voice is barely a thread now, frayed and shaking. “I’ll do anything. Just—please—”
His eyes don’t blink. They glow faintly, steady, wrong, as if lit from somewhere deep inside. He studies you with the patience of something not quite human, something that could stand there for hours without moving. And the worst part is the quiet certainty that he’s enjoying every second of your terror. And then his hand falls away. Your body folds in on itself, your knees hitting the floor as you collapse forward, choking, dragging air into your starved lungs. The sound of it fills the silence. He steps back, slow, casual, as though nothing at all has happened. You lift your head, eyes blurring, and he’s there, watching. His gaze roams with a lazy kind of hunger, like he’s not looking at you but through you, peeling you apart with his eyes. His head tilts, like you’re some curious little performance that’s entertained him.
“I like you,” he says, voice soft, as though it’s a secret meant for your ears alone. A smile plays on his lips. “I like the way you fight. The way your body writhes when you’re desperate. All that pretty trembling.” You hear yourself whisper, ragged, “Please… don’t. Please.” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore, it’s small, broken and reduce. He laughs, low in his throat, a sound that slides across your skin like grease. His eyes dip down the length of you, shameless. “Begging suits you. Makes you look even prettier. You don’t even know what you’re giving away when you crawl, do you? All those soft little sounds. Men would pay for that.”
You flinch, wrapping your arms around yourself, as if you could hide from the heat of his gaze. His lips curl and the word slips out, heavy with amusement. "Run." At first you don’t understand. You stare at him, wide-eyed, your chest still heaving. But he takes a step back, smiling like it’s a game, like he’s already won. “I’ll even give you a head start,” he murmurs. “Go on. I want to watch what you look like when you’re trying to get away. That body of yours, desperate, pumping with fear…” He chuckles, and the sound is sickening. Something in you snaps upright, survival overriding shame. You stagger to your feet, your legs half-numb, and you run. Fast. Faster than you thought you could. The plan you’d been building in the back of your mind, desperate and frantic, unfurls like a lifeline as you break into the hallway, lungs screaming but alive. And behind you, his laughter lingers, wrapping around your fear, promising you’re still his, no matter how far you go.
The front door gleams at the end of the hallway, the brass catching the weak light like a promise. Freedom. Safety. You lunge for it, breath ragged, heart hammering so hard it blurs your vision. Your hand closes on the handle and pulls. Nothing. Locked. Behind you, his footsteps come like a predator pacing out his certainty. “You’ll never get away,” he murmurs, his voice thick, obscene. “I like you scared. You’re prettier when you’re scared.” Your stomach twists. You claw at the deadbolt, your fingers skidding off the metal, wet with sweat. The air feels syrup-thick, choking. He laughs softly, a low sound that curdles your blood. “Run faster,” he taunts. “I want to watch you wriggle.” The shadow of him lengthens, stretching toward you along the hallway wall. Panic sears your lungs. You tug the chain, scrape at the lock, but your hands won’t obey you, trembling too violently.
And then his hand curled over your shoulder, the grip possessive, revolting. His breath brushes your ear. “You’re mine tonight.” A cry rips from your throat. You twist, shoving with every shred of desperation. Somehow, miraculously, he stumbles back, just far enough for you to grab the small decorative vase by the door. You swing it hard and it shatters against his shoulder. You swing, blind with terror. It crashes against him, shards spraying like teeth. He reels, growling low in his throat, and for one heartbeat, the silence after is absolute. He doesn’t even flinch. The vase splinters fall, glittering across the floorboards, and still he stands there, his eyes fixed on you. “Good,” he says, almost tender. “You’ve got more fight than the others.” The words snag inside your mind, sharp, jagged. The others. There have been others. You don’t want to know. You can’t think about it.
And then he does something worse than stepping forward he tilts his head back, inhales deeply through his nose, as though dragging the air into him, savoring it. His eyes half-close. “God,” he breathes. “I can smell it on you. Fear. Sweet, sweet fear.” Your stomach revolts. Instinct seizes you. Your legs jolt into motion before your brain can catch up. You bolt, feet hammering the floor, every nerve screaming for escape, his laughter following, soft and sure, like he already knows the outcome. You don’t remember how you manage it the door wrenched open, the threshold crossed, the sudden slap of night air against your face. One moment the house had you in its grip, the next you’re outside, barefoot on the pavement, the cold cutting into your skin, your heart battering your ribs so hard it almost deafens you.
Your heels are useless anchors. You kick them off mid-stride, the straps snapping, and run. Bare feet on gravel. Stones tearing skin. The hem of your dress whipping against your thighs. You don’t care. You just keep moving, desperate like an animal. And then you notice it. The silence presses close, filling the air so thickly it feels like you might choke if you try to speak. There’s no rush of feet behind you. No angry bellow, no slammed door, no hand clawing at your back. Nothing. Just the night breathing quietly around you, the dark street stretching, empty, endless. Which is worse. Because silence means he isn’t chasing. Silence means he doesn’t have to. He’s letting you run. And that thought, that one single thought lodges in your throat like glass. Because if he’s letting you go, it’s not escape. It’s something else. Something he already knows. Something he’s waiting for. You run harder, but every shadow ahead feels tainted, as if he’s already there, somewhere, smiling, inhaling the scent of your fear carried in the night air.
Your bag slips against your hip as you fumble, desperate, hands trembling too hard to work properly. At last, the phone, a rectangle of salvation in your palm. You tear it free, press at the screen with damp fingers. One number any number, please, please. The screen stutters, then fades. A hollow black mirror. “No,” you whisper, and your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, small and lost. “No, no, no.” You shove the useless weight back into your bag and listen, though you don’t want to. Every sound is too loud. Your heartbeat thumping inside your skull. You walk faster, slower, then faster again, caught in the rhythm of your own panic, unable to decide which is safer. The road bends, shadows gather thicker, and you realize you’re not just alone. You’re being kept alone. The night doesn’t want to let you out.
And if he’s letting you run, it’s not mercy. It’s because he already knows exactly where you’ll fall. You turn sharply onto a busier street, breath hitching in your throat. Amber light pools beneath the lamps, soft and false, casting the parked cars in long shadows that lean toward you like silent witnesses. Somewhere down the road, faint music drifts from a bar and laughter carried with it, muffled, distant. Normal life, carrying on. And for the first time since you tore yourself from that house, a thought claws through your panic. Maybe. Just maybe. You’ll be safe.
Then you see it. A gas station, glowing under a crown of buzzing fluorescent lights. Harsh. Unforgiving. Alive. Your body lurches forward, stumbling, dragging itself toward the promise. The glass doors gleam, smeared with fingerprints, but they might as well be gates to another world. You shove yourself through, the weak jingle of the bell cracking the quiet behind you. Inside, it smells of burnt coffee and cleaning fluid. The lights hum above, cold, flat. The cashier doesn’t jump. He lifts his gaze just once from the counter, chewing his gum slowly, unimpressed, his face blank with boredom. “Please,” you rasp, voice splintered, broken raw from screaming, from running. Your chest burns with every word. “Please, call the police. Someone’s after me.”
The man at the till raises one eyebrow, unimpressed. His eyes flick lazily from your trembling hands to your face, as if weighing whether you’re drunk, strung out, or just another late-night nuisance. “You okay, lady?” Your throat burns with the words that scrape their way out. “No. I’m not okay.” Your voice cracks, humiliatingly raw. You slam both palms on the counter, the sound sharp and needy, drawing the gaze of a woman browsing crisps at the back. “He’s chasing me, he’s—he’s not human, he’s—” You hear yourself. Hear the madness of it. The words hang there, absurd, childish, like lines from a nightmare said out loud in daylight. You falter. The cashier sighs through his nose, sets his jaw, and reaches for the phone. Relief lashes through you so hard it nearly buckles your knees. Someone believes you or at least, someone is willing to do something. But then the bell over the door gives its thin, hollow jingle.
You freeze. You don’t turn. You don’t have to. You feel it. The air shifts, heavy, dense, as if the small shop has been sealed off, oxygen siphoned clean away. “Evening,” comes Nicholas’s voice. Calm and gentle. A voice for small talk on a quiet street. The cashier glances up at him, then at you. Suspicion gathers in his face like storm clouds. “That your boyfriend or something?” Your lips barely move. “No.” A whisper. Useless, drowned in the hum of the refrigerators. Then louder, desperate, “No,” you repeated. Nicholas is smiling when he steps closer. His shoes make no sound on the linoleum. He tilts his head toward the cashier, genial, as though explaining something tiresome but harmless. “She gets worked up,” he says pleasantly. “We had a disagreement. She can be dramatic.”
The cashier hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you. But Nicholas doesn’t look at him. He only looks at you. Your stomach drops. He’s weaving the narrative, right here, right in front of you. And you know how it looks barefoot, hysterical, dress torn, rambling about monsters. The cashier sets the phone back down with the practiced indifference of someone who has too many late-night run ins. “Look, lady, I don’t want any trouble.” He looks at you as if the trouble might cost him his shift. “No!” you cry, fingers closing on the cuff of his sleeve. The fabric is thin under your grip. “Please, you don’t understand, he’ll—” Your words stumble into each other and die. A hand settles on your shoulder. Warm. Heavy. Not comforting. You don’t turn, you can feel the weight of him as if it’s a physical thing pressing you into the counter. Nicholas leans in, his breath a small, controlled thing against your ear. “Say one more word,” he murmurs. It’s so quiet only you hear it. The kind of voice people reserve for lovers; the kind of voice that makes promises. “And I’ll break his neck before he can scream.”
Your body learns the language of fear in an instant. Muscles lock. Your lungs fold small. The cashier watches the change, reads it as calm returning and relaxes. He is a man practiced in reading surfaces. He shrugs, eyes already slipping back to the small, flickering television behind him. “Work it out between yourselves, huh?” he says, like someone deferring a problem he never wanted in the first place. Relief evaporates. The call you thought would save you shrinks into the linoleum, into the hum of the fridge. Nicholas’s hand is a map on your back, guiding you, directing. He smiles too brightly, he hums under his breath like a radio playing through a closed door. To anyone watching, to the man at the till, to the woman folding crisps at the shelf that the two of you are a couple, leaving after a noisy argument, ordinary and petty.
The door closes with that same thin jingle. The small shop returns to its normal noises, indifferent. Outside, night presses in thick and mute. Inside, you are sandwiched between his warmth and the hard certainty that there is nowhere you can make yourself loud enough to be believed. The world has swallowed you whole. He doesn’t drag you. Doesn’t even touch you, not really. He only walks at your side, close enough that his nearness becomes a wall, an invisible cage you can’t press through. From a distance, you could be two people walking home together, nothing more. “You’re learning,” he says, conversational, almost light, as though the two of you are neighbors making small talk in the street.
His hands are tucked loosely in his pockets, his stride unhurried. “How small you really are.” “I’m not—” Your voice tears itself thin, cracking in the air. You swallow hard, trying again, but the words shake. “I’m not yours.” He chuckles then, soft and low, a sound that vibrates in your chest even though it comes from his. It could almost pass for affection if you didn’t hear the ownership curled inside it. “You already are.” You glance at him, quick, searching his face for something, a seam, a weakness, a flicker of humanity you can prise open and crawl through. But his expression is maddeningly calm like a man you might pass in a supermarket and never think of again. It’s the eyes that betray him. They don’t move enough.
You run. Again. Your lungs rasp and burn, your throat raw as if you’ve swallowed fire. You swerve down an alley, trip hard over a collapsed bin bag, hear glass splinter under your soles. Pain slices, bright and sharp, but you can’t stop. You can’t. Every sound magnifies, grotesque in its clarity, the slam of a lid somewhere behind you, the screech of a cat startled into the night. You drop to your knees behind a dumpster, crouch low. A hand clamps hard over your mouth to smother your ragged breath. The stink of rot rises around you. You press harder, willing yourself into silence, into nothingness. “Clever,” his voice drifts out of the dark. Smooth. Almost admiring. “But not clever enough.” You clamp your hand harder. Your teeth cut into the flesh of your palm. Tears blur your vision, hot and humiliating.
“I can smell you,” Nicholas says. His voice seeping into the air itself. “Fear has a scent, Love. And you reek of it.” You bite down on your knuckle until blood comes, desperate to keep the sob inside, “I want you to run. I want to watch the way you move when you’re desperate. How fast those pretty legs will take you. How long before they give out.” The alley is empty. The street is empty. Yet you feel him crowding in on you, close enough that your skin prickles as if his breath were on your neck. It isn't a pursuit. It isn't an escape. It’s a game. And every second you draw air into your lungs, you know you’re already losing.
You can’t stay hidden in the shadows any longer. Your body betrays you, shoving you back into the open. Every nerve is a live wire, screaming. You run until the street twists and then you hit her. A woman. Young. Startled. Her handbag clutched to her chest like a shield. “Please.” The word breaks out of you in a gasp. You grip her arm, desperate, fingers digging into fabric, into flesh. “Help me. He’s—he’s after me, he’s—” Her eyes widen, tracing the wreck of you. Your bare feet, blood on your legs, hair stuck damp to your face. The picture you must make was wild. She shakes her head quickly, like a child refusing medicine. “Sorry, I can’t—” “Please!” Your voice shreds itself on the air. You cling tighter to her sleeve this time, your nails catching. “Please, he’ll kill me—” But she jerked back, panicked. Her whole body twists away, eager to be free of your touch. “I don’t want to get involved.” Her voice is high, almost squeaking.
She wrenches herself loose. The fabric slips out of your grasp. And then she turns, runs. The click of her shoes receding down the pavement. You stand there, empty-handed, air slicing your throat. Alone again. Alone. Always alone. And then, from somewhere behind, “She looked at you like you were mad,” Nicholas’s voice murmurs, seeping from the dark. “She thought you were dangerous. Isn’t that funny? She saw you as the threat. Not me.” The air feels touched, stroked. His words trail too close, curl around you like fingers brushing the back of your neck. “Don’t you see, Love? No one will ever save you. You’re mine to chase, mine to catch. And when I take you—” He chuckle. “It’ll be the sweetest thing you’ve ever known.” And slowly you understand, he isn’t trying to catch you. Not yet. He’s letting you unravel yourself. Wearing you thin. Your body is already failing. Your feet are raw, skin torn to ribbons. Your chest aches with every rasping breath. Your legs shake, boneless beneath you. You know you can’t keep this up, and worse you know he knows it too..
You stumble through the dark, every step scraping against the jagged edges of panic, until your hand meets the cool frame of a door. You fumble for the handle, heart hammering, and it gives beneath your grip. The hinges whine as it creaks open, the sound too loud, too dangerous, but you push inside anyway. The space is empty, a hollow refuge, and you press the door shut behind you, sagging into the shadows as though the thin barrier could keep him out. You shove your fists against your ears, desperate to shut him out, but his words slide through anyway, brushing across your skin like fingers you can’t shake off. “Why fight it?” The tone is affectionate. “You know how this ends. You will know what it feels like… to be claimed.” And in the hollow dark, you do. You feel it.
You wake to silence. For a moment you think you’re dead. The ache in your body is so complete it feels like nothingness. You’re curled on a cold floor, cheek pressed to grit and broken glass, every breath dragging fire through your chest. Then memory floods back. Him. Panic rips through you. You stagger upright, your body shrieking in protest, your throat raw, limbs trembling. Around you the building yawns open an abandoned office, gutted and skeletal. Windows gape like missing teeth. The air stinks of mold, rust, wet plaster. Somewhere, water drips steady and relentless, like a clock ticking down to the inevitable. “Hey, Kitten.”
His voice slips into the room, low and drawn out, winding through the shadows. It’s everywhere. You spin, pressing your back to the wall. “Still running?” His tone is soft, almost playful. “Still pretending you can escape me?” “Leave me alone,” you rasp. He laughs. The laugh of a man who knows he’s already won.“That’s not how this works,” he says. “You and me….” A pause, thick with implication. “I love how you sound when you’re scared. There’s a kind of honesty in it. Makes me wonder what else I could pull out of you.” Your stomach turns. You push off the wall and move, barefoot over glass and grit, each step agonizingly loud. Somewhere behind you, floorboards creak. You dart left, into a corridor stripped bare, doors hanging crooked from their frames. Your breath rasps, echoing too loudly. You force yourself into silence, pressing your body flat to the wall.
His voice follows, smooth, coaxing. “I see you, little kitten. Hiding. Waiting. You want me to find you. You want me to catch you.” Tears burn your eyes. You shove them back, force yourself to move again. Down the hallway, into another room dark, air thick with damp. Your foot catches on something metal, a chair frame, and the clang rings out sharp. You stood frozen. Footsteps now. Each one closer. “Mm,” he hums, savoring the sound. “There you are.” You lunge deeper into the room, fumbling in the dark, your hands sweeping across a desk, a broken lamp. Nothing useful. Nothing sharp enough, heavy enough. “Run,” he whispers from the doorway, his silhouette just visible now. “Go on. I want to chase.”
You bolt. Out the opposite door, into another corridor. Your breath rips through your throat, your legs scream with each pounding step. The building blurs, an endless maze of gray halls, shattered windows, doors that lead to nowhere. Behind you, his footsteps quicken. Still measured. Still unhurried. Like he knows you’ll burn yourself out before he ever needs to. You crash into a stairwell. Up or down? You choose down, lungs searing, heart threatening to burst. Your hands scrape the banister as you stumble down the stairs, to the first floor. His footsteps on the stairs. “You sound desperate,” he calls out, voice purring now. “I like desperate. Makes me hard just listening.” You choke on a sob, your nails splitting as you claw harder at the boards. Splinters dig into your skin. Nothing moves. And then he’s there, at the top of the stairs. The way he smiled, it was as if this night was unfolding exactly as he had planned.
“Game’s not over, Kitten,” he murmurs. “Come here. Don’t make me take you.” Your body trembles, trapped between terror and the jagged fight still burning in your chest. You know one thing with bone-deep certainty if he gets his hands on you again, you won’t leave this place alive. You press yourself tighter against the wall, your whole body shaking. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His footsteps creak on the stairs. He’s drawing it out. Enjoying this. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and indulgent, like he’s savoring something private. “Filthy. Broken. Barely standing. And still, you run.” His smile stretches wider, cruel and intimate, teeth flashing in the half-dark. “That’s why I chose you, Kitten. That spark. That fire.” He pauses, his gaze burning into you. “And that’s why I’ll enjoy putting it out.” Something cracks inside you then. “You don’t get to decide,” you hear yourself say, voice hoarse but steady. His eyebrows lift. He tilts his head, studying you like an experiment that’s just surprised him. “Don’t I?” he whispers.
You don’t wait. You turn, running, feet pounding down the remaining stairs. Your lungs tear with each breath. You hit the ground floor and fling yourself into a long hallway, lined with doors. You try them one by one. Each handle rattles, each door unmoving. Your pulse hammers harder, louder. The walls seem to press in. His footsteps are closing in on you. Finally, at the very end, the last door gives. It bursts open with a crack. You dive inside and slam it shut, shoving an old wooden table across the frame, pressing your weight against it. Almost immediately, you hear him down the hall, doors slamming open, crashing against walls. Searching. Taunting. Then it was quiet. Until his boots stop outside. A pause, thick enough to crush you. Then the first brutal kick against the door. The table shakes violently, the wood groaning beneath the impact.
“Oh, my little Kitten,” his voice sings, mock-sweet, seeping through the cracks. “What are you doing in there? Hiding? Teasing me? You know I like it when they make me work for it.” They?? Another kick. The door shudders. The table lurches forward but holds. You spin, desperate, eyes finding the boarded-up window at the back. Your only chance. You throw yourself at it, kicking. Once. Twice. Splinters fly. From outside the door, his laughter coils in the air. “Mmm, yes… fight me. I’ll take you panting, bleeding, however you come. But you won’t leave.” You kick harder, adrenaline surging, and the boards crack. Just enough space. You claw at them, ripping, tearing, until finally one gives way. You scramble, hauling yourself through, legs flailing. Behind you, the table skids violently across the floor. Wood splinters, crashes. The door bursts open. A hand clamps around your ankle, iron-hard. His grip sears into your skin. “Got you,” he hisses, voice thick with triumph. “Always mine.” You kick wildly, heel connecting once, twice, three times. Then the sound of a crunch. His face. His howl, guttural, raw, ripping through the night.
“Fucking hell!” The grip loosens. You don’t think so. You don’t breathe. You drag yourself through, tumbling into the open air, scraping skin and tearing clothes. The night slams into you, sharp and cold, a shock of freedom that tastes like blood. You stagger upright, vision blurring, and run. Toward the promise of lights. Toward anything but him. But even as you flee, you can still hear his voice echoing behind you, smooth and intimate, floating through the broken glass: “Run, little Kitten. Run. I’ll always find you.”
You found yourself in the middle of the street. And headlights. Too bright, rushing at you. You lunge out of the way, stumble, collapse onto the pavement. Brakes screech. A car jerks to a stop. “Oh my god—are you okay?” The driver, a man, scrambles out, his face pinched with alarm. You seize his arm, the words spilling like blood. “Please. Please—get me to the police station.” He doesn’t hesitate. He lifts you, your body feels foreign in his grip and half-carries, half-guides you into the car. You sink into the passenger seat, the fabric rough against your torn skin. He slams his door, throws the car into drive. The vehicle surges forward, fast and purposeful. You allow yourself one breath that isn’t ragged, one thought that maybe, maybe, you’ve made it. And then the car jolts to a stop.
Your head snaps forward, heart slamming. Through the glass you see him. Nicholas. He’s standing in the middle of the road as if he belongs there, casual, easy, like he’s just waiting for a friend. But his shirt is drenched, smeared with deep, wet blood that shines black in the headlights. His hair is wild, matted, sticking to his forehead. And his face God, his face. His mouth is smeared red, his chin streaked, like he’s fed on something.
Yet his expression is calm. Almost polite. He raises one hand in a lazy wave, the kind neighbors might give across a garden hedge. And then he smiles. It’s the smile that undoes you. Because it doesn’t belong to a man. Not anymore. The blood glistens on his lips, his teeth too white against it. His eyes glint with a light that isn’t human, too sharp, too hungry. He looks like an animal wearing skin, a predator caught mid-shift because he knows the kill is inevitable. “What the fuck?” the driver mutters, leaning hard on the horn. “Get out of the road!” Nicholas doesn’t move. Don't blink. The man turns to you. “Miss—do you know him?”Your throat locks. You can’t answer. You turn back and Nicholas is gone.
Then..tap, tap, tap. At the door. His smile inches from the window. “Drive!” you scream, clawing at the man’s arm. “Please, drive!” But the driver freezes, staring, his foot fumbling. And then Nicholas is beside him, impossibly quick, leaning in. His lips curl close to the man’s ear, as though about to whisper something obscene, something secret. Instead. A snap. A wet crack. The driver’s neck bends to an angle no human body should allow. His eyes fix wide on you, lips parted as though mid-protest. His body folds, slumping sideways into you, dead weight heavy across your lap. A scream tears out of you, high and broken, so raw it doesn’t even sound human. Nicholas’s face appears in the gap left by the man’s head, inches from yours, eyes too steady, too knowing. His smile spreads, soft, intimate. “Now, Love,” he murmurs, almost tender. “No more distractions. Just you. And me.”
“Please stop!” Your voice fractures, thin and jagged. “Please—please, I’m begging you—” He tilts his head, like a man studying a painting, deciding if it pleases him. A flicker of amusement curls at his mouth. Then “Fuck, I should just take you here.” The words slam into you. A scream tears out, raw and broken, shredding your throat. You twist toward the door, frantic, scrabbling for the handle. But he’s faster. The driver’s door swings open, and with one brutal shove, he drags the limp, heavy body out, dropping it to the ground as though it’s nothing. Then he slides into the seat beside you, casual, as though it’s his rightful place. His hand finds your hair. Strokes. Twists. Plays. Fingers winding slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring the texture of it.
Your body convulses with shivers you can’t stop. You can’t look at him. Can’t bear it. You keep your face turned away, your hands fumbling at the passenger door, praying it will open, praying for escape. “Please,” you whisper, louder, desperate. Your palms press together, rubbing, shaking, a gesture of pure supplication like a child begging forgiveness, like a prayer gone ragged. “Please, I’ll do anything, just let me out—please.”
His laugh is low, indulgent, sliding beneath your skin. The stroking of your hair doesn’t stop. If anything, it slows, more deliberate now, as if your terror is the very thing he came for. He leans, his smile never falters. “You still don’t see it,” he says. His voice is soft, almost pitiful. “This isn’t about you. It’s about what I want. And about what you give.” You turned to his eyes deadly “You’re insane.” “Insane?” He laughs. “No, love. I’m inevitable.” The words hit you like ice water. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. He doesn’t need to run. The certainty in his tone is worse than any chase, worse than any blow.
You finally got the door open and the night air rushes at you, a taste of escape, of freedom but then his hand is in your hair. The pain is white-hot, tearing through your scalp as he yanks you backwards. You crash against the seat, a strangled sound clawing up your throat. The door slams, the lock clicks. “Game’s over,” he murmurs, voice almost sing-song. The blood on his lips glistens in the dark. “No—please, no.” The words break apart in your mouth, weak, desperate. He smiles at you then. That bloody smile. It stretches too wide, too calm, teeth slick with red. A smile that belongs in nightmares. “I need you now.” His voice thickens, drops lower, intimate in a way that curdles your stomach.
His hand clamps around the back of your neck, hot and unyielding. He slams you forward. Your body crumples against the dashboard, cheek pressed to cold plastic, vision exploding with stars. Limbs go slack, your body suddenly unresponsive, as if it’s abandoned you. “Perfect,” he breathes, leaning close enough for his words to slide against your ear. “So soft when you give in.” Your breath comes in shallow gasps, every nerve screaming, every instinct begging you to move, to fight. But you can’t. Not yet. His grip pins you, his presence fills every inch of the car, pressing down like a weight you’ll never lift. The smell of blood, sweat, and him is everywhere. A trap with no air left inside.
The slap dragged you back. A sharp sting across your face. Your eyes flew open. You were chained. Cold metal biting your wrists, pinning you to a bed that reeked of wealth and rose perfume. The sheets, the satin, glossy, the kind you’d only ever seen in some seedy VHS from another era clung unpleasantly to your skin. The sight of them alone told you everything you were fucked. And then his face came into view. Nicholas. Sitting at the foot of the bed, calm, composed, as though this were an interview. His fingers idly traced circles along your bare legs, lazy, patient. “What?” The word slipped from you, cracked and small. He leaned back slightly, smiling, as though amused by your confusion. “Didn’t know, did you? That it was your boss who set all this up?” Your chest tightened. “No—”
Nicholas stood, unhurried. He moved closer, his presence swallowing the space between you. “It was last month,” he said softly. “I came in for our usual meeting. And you… you’d just come back from your lunch break.” His smile sharpened. “It had been raining. Your shirt was plastered to you. And I couldn’t stop looking.” Your stomach churned. “And your boss noticed,” he continued, his eyes holding yours. “He offered you to me. Like a gift. Isn’t that something?” He laughed and leaned in, his mouth too close to your ear. “I’m not sure if you’ve caught on yet. But I’m not exactly… human.” When he smiled this time, his teeth looked wrong. Too sharp. A gleam of something predatory behind them. “Every so often,” he murmured, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, “your boss finds someone for me. Someone fresh. Someone… delicious. Helps me quench my thirst.” His eyes dipped to your throat, lingering there, staring with naked hunger. “In exchange for money, of course. You humans love your money.” He laughed again, easy, almost playful. But it carried a weight that made your blood run cold.
You tugged at the chains, your wrists burning. Helpless. Pinned. His laughter still hangs in the air like smoke. And for the first time, you understood you weren’t just trapped. You weren’t prey to a man. You were prey to something else entirely. You tried to steady your breathing. To pretend you were somewhere else. But the moment his hands slid up your bare thighs, creeping higher beneath the dress you should never have worn, every ounce of calm shattered. Regret drowned you, regret for the dinner, for the boss you didn’t defy, for every smile that led you here. But you know the truth now. You’d been doomed the moment Nicholas’s eyes locked on you.
His fingers brushed your underwear, the faintest ghost of pressure against the most sensitive part of you. Enough to make you clamp your legs together, desperate to shield yourself. The slap came fast. Your head snapped to the side, cheek burning. “None of that,” he murmured. His voice was calm, a whisper laced with authority that left no room for disobedience. His hands forced your thighs apart, spreading you open. His mouth curved into something cruel. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised, as though this were intimacy, not power. “Since I know this is your first.” Your voice shook. “How do you know that?” That’s when his eyes changed. The shift was instant. The red blooming in the dark, glowing faintly, unnatural, wrong. You scrambled back on the bed, chains clanking, panic clawing at your throat. “What the fuck—” He laughed. A deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your bones. He pointed casually to his own eyes, as though displaying them were a joke. “Do these scare you?” His laughter thickened, dark with amusement.
And then he lunged. His hand wrapped around your waist, dragging you beneath him as easily as if you weighed nothing. Your body bucked, fought, but his grip was iron. His weight pressed you into the bed, his presence suffocating. He hovered above you, his lips so close you could feel the heat of his breath hot, damp, laced with iron, like the taste of blood before it hits your tongue. His red eyes bore into yours, unblinking, stripping away your defenses. “And to answer your question…” His voice dropped to a whisper that still rattled through your chest. “…I can smell it.” Then his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a taking. His lips pressed hard, claiming, his tongue sliding past your lips before you could turn away. Heat and hunger consumed you, forcing their way inside, making your body tremble with revulsion and confusion. Every nerve screamed at you to fight, to claw, but your limbs felt weak, your mind spiraling.
The kiss was suffocating wrong, obscene, yet threaded with an intimacy that sickened you. You could feel the scrape of his teeth, sharp, not fully human, nipping your lower lip hard enough to sting. A low sound rumbled in his chest, half groan, half growl, vibrating against your mouth as though the taste of your fear was intoxicating him. His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you tighter against him, until you could feel the dangerous edge of his body’s intent pressing into yours. You were trapped beneath him, overwhelmed, drowning in his forwardness, in the horror of how much he seemed to enjoy your helplessness. And worst of all, he kissed you like a man starving like this was only the beginning.
The kiss was a violation, a claim. His tongue shoved past your lips, a hot, wet, insistent force exploring your mouth with a familiarity that made your stomach heave. It was too long, mapping the roof of your mouth, sliding against your own tongue with a possessive rhythm that felt less like passion and more like a predator tasting its meal. A low, guttural sound vibrated from his chest into yours, a groan of pure, unadulterated hunger. He was starving, and you were the feast. His weight pressed you deeper into the satin, a suffocating blanket of wealth and terror. You could feel every hard, unforgiving line of his body, a cage of muscle and malevolent intent. And pressed against your thigh, through the layers of fabric, was the unmistakable, rigid evidence of his arousal, a thick, insistent pressure that promised a violence your body was not built to withstand.
His free hand, the one not pinning your waist, began to move. It slid down from your thigh, a slow, deliberate journey over the sensitive skin of your inner leg. His fingertips traced lazy, terrifying circles, moving higher, and higher, until they brushed against the damp fabric of your underwear. You whimpered against his mouth, a pathetic, trapped sound, and tried to twist away. His grip on your waist became vise-like, holding you perfectly still for his exploration. “Oh come on now,” he murmured against your lips, his breath a hot, metallic whisper. His fingers didn’t pause. They pressed harder, the pad of his thumb finding the swollen, terrified bud of your clit through the thin cotton. He rubbed a slow, deliberate circle, and a jolt of unwanted, traitorous sensation shot through you. A spark of pure biology that felt like the ultimate betrayal. Revulsion and a confusing flicker of physical response warred within you, making you whimper again, this time with shame.
He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch your face. His red eyes glowed in the dim light, pupils slitted like a serpent’s. A cruel, knowing smile played on his lips, now slick with your saliva. “See?” he whispered, his thumb continuing its relentless, circling pressure. The friction was a torment, a cruel mockery of pleasure. “Your body knows what it’s for. Even if your mind is… struggling.” He dipped his head, his mouth trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat. You felt the sharp scrape of his teeth against your pulse point. He didn’t bite, not yet. He just pressed them there, a promise of the puncture to come, while his hand worked you with a terrifying, intimate expertise.
His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, and the direct contact of his skin on yours was an electric shock of horror. He was cold, his touch unnaturally smooth, like polished stone. He found your clit again, now bare and exposed, and rubbed slow, firm circles that made your hips jerk involuntarily. It was too much. The sensory overload, the sight of his glowing eyes, the feel of his inhuman hands, the smell of roses and something coppery, like old blood threatened to shatter your mind. “I’ll be gentle,” he repeated, his voice a low hum against your throat, the lie more terrifying than any threat. His finger pressed inside you, just the tip, a slow, stretching intrusion. It wasn’t a caress; it was a measurement. A sampling. His red eyes watched you, unblinking, drinking in every flinch, every tear that escaped the corner of your eye. “So warm,” he groaned, the sound dripping with a lust that was ancient and bottomless. His finger pushed deeper, and you felt a strange, stretching pressure, as if his very touch was reshaping you from the inside. It was a consumption waiting to happen. The intimacy was the horror, the way his body covered yours, the way his hand moved between your legs with a dreadful purpose, the way his breath hitched as if he were a lover on the edge of passion, not a monster on the edge of a kill.
You were drowning in him. In his strength, his forwardness, the sheer overwhelming reality of his inhumanity. And as a second finger joined the first, stretching you further, you knew with a cold, final certainty that the dinner, the boss, the chains… they were just the prelude. The real horror was only just beginning. A low, wet sound rattled in his chest, something closer to a predator’s purr than a laugh. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered. His gaze was a physical weight, dragging from your eyes down to where his hand had vanished under the hem of your dress. When he looked back, his pupils were blown, swallowing the color whole, leaving only a ring of hungry light. His head fell into the curve of your neck, but it wasn’t a caress. It was a hunt. He inhaled a long, deep pull of air that made your skin prickle. “I can smell it on you,” he groaned into your ear, his voice layered with something ancient and slick. “The fear. It makes you so sweet.” His hips began a slow, insistent grind against your thigh, and you could feel the hard, unnatural ridge of him, a promise of violation that sent a traitorous heat foaming in your belly. Your legs trembled, trying to rise, to close, but his weight was absolute.
The sounds he made were not human. The wet, clicking moans that vibrated against your jaw. He laughed again, and this time it cracked like breaking a bone. “Are you close, my little kitten? So quick to purr for me.” The endearment was an obscenity. In one fluid, impossible motion, he was between your thighs, his body a cage of sharp angles and cold intent. He doesn’t just shove the dress up, it’s like the fabric obeys him, sliding away from your skin until it pools at your waist like a discarded shroud. His fingers, long, knowing, trace the inside of your thigh, leaving behind a trail that feels colder than steel, sharper. "Let me see," he murmurs, his hand already moving your underwear out of the way. And then those same fingers slip back into you, sinking deep, as if to remind you that every inch of you already belongs to him.
The world narrows to the brutal drive of his fingers pounding into you, each thrust a promise that you are his. Not just fucked. Owned. Every curl, every twist forces you open, tearing a place in your body that will never belong to anyone else. Your hips buck, desperate for escape, but he’s faster. Stronger. His palm clamps around your throat, cutting off air, cutting off thought, reminding you exactly where you belong beneath him, at his mercy, drowning in the ruthless way he takes you. A broken sob tore from your chest as you clawed at the chain, the cold bite of metal mocking your struggle. Pathetic. His laugh was low, dark, vibrating through you like another chain wrapped around your throat. Then came the pressure grinding against your clit until it burned. Not a touch. A brand. His brand. His tongue. “Feel that?” he whispered, cruel amusement lacing every word. “That’s me carving my name into your body. You’ll think of this every time you try to forget who you belong to.
Your eyes fluttered open, dragged downward as if by a string. And you found him watching you. His gaze was bottomless, holding no trace of human warmth, only a chilling, predatory hunger. His tongue, flat and demanding, pressed against your most sensitive nerve, and the intimacy of it was more terrifying than the violence. He wasn’t just taking your body. He was devouring your soul. “Keep your eyes on me,” he growled against your flesh, voice vibrating through the nerve he tortured. “I want to see you break while I eat what’s mine.” You snapped your thighs shut in one last pathetic act of defiance, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t be moved. His head was wedged between you like a predator locked on its kill, feeding without mercy. When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to let a slick strand of spit stretch from his tongue to your trembling clit, glistening proof of his ownership. His stare never wavered, carved out of hunger and obsession. The air itself seemed to bend around him.
“Come for me,” he ordered, voice rough, low, vibrating through your bones like a curse. He smirked at the way you shook, mocking, and cruel. “You think you’ve got a choice? You don’t. Your body already knows who it belongs to. I’ll drag that orgasm out of you, rip it from your throat if I have to. And when you break for me, you’ll remember this moment every time you breathe—I fucking own you.” Then he was on you again, his mouth a furnace of heat, tongue carving ruthless circles of fire while his fingers pumped inside you with merciless precision. The dual assault was destruction, pure and deliberate. Your mind fractured, your ragged chant of shit, shit, shit the only thread keeping you tethered as the pleasure twisted into something sharper, darker and something you could no longer control.
It rose fast, brutal, a tidal wave that carried as much dread as ecstasy. Your body convulsed, shaking beneath him, seizures of surrender ripping through your frame. But he didn’t stop. He never stopped. He swallowed your orgasm like a starving man, growling into you as his fingers drove deeper, dragging out every spasm, every whimper, prolonging the agony until it blurred into bliss so violent it felt like annihilation. “Good girl,” he sneered against your trembling flesh, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. “Fall apart for me. Break. I’ll take every piece, and when there’s nothing left of you when you’re nothing but wreckage, I’ll still be here, feasting on what’s mine.”
He stood up from the bed in one fluid motion, his towering frame blotting out the dim glow of the lamp. The shadow he cast swallowed you whole, making you feel smaller than you’d ever dared admit to yourself. Every step he took bled authority, an unspoken command to obey. His fingers tugged at his shirt, peeling it off slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving you. It was suffocating those eyes drinking you in like a predator already savoring the taste of its meal. When his pants hit the floor, you faltered. Your gaze betrayed you, slipping lower before you could stop yourself. Heat flushed through your cheeks as you tore your eyes away. He caught it. The dark laugh that rolled from his chest was a sound you would never forget. “You can look, kitten,” he drawled, voice dragging over your nerves like claws. You pressed your lips tight, staring at the floor. The wrong move. In the next breath, his hand tangled in your hair and yanked your head back. Your neck arched painfully as he bent low, his mouth ghosting beside your ear, his growl vibrating through your bones. “When I tell you to look at me,” he snarled, spittle catching the corner of your cheek, “you fucking look. Do you understand?” “Yes!” the word ripped from your throat, raw and panicked.
The pull on your hair eased, but the relief was fleeting. His hand trailed lower, hovering at the neckline of your dress. Your breath hitched when his nails lengthened, black claws sprouting like some unnatural bloom. A sick shimmer danced along the edges of them, and before you could react, he sliced down the thin fabric. The sound of tearing cloth rang in your ears like a death knell. The dress slid from your shoulders, leaving you exposed in nothing but thin lace covering trembling skin. His smirk spread slow, hungry, almost reverent as his eyes lingered on the white fabric. “White,” he murmured, his tongue tasting the word. “How fitting. Innocence wrapped up, waiting to be ruined.”
He crawled onto the bed, over you, his weight sinking the mattress, pinning you in place without touching you yet. His breath was hot against your collarbone, fanning over the quick rise and fall of your chest. The hunger in his eyes was more than human but for the way you trembled beneath him, the way fear and something darker warred inside you. “You feel it, don’t you?” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, the edge of his fang grazing your skin. “That pull. That dread. You’re mine, little kitten. No running, no hiding. Just me…and the way your body betrays you every time I touch you.” Your pulse thundered as his hand trailed along your ribcage, claws barely scratching, promising both pain and pleasure. The air felt heavier, thicker, every movement of his deliberate, designed to keep you gasping between terror and an unwilling, trembling anticipation.
He hovered over you, a mountain of malevolent grace, his cock inches from your face. The sheer size of him was a threat in itself, a promise of violation that stole the air from your lungs. The dim light carved the hard lines of his abdomen and cast his face in shadow, but his eyes glowed with that eerie, inhuman light, a predator's phosphorescence. “Okay, now,” he said, the words deceptively soft, a velvet wrap around a steel blade. “Open that mouth for me.” Your jaw felt locked, welded shut by a primal instinct to refuse, to protect yourself from the invasion. A tiny, choked sound was the only response you could manage. The smirk that twisted his lips was a cruel, knowing thing. “And if you bite me,” he continued, his voice dropping to a intimate, terrifying whisper, “I’ll fuck your face so hard you’ll have bruises in the back of your throat. Do you hear me?”
Terror was a cold flood in your veins. You managed a jerky nod, your eyes wide and fixed on his. His grip returned to your hair, fisting tightly, a brand of ownership. “Use your words” he snarled, the civility vanishing in an instant. “Yes!” you screamed, the word ripped from a place of raw, animal panic. It was the opening he needed. The moment the syllable left your lips, he took it as an invitation, pushing forward. The blunt, hot head of his cock pressed against your parted lips, a shocking, intimate heat that made you gag instinctively. “Oh, God…” you whimpered around him, the sound muffled, pathetic. His voice came out light, almost conversational, a stark, chilling contrast to the violation. “Oh, god…?” he echoed, a dark laugh rumbling in his chest. “He’s not here, kitten. It’s just you… and me… and this pretty, treacherous mouth of yours.”
He entered with a slow, inexorable pressure that spoke of absolute control, he filled your mouth, pushing past the point of comfort, stealing your breath. The stretch was immediate, a burning ache. You could taste the faint, clean scent of his skin, a bizarre intimacy that made your stomach clench with a nausea born of sheer overwhelm. Your eyes watered, tears leaking from the corners as you struggled to breathe through your nose, the sound ragged and desperate. He watched it all, his gaze drinking in every tear, every choked gasp, as if it were a fine wine. His hips began a shallow, rhythmic motion, not a frantic fucking, but a deliberate, sensual driving. Each withdrawal was a taunt, a brief glimpse of air, each thrust a deeper conquest. His claws, still extended, traced idle, threatening patterns on your cheek, the deadly tips skimming your skin, a constant reminder of the pain that lay just beneath the surface of this obscene intimacy.
“That’s it,” he purred, his voice a rough drag of gravel and silk. “Take it. Just like that. Your body knows what to do, even when that stubborn little mind fights it.” His thumb stroked your temple, a grotesquely tender gesture. “Look at you. So perfect. So overwhelmed. You were made for this, for me. To be my pretty little sheath.” You were drowning in him, in his scent, his taste, the sheer, terrifying presence of him. The dread was a palpable force, pressing down on you as heavily as his body.
Your eyes, wide and wet with unshed tears, locked on his. Those crimson flames burned through you, ancient and merciless, finding the frantic flutter of your pulse like a predator savoring prey. There was no kindness in them, no reprieve, only hunger so deep it stripped you bare. But he didn’t linger on your gaze for long. His eyes dropped, dark with obsession, to your lips stretched wide around the brutal thickness of his cock. The wet, choking sounds spilling from your throat were music to him, your helplessness turned into a symphony he’d orchestrated, and he watched it play out with cruel, starved satisfaction. A low, approving groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through you. “Yes…” he hissed, the word a serpentine sound of pure possession. “Just like that, little fuck. You’re milking me already.” His hands, which had been gripping your hair, shifted. Palms cradled your skull, fingers splaying against your temples, holding you perfectly, terrifyingly still. There was no escape in that grip, only absolute control.
The shallow, controlled rhythm shattered. With a guttural snarl that was more beast than man, he drove forward, burying himself deep into your throat. The world dissolved into a choked, gagging reflex, your body convulsing against the invasion. But he was relentless, pulling back only to plunge deeper, faster, establishing a brutal, punishing pace that stole your breath and blurred your vision. The sound was obscene, the wet, rhythmic struggle of your throat being used, punctuated by his ragged, deepening groans. “Fuck…” he growled, hips slamming forward with a brutal force that made your jaw ache, each thrust a threat to shatter you from the inside out. Control slipped from him, peeled away until only the predator remained raw, ravenous, merciless. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold on… kitten, your mouth is a fucking vice.” The word baby left his lips like a curse, not tender but tainted, warped into possession. His thighs quivered, abdomen tightening like a bowstring about to snap, every muscle a testament to how much pleasure he was tearing from your helpless surrender. He wasn’t just using you. He was feeding, devouring, branding you with every brutal stroke.
The air grew thick, charged with a primal energy that was both terrifying and intoxicating. Each thrust was a claim, each grunt a promise of more. His claws, still extended, skimmed down your neck, not breaking the skin but leaving a trail of fire, a whispered threat of the savagery that lay just beneath his straining civility. You were overwhelmed, a vessel for his hunger, drowning in the scent of his skin, the taste of him, the overwhelming reality of his dominance. It was suffocating, and yet, a treacherous, shameful part of you responded to the raw power of him, to the sheer sensory overload that left no room for anything but the present, violent intimacy. He leaned even closer until his shadow swallowed you whole, his breath hot and ragged against your forehead, damp strands of hair brushing your skin. “That’s it…” he hissed, voice shredding at the edges, a raw, broken thing that still managed to sound like a threat. “Take all of me. Swallow it. Every. Last. Drop.” Each word landed like a strike, heavy and final, a prelude to the storm coiling in his body.
His hips flexed one last time, the weight of him forcing your head back as he groaned with a sound that was half-snarl and half-prayer. His fingers curled tight in your hair, holding you there as the tremor built, his thighs quivering with restraint that was already breaking. “Good little whore,” he rasped, the words a cruel caress. “Look at you…under me, drowning for me. You think you’re fighting, but you’re already mine. You’ll always be mine.” You felt the tension snap like a whip through him, his entire body seizing, the storm hitting you both as he gave in completely, feeding you every violent ounce of his release while whispering low, jagged words into your hair.
A cruel, lazy smile touched his lips as he watched the frantic pulse in your throat. “Look at you,” he breathed, the words a husky, predatory sound. “Your heart is beating like a trapped bird’s. It’s fucking delicious.” His knuckle traced a chilling path down your jugular, and you flinched, a whimper catching in your throat. “I think I’ll keep you alive,” he decided, laughter breaking from him when your eyes widened with pure terror. “Shit… keep looking at me with those scared little doe eyes and I’ll cum all over that pretty, pathetic face.” His words dissolved into a ragged groan. “Fuck, I’m cumming.” You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling the hot, shameful rush spill over your cheek and down your throat as he held himself there, branding you. He finally pulled back, his gaze dropping to your chest, lingering with a revolting hunger. “Let’s get rid of this,” he muttered, and with one sharp, violent motion, he tore your bra away.
He kneaded your breasts as if assessing meat, his fingers pinching and twisting your nipples until a sharp cry of pain escaped your lips. “Mm, so sensitive,” he murmured with a low chuckle, twisting harder just to hear you gasp. “All this… just for me. Your body’s a fucking traitor.” A sharp, stinging slap made you jolt, the pain mixing with a wave of nauseating heat as your flesh bounced before his grip returned, squeezing and molding you again. “Look at them jiggle for me,” he taunted, his voice thick with mockery. “So perfect and stupid. Made to be used.” Then his mouth descended, lips closing around one swollen bud, sucking hard enough to bruise while his grip kept you utterly trapped. “You can’t wriggle away,” he whispered against your damp skin, teeth grazing your nipple, “I own this. I’m not letting go.” You twisted helplessly, a sob breaking free, but the way his hand clamped onto your flesh left you with no escape. “Please,” you begged, the word a broken whisper. “Please…”
He pulled away, his palm striking your breast once more, the sharp smack echoing in the quiet room. A low, dark laugh rumbled in his chest. “Please?” he repeated, his gaze drifting down your body with deliberate, hungry slowness. “You don’t get to say please. You just get to take it.” His hand hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down inch by agonizing inch along your trembling legs. “Look at you shaking,” he sneered, dragging the fabric lower until it slipped free. He dangled it between his fingers, his eyes locking onto the damp spot at the center. A flicker of pure, twisted lust darkened his features. “Pathetic. You’re disgustingly wet. Your body knows what it’s for, even if you want to pretend you’re above it.” He tossed the underwear into the shadows, not sparing it another glance. Then he settled between your legs with an easy, terrifying confidence, his hands closing like vices around your thighs, prying them apart despite your weak, frantic resistance. “These sweet, trembling legs are mine to spread open,” he whispered, his cruel smile returning as he tightened his grip until the bruising pressure made you cry out. “Don’t even think about hiding from me. This pretty, helpless little cunt.” He leaned down, his breath hot against your inner thigh, and you felt a fresh wave of pure, undiluted fear. “Now,” he breathed, “let’s see how much more pathetic you can get.”
The thick, wet evidence of his conquest was all he used, his cock gliding through your slick with a torturous, slow friction. A predator savoring the feel of his prey. You felt him, a blunt, insistent pressure at your core, and then he began to sink. A low, guttural sound ripped from his chest, his eyes sliding shut in a kind of profane bliss. “Fuck…” he hissed, the word a dark prayer. Then he stilled. Pulled back. His eyes snapped open, and in the dim light, the smear on his length wasn't just your arousal. It was a darker, richer crimson. A slow, cruel smile twisted his perfect lips. “Oh, little kitten,” he mocked, his voice a silken threat. “Look at that. Guess your innocence is bleeding out for me.” He had kept his word, in the most technical sense his initial push was gentle, but it was the gentleness of a viper before the strike.
His hands were like manacles on your thighs, forcing them up, folding you until you were exposed, helpless, your own body bent to his will. His face was so close you could taste his breath, the scent of your own fear and desire on his tongue. His gaze was a physical weight, pinning you, stripping you bare. You couldn’t look away, he wouldn’t allow it. A whimper escaped you, a broken sound you didn’t recognize. You squeezed your eyes shut against the burning tear, the violation of a body that had never been touched this way. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and absolute. Your eyes fluttered open, obeying the compulsion in his tone. The sharp pain began to recede, not into comfort, but into something worse: a familiar, traitorous heat coiling in your belly. Your body was betraying you, responding to its destroyer.
Nicholas saw the way your body betrayed you with every trembling gasp, and his crimson eyes lit with amusement. “Are you going to come on my cock, my little kitten?” he purred, the words dripping venom and velvet. His lips brushed yours, close enough to taste your breath, but he did not give the kiss freely. When he finally claimed your mouth. His tongue forced past your lips, devouring, stealing air until you squirmed. When he tore away, a glistening thread of spit connected you, a leash of his making. “If you knew the taste of fear,” he whispered against your cheek, fangs grazing the tender skin of your jaw. “You’ll know why I prefer you scared.” His hips snapped forward, brutal and unrelenting, bruising against the very core of you. You cried out, but he only pressed harder, forcing your thighs tighter to your chest with his iron grip. “Does it hurt?” Nicholas taunted, his breath hot against your ear. “Good. I want you to remember exactly who broke you.”
Your answer came in whimpers, in the tightening clutch of your body that betrayed the pain with pleasure. He chuckled low, dark, mocking. “Pathetic little thing… clutching me so sweetly while you whine. You’ll bleed for me, you’ll cry for me, and still—” his eyes bore into yours, unblinking. “you’ll come for me.” The pace quickened, each thrust a command, each sound you made feeding his hunger. “Look at me,” he growled when your eyes threatened to close. “You don’t get to hide. Not when you break. I want to see you surrender.” “Come,” he growled, the mockery rich in his voice. “Come for me, little kitten. Mark what’s yours.” And with a shattered gasp, your body arching against its will, you did
He ripped himself from you so suddenly it stole your breath, leaving you trembling, empty, and raw. But it lasted only a heartbeat. His hands were back on you, rough and sure, spinning you onto your side like you weighed nothing. His chest pressed against your back, his breath ghosting over your shoulder. “You can give me another one, can’t you, kitten?” His voice slid into your ear like a blade wrapped in velvet. His arm hooked under your thigh, dragging it up until you were spread open for him, helpless and exposed. He didn’t hesitate. He drove back into you with a single, brutal thrust that punched a ragged sound from your throat. His other hand climbed, found your neck, and clamped down. Firm. Possessive. A collar made of flesh. Every thrust was harder, deeper, his fingers digging into your throat, a silent warning that you were caught. Bound. Owned.
Nicholas’s laugh rolled against your skin, low and dark. “That’s better. Trapped between my hand and my cock. Right where you belong.” His grip tightened, pinning you with ease while his hips snapped against you. The ache blurred into heat, and heat blurred into something unbearable. His mouth found your ear, his voice a vicious purr. “Pathetic little kitten. You can’t even breathe without me holding you open. And still, you cling to me like you’re built for this.” A sharp, cruel laugh cut through your whimper. It only spurred him, each thrust harder, deeper, faster. “Fuckkkk” Nicholas’s growl vibrated against your shoulder, his fangs grazing your skin as his rhythm turned punishing. “You’ll take every inch. You’ll give me every last drop.” His hand tightened on your throat, a vise that stole your breath but not your sound. Just enough pressure to remind you who owned it. Who owned you. “Feel that?” His voice was a slow drag of smoke and steel, mockery curling around every word as his thrusts drove deeper, harder, until pain and pleasure blurred into one jagged edge. “I’m wrecking you,” he rasped against your ear. “Carving myself into you. No one else will ever touch this place. You’re mine. Ruined, kitten. Ruined for anyone but me.”
His mouth skimmed your neck, cool and teasing at first, fangs brushing skin like a promise you didn’t dare hope he’d keep. You shuddered with fear and need tangled, strangling you from the inside out. He laughed at it, low and cruel, like a predator playing with its kill. “Shaking in my arms… bleeding already.” His whisper was a blade’s edge. “My perfect little meal.” Then he struck. Fangs sank deep, white-hot agony flaring as blood rose, thick and hot. Your cry cracked but never escaped his palm swallowed it at your throat while his body kept moving, relentless. He drank like he fucked. Hard, greedy, taking more than you thought you had. The wet pull of his mouth merged with the slick slap of his hips, sweat and blood heavy in the air, intoxicating. “Gods…” His voice vibrated against your skin, thick with your blood. “You taste divine when you’re breaking.” The sound of him drinking faded only when he tore his mouth free, blood slicking down your skin in messy rivulets. He licked it from his lips like a beast savoring prey, and then his laugh shivered down your spine.
His hips slammed forward, ruthless, each thrust shoving his claim deeper until you felt nothing but him. His palm flexed, cutting your air, making your pulse pound like thunder against his fingers. “Pathetic little kitten, ruined and trembling, and yet your cunt clings like you’ll die without me inside you.” Your whimper only sharpened his smile. His pace grew savage, unrelenting, your body stretched and burning under him. He bent, pressing his blood-smeared mouth against your cheek, the copper tang painting your skin as his voice scraped your ear. “Look at you—my toy, my meal, my perfect vessel. I could drink you dry, fuck you hollow, and you’d still beg me to stay. Wouldn’t you?” You couldn’t answer, his grip too tight, his thrusts too brutal. He laughed at your silence. “Yes. That’s what I thought.”
The room reeked of sweat, blood, and sex. His hips snapped harder, reckless now, like every brutal drive was meant to tear you apart and rebuild you as his. His hand tightened on your throat until black spots danced in your vision, and then he eased just enough for a ragged gasp to escape, only to choke it off again. “Mine,” he snarled, the word guttural, animal. “Every scream, every drop of blood, every clench of this sweet cunt—it’s mine. You’ll never take another man. Never want another man. Because I’ll ruin you until no one else can reach you.” Your body quaked around him, helpless, strung tight between pain and unbearable need. He felt it, fed on it, his grin cruel against your skin. “Yes. Break for me. Come for me. Do it while I’m buried so deep you’ll never forget what I feel like.” His thrusts turned frantic, punishing, dragging you with him into a spiral of desperation. His fangs scraped your shoulder again, shallow this time, teasing, a reminder of the deeper wounds still weeping down your neck. The wet drag of his tongue smeared the blood across your skin even as he fucked you harder, faster.
And then his body stiffened, a growl ripping from his chest as he drove into the hilt, holding you impaled on his cock while he came inside you. Hot, endless, spilling deep, filling you until you felt split open and overflowing. His hand never loosened, keeping you pinned, throat bruised under his palm as he marked you inside and out. He stayed buried in you, still twitching, still throbbing, his laugh dark and broken against your ear. “Now you’re ruined completely, kitten. Marked in blood, stuffed full of me. Nothing left that isn’t mine."
"I told you she was a natural." - Koga Yudai (古賀祐大) x f!reader x Asakura Jo (朝倉穣)
A peaceful lakeside getaway shatters when two polite strangers arrive. Their innocent request spirals into sadistic games with no escape. To them it’s entertainment and your survival is just part of the show.
content warming - stalking, unsettling behavior, graphic violence, gore, blood, knife-related threats, primal fear, characters being chased through the forest, and major character deaths, non-consensual acts, degradation, humiliation, spitting, non-consensual groping, breeding kink, and oral (m!receiving).
word count : 13.2k
This is the second installment of The Silver Screen Haunting Series.
You came to watch, but the story has its eyes on you.
Enter at your own risk. The second showing is about to begin.
The car rattles up the last stretch of gravel road, spitting small stones into the ditch. The trees loom tall on both sides, their shadows stretching long in the late afternoon sun. You’re wedged in the backseat with Lexi, her elbow digging into your ribs as she scrolls through her phone, while Maki wrestles with the steering wheel like he’s trying to tame the car itself. Jungwon leans forward in the passenger seat, map unfolded in his lap like you’ve all stepped back into the early 2000s. “Seriously,” Jungwon says, holding the creased paper to the light. “Why do we even have this thing? Who uses a physical map anymore?” “you,” Maki shoots back, squinting at the road. “Because unlike you, I don’t trust a phone signal out here. We’re in the middle of nowhere, man.”
“Middle of nowhere’s the point,” Lexi chimes in, finally setting her phone down. She stretches, her long hair brushing your arm. “No texts, no calls, no work. Just us, a cabin, and a lake. Total recharge.” Maki grins in the rearview mirror. “Exactly. Weekend of freedom. And beer.” “Don’t forget,” you add, “the fishing rods. You dragged us out here just to see if you can finally catch something bigger than whatever you caught before.” Everyone laughs, even Maki, who flicks his hand dismissively. “Laugh all you want. When I haul in a monster trout, you’ll all be begging for dinner at Your table.”
“You mean the same table Lexi and I are gonna be playing cards at while you stand on the dock yelling about how it got away?” Jungwon smirks, folding the map and tucking it into the glovebox. Lexi leans closer to you, lowering her voice like she’s letting you in on a secret. “Place bets now. I give Maki two hours before he slips, falls in, and ruins his phone.” You grin. “You’ll take that action. Fifty bucks says he doesn’t even last an hour.” “Hey, I heard that!” Maki protests, though the corners of his mouth twitch with a smile.
The road curves, and suddenly the trees part to reveal it the lake, shimmering gold under the setting sun. It stretches wide, framed by dense pines and the purple haze of distant hills. At the far end of a small clearing, you spot the cabin a weathered structure of dark wood with a sloping roof and a wide porch that looks out over the water. Lexi presses her face to the glass. “Oh Your god. That’s—okay, that’s actually gorgeous.”
Maki slows the car, pulling into the gravel driveway. The crunch under the tires feels like the sound of arrival, of stepping into a different world. You pile out, stretching your stiff legs, the air cooler and sharper here than back in the city. The scent of pine and damp earth hangs heavy, laced with something you can’t quite name. “Cabin of dreams, baby!” Maki announces, throwing his arms wide. “I told you it’d be perfect.”
Jungwon eyes the weathered siding. “Perfect’s one word. Looks like this place has seen better days.” “Don’t kill the vibe,” Lexi says, brushing past him to climb the porch steps. “Creaky wood just adds character.” You grab one of the duffel bags from the trunk and follow. The steps groan under your weight, but Lexi’s already at the door. “Moment of truth,” she declares. The lock clicks, the door swings inward, and a rush of cool, musty air greets you. Dust motes dance in the light slanting through the windows. The cabin is simple open living space, stone fireplace, a couple of couches that look like they’ve absorbed decades of campfire smoke, and a kitchen tucked into the corner with cabinets painted a faded green.
“Cozy,” Jungwon says, dropping his bag beside a chair. “Haunted,” Lexi counters, though her grin makes it clear she’s not entirely serious. Maki rolls his eyes. “You guys are impossible. Haunted, Your ass. This place is fine.” He strides across the room and slaps the wall like he’s reassuring a nervous horse. A shower of dust drifts down. Lexi coughs theatrically. “Fine, huh?” You drop your bag near the couch and wander toward the wide window that looks out over the lake. The water catches the last streaks of daylight, and the dock juts out like a skeletal finger. Something about it makes your skin prickle, though you can’t place why.
“Dibs on the bedroom with the lake view!” Jungwon shouts, already darting down the short hallway. “Not fair,” Lexi protests, chasing after him. “I’m not sleeping by the woods. No way.” Maki shoots you a conspiratorial look. “Let them fight it out. We’ll take what’s left. Besides, You snore. Better me than her.” You smirk. “Lucky me.” The sound of bickering drifts down the hall as Lexi and Jungwon argue over who gets which bed. You lean against the window frame, staring out at the lake, the trees hemming it in on all sides like silent sentinels. The surface glimmers, calm and still, reflecting the rising moon. For a moment, the world feels hushed, holding its breath.
Maki claps you on the shoulder, jolting you out of your thoughts. “Beer run to the cooler?” “Hell yeah.” By the time the four of you are gathered on the porch with bottles in hand, the sky is streaked with indigo and stars are beginning to prick through. Laughter spills into the night, echoing across the water. Jokes bounce back and forth Lexi daring Maki to eat a marshmallow she dropped in the dirt, Jungwon insisting he can out-drink everyone, you calling them all amateurs. It feels good. Easy. The kind of night where worries don’t exist, where the world shrinks down to friends, a fire pit waiting to be lit, and the dark woods whispering at the edge of sight. You don’t notice how quickly the shadows grow. You don’t notice how quiet the forest has become. You don’t notice the faint ripple disturbing the perfect surface of the lake. If you’d known what was about to happen, you would’ve stayed home.
The table is small, and the plates don’t match. The forks clatter when someone laughs too hard. A single overhead bulb hums, a halo of sickly yellow spilling down on the four of you. The rest of the cabin stays in shadow, the kind that feels like it’s listening. Maki’s talking with his mouth full, chewing like a dog on bone, the half-gutted trout he caught stretched on a platter between you. Its eye still cloudy. “I swear, I barely touched the rod and the damn thing jumped on the hook. Like it was waiting for me.” He wipes grease off his chin with the back of his hand, smearing it. “Like fate or something.”
Lexi snorts, stabbing her fork into a chunk of fish. “Yeah, fate. The fish wanted to die so bad it chose you. Lucky fish.” You laugh. Everyone does. Even Jungwon, who’s usually quieter, slaps the table with the heel of his hand, choking a little on his beer. The sound fills the room, bright, too bright, and for a moment the cabin feels alive with it.
Suddenly, a knock. A sharp rap at the door. It slices clean through the laughter. All four of you freeze, forks halfway to mouths, bottles half-raised. Lexi looks at you first. A flicker of something crosses her face. A joke at the tip of her tongue, maybe, but it dies. “I’ll get it,” Maki says, pushing his chair back. “Who could it be?” Lexi asks, a little forced, like she’s already trying to make it funny again. No one made a move.
The knock comes again. Same rhythm. Three soft taps. Maki clears his throat, wipes his hands on his jeans, and heads for the door. You’re watching him, but you’re listening to the sound of his footsteps. You hear them echo against the wooden floorboards, a rhythm too loud for how slowly he’s walking. The door creaks as it opens. A man stands there. You can’t see his face from the table, only his silhouette against the night. He’s tall, his shoulders rounded like he’s trying to fold himself smaller. His hands hang loose at his sides.
“Evening,” the man says. Voice calm. Polite. “Sorry to bother you.” Maki’s blocking most of him. You lean sideways, trying to get a better look. The man doesn’t step forward, doesn’t crane his neck. Just stands there, quiet. “Uh, hey,” Maki says. His voice is lighter now, the way people talk when they’re not sure of the rules. “Can I help you?” “Would you mind terribly,” the man says, “if I borrowed a little sugar?” Sugar. The word hangs in the air. Wrong somehow. From the table, Jungwon laughs, a short nervous burst. “You gotta be kidding me.” The man turns his head at the sound, just slightly, like a bird noticing movement. You catch a glimpse of his face eyes pale, watery, his mouth a soft little smile that doesn’t touch the eyes. You stand up. Not sure why. Your body just moves. “Sorry,” you say, louder than you mean to. “We don’t have any.”
The man’s gaze slides to you now. He doesn’t blink. “I only need a cup,” he says. Lexi leans toward you, stage-whispering, “Jesus, it’s like we’re in a sitcom. Neighbor shows up needing sugar.” She giggles, but it dies quick, awkward. You take a step closer to the door. “We don’t keep sugar here,” you tell him. “Cabin’s not stocked for that.” He tilts his head. “That’s a shame.” Maki shifts, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, man, I don’t think—” The man interrupts without raising his voice. “You’re cooking fish. Smells good. Trout, is it?” Everyone looks at each other. That’s when you feel it the heat behind your eyes, a pressure crawling down your neck. You wonder how close he’s been, how long he’s been out there, smelling dinner, watching. “Yeah, well, it’s all gone,” you say fast, sharper than you meant. His smile widens just a fraction. “That’s too bad.” The silence that follows stretches, taut. Maki keeps one hand on the doorframe like it’s a barrier, though the man hasn’t moved an inch forward. Lexi calls out from the table, trying to sound casual. “Maybe check with the folks down the road?” “There are no folks down the road,” he says, without looking at her. The room chills. Your throat feels dry. “We’re in the middle of something,” you tell him. “You should go.”
The man nods slowly, as if considering. “Of course. Forgive me.” But he doesn’t move. You take another step, close enough to see the faint sheen of moisture at the corners of his eyes, like tears that never fall. He smells faintly of damp leaves, the kind that rot under heavy rain. “Good night,” you say firmly. Your hand hovers near the door, itching to slam it. Behind you, Jungwon mutters, “Dude, what’s your problem? He just wanted sugar.” But you keep staring at the man. He’s staring at you too, both of you locked in that space. The others don’t feel it. Or maybe they don’t want to. Finally, the man dips his head, just once, and steps back. Into the dark. The door shuts. The latch clicks. You realize your heart’s beating hard, too hard, like you just ran somewhere. Maki shrugs, turning back toward the table. “Weird guy, huh? Probably some hermit neighbor.” “Yeah,” Jungwon says, already refilling his plate. “You overreacted, man. Sugar.” He laughs again, but it’s thinner now, like the sound doesn’t know where to land. Lexi watches you. Quiet. Fork idle in her hand. No one else mentions the knock again. But you can’t shake it the way the man’s eyes found you, held you, like he wasn’t asking for sugar at all. Like he was asking for something else entirely. And maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t left.
Lexi won the lake view before Jungwon could even try. She slammed her bag on the bed, grinning at Jungwon like she’d won the long game. Jungwon sulked but took the woods-facing room. That left you with Maki. Which wasn’t that bad. That’s what you told yourself. But it was a lie. The man snores. Not light, not occasional. Full-on chainsaw hacking through the night, rattling the headboard, vibrating in your skull. You tried a pillow over your head. You tried shoving him in the ribs. He just rolled over and snorted louder, like he was mocking you in his sleep.
Twisting, turning. Sweat sticking to the sheets. Your eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling until you swore they shifted when you weren’t looking. Finally, you gave up. You slid out of bed, quiet as you could, pulling the blanket and a pillow under your arm. Maki didn’t stir. His breathing stayed steady, monstrous. The hallway was colder. The floorboards popped with every step. You passed the rooms where Lexi and Jungwon slept, Lexi’s door cracked just enough to let out the soft wash of her breathing, Jungwon’s shut tight.
In the living room, the couch sagged under your weight when you tested it. Smelled faintly of mildew and old wood smoke. But it would do. You dropped the pillow, tossed the blanket over the cushions. Before lying down, you figured you’d grab water. Your throat felt scraped raw from breathing against the pillow.
The kitchen sat on the far side of the room, half-lit by the glow of the fridge when you opened it. Pale light spilled over the counters, catching the dust in the air. You took a bottle, the cold sweating in your hand. Shut the door. Darkness returned. The silence pressed in. Heavy. Too heavy. You unscrewed the cap, took a long drink, then turned towards the sink. Your hand brushed the rim, the other gripping the bottle. You glanced out the window, a casual flick of the eyes. And froze. Out there. Among the trees. A shape. Tall. Still. A man. Standing where the tree line begins, half in shadow, half in moonlight. Facing the cabin. Facing you. Your stomach dropped. The bottle slipped a little in your grip. The window glass reflected just enough of the kitchen light to make him seem further away, less clear, but you knew. You knew. The narrow shoulders. The head tilted just so. The way he didn’t move. Your pulse hammered in your throat.
You blinked hard. Rubbed your eyes. Looked again. Gone. The trees stood quiet, their branches unmoving in the night air. Nothing between them but darkness. You pressed a hand against the counter to steady yourself. A trick. Had to be. Your brain replaying the knock at the door, the pale eyes, the smile. Pulling shapes from the shadows because you couldn’t let go of it. The bottle rattled softly in your unsteady grasp. The quiet was too much now. A suffocating quiet, like the whole cabin was listening. Even Maki’s snores couldn’t cut through it from down the hall. You held your breath without meaning to, straining for sound. Any sound. The refrigerator clicked. You jumped, spilling water down your wrist. The bottle thudded against the counter. You sucked in air sharp, like you’d been underwater too long.
The window pulled at you, though you didn’t want to look again. You did anyway. Just trees. But the hairs on your arms stood up like they knew better. You twisted the cap back on the bottle, slow, careful, not wanting to make a sound, though you couldn’t have said why. Your body was tense, waiting. For what, you didn’t know. You carried the water to the couch, each step careful, deliberate. Laid down. Pulled the blanket to your chin. The couch springs groaned under your weight, loud in the silence. You shut your eyes. And in the dark, behind your eyelids, you saw the man again. Pale eyes. That patient smile. Standing at the edge of the woods like he belonged there, like he’d been waiting all along. You rolled to your side, back to the window, clutching the blanket tight. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you imagined it. But it felt like lying, the way you’d lied about Maki not being that bad. Because you couldn’t shake the weight of that gaze. Couldn’t shake the feeling he was still out there. Watching. It took a long time for you to fall asleep. The couch springs dug into your back, the blanket felt too thin, and every sound in the cabin pressed in louder than it should have the fridge clicking, the wood settling, Maki’s chainsaw snores rattling down the hallway. You tossed, turned, sat up, lay back down. At some point, exhaustion finally pulled you under.
You woke to something brushing your nose. Soft, teasing. You blinked your eyes open and found Lexi crouched beside the couch, grinning wide, holding a feather she must’ve plucked from the pillow. “Good morning, sunshine,” she said. You groaned, pushing her hand away. “Jesus.” She pointed at you, then the couch. “Why here?” “Maki,” you muttered. That was enough. Her grin cracked into a laugh. “Oh, yeah. The human chainsaw. Poor baby.” She stood, stretching her arms over her head until her shirt rode up. “Jungwon’s in the kitchen, Maki went for a run because apparently he’s not human.” You almost told her. About last night. About the figure in the trees. The pale eyes fixed on you through the window. But you didn’t. The words swelled up in your throat and then shrank away. If you said it out loud, it would change things. Spoil the air. Better to keep it to yourself. Maybe it was nothing anyway. She padded off toward the kitchen, bare feet smacking the floorboards. You sat there a while, blanket tangled around your waist, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Telling yourself to let it go.
When you finally hauled yourself up, Jungwon was at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing one of Maki’s oversized shirts. Eggs hissed in the pan. “You’re alive,” he said without turning. “Coffee’s on the counter.” Instead, you veered for the bathroom. Splashed water on your face. Looked in the mirror, cloudy and small. You stared at yourself longer than you meant to, like maybe you’d find the reason you were spooked there. You didn’t. When you came out, Lexi was at the table with a mug, legs curled under her. Jungwon was setting down plates. The cabin smelled warm now, grease and coffee, something homey. You caught yourself smiling. For a minute, it almost felt like the night hadn’t happened. By the time Maki returned, sweaty and glowing from his run, the four of you were ready to head to the lake. The sun had burned off the morning chill. The air felt clean, alive. Maki dropped his shoes and stretched big, cracking his knuckles like he’d just conquered something.
“Lake time,” Lexi said, already tugging her shirt over her head, revealing her swimsuit. She kicked off her shorts and tossed them on the dock. Jungwon grumbled about the water being cold. You sat at the edge with them for a while, talking. Joking about city noise, about how Maki was secretly insane for running this early, about Lexi’s lake hair and Jungwon’s love for work. The laughter came easy. It softened the edges of things. Then Maki dove in, cutting the surface clean. Lexi shrieked, cannonballed in after him. Jungwon waded, cursing as the water hit his thighs, then his chest. Their voices carried over the lake, echoing, filling the silence. That’s when you saw it. Movement up by the cabin. Near the front door. You shaded your eyes, squinting against the sun. A man. The man. Standing there. Same tilt of the head. Same pale stillness. Like he’d been there all along. Watching.
Your stomach dropped cold. You leaned forward, ready to stand, but Maki beat you to it. He dragged himself out of the water, shaking droplets from his hair, grabbing a towel. He slung it over his shoulder and started toward the cabin. You wanted to call out but the words caught. Maki approached him. From where you sat, you couldn’t hear the exchange. Just saw their bodies, the shapes their mouths made. Maki’s shoulders squared fast, stiff. His hands started chopping through the air, sharp movements. The man didn’t move at all. Didn’t step forward. Didn’t back away. Just stood there, still as a post. From here, it looked wrong. Tense. You felt the hairs lift on your arms. Then it broke. Maki turned hard, threw the towel against his neck, and stalked back down the path, jaw clenched tight. “What was that?” Lexi called from the water, wiping her eyes. Maki spat into the dirt. “Don’t like him. Don’t like his look.” Jungwon laughed. “What? Sugar guy again?”
“Yeah.” Maki grabbed his beer and drained half of it. “He just seems weird.” “Why?” Jungwon pressed, grinning, splashing Lexi as if none of it mattered. Maki glanced back toward the cabin. Toward the door. No one there. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Forget it.” Lexi swam closer, resting her chin on her arms at the edge of the dock. “Well, that’s creepy.” Jungwon chuckled again, wading deeper, tossing water at her. She shrieked and splashed him back. But you didn’t laugh. You didn’t move. You sat there on the dock, eyes fixed on the spot where the man had stood. For a while, the unease clung to you. Heavy, sticky, like it was on your skin. You felt it in your chest, a knot you couldn’t quite breathe past. Then the warmth of the sun pressed down. The laughter rose louder. The cold knot began to ease. It left, the way bad dreams do in daylight. But you kept glancing back at the cabin. Just in case.
The whole mood shifted after that. The four of you tried to stay by the lake, tried to keep it light, Lexi yelling at Jungwon for dunking her but it didn’t stick. The fun drained out quick, like water slipping through fingers. Maki sat on the dock, jaw set, staring back at the cabin like he expected to see the guy again. You caught yourself doing the same. The longer you stayed, the colder it felt. So you wrapped it up. Towels over shoulders, feet dragging on the dirt path, nobody saying much. Back at the cabin, Maki took charge. He circled the place like he owned it, tugging at the doors, sliding bolts across, checking every latch on the windows. Each click echoed too loud in the quiet room. It felt good, secured. A ritual that made the air inside feel a little less thin. “Let’s just… do something normal,” Lexi said. Her voice was brighter than her eyes.
“Movie?” Jungwon offered. “Movie,” Maki said, firm, like it was an order. Thank god there was a new TV here, some flat screen the owners must’ve added before renting it out. And thank god Lexi, of all people, had packed discs. Romcoms. She pulled them out of her bag with a flourish, like she’d been saving them for a rainy day. “Oh, perfect,” she said, fanning the cases like playing cards. “Something dumb. Something easy.” Maki groaned but didn’t fight it. He flopped down on the couch, arms crossed, blanket pulled to his chest like armor. Jungwon sprawled on the floor with a pillow under his head. “Better than listening to you snore,” he said, shooting a glance at Maki. Lexi laughed. She shoved the disc in, settled beside you, pressed her shoulder lightly against yours. The screen lit up. Bright colors. Music. Pretty people meeting cute in coffee shops. It was ridiculous. Exactly what you needed.
You could almost believe it worked. Almost believe the tension drained away with the sound of canned laughter and bad jokes. For a while, you all leaned into it. Lexi quoted lines before the characters said them, Maki rolled his eyes so hard you thought they’d get stuck, Jungwon cracked open another beer and sighed like it was medicine. But the windows reflected the TV light. Every so often, when you glanced that way, you half-expected to see something else reflected back. A shape. A pale face. You didn’t. Just yourselves. The four of you pretending this was just another night. And maybe that was enough. For now.
The first crack came quiet. The TV stuttered. Just for a second. A skip in the picture, the audio warping into static before correcting. “Did you see that?” you asked. “What?” Lexi looked at you. “The—” You shook your head. “Never mind.” A half-hour later, the power blinked. The TV cut off. Lamps went black. The fridge clicked silent. The four of you sat in sudden dark, the only sound Maki’s sharp breath. Suddenly, the world vibrated with life again. The TV flickered back to life mid-scene, a woman’s voice finishing a sentence no one had heard the start of. “Old wiring,” Jungwon said, though his voice wasn’t steady. “Yeah.” Maki’s eyes stayed on the window reflection. “Spooky cabin vibes. Classic.” Lexi leaned harder against you, like she could press the unease out of her body and into yours. You forced a smile.
The movie kept running. The jokes kept landing, the music stayed cheerful. But the rhythm was off now. Everyone shifted more than before. Drank faster. Laughed louder, and too quickly, like they were trying to push the quiet back. The second crack came later. A sound. Tap. At first you thought it was part of the movie. A scene in a restaurant, plates clinking, voices rising. Then it came again. Tap. Tap. From the window. You froze. No one else seemed to notice. Jungwon was half-asleep on the floor. Maki stared dead ahead, jaw tight. Lexi giggled at something on-screen. Then her giggle cut short. You knew she’d heard it too. Her head tilted just a fraction. Not much. Just enough. She didn’t say anything. Neither did you. Tap. Three, this time. Maki sat up straighter. Not looking at the window. The sound stopped. Silence pressed in. The kind that feels thick, wet, like it clings to your skin. The movie played on, oblivious. A kiss in the rain. Swelling music.
Finally, Jungwon broke it with a snore. A soft one. Lexi exhaled. You hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. Maki stood, slow. Crossed to the window. Pulled the curtain across. “Screw it,” he muttered, voice low. “Don’t need the view.” Lexi laughed again, forced. “Yeah. Privacy.” You reached for your drink and found your hand shaking. The rest of the movie blurred together. Bright lights, happy voices, none of it sticking. Nobody really watched. By the time the credits rolled, Jungwon was asleep on the floor, beer can tipped sideways. Maki had retreated into his blanket, eyes closed, though his breathing was too sharp to be sleep. Lexi leaned against you still, quiet now. Her shoulder heavy on yours. The room was warm, but you shivered anyway. Because you knew what you’d heard. And you knew, curtain or not, someone or something had been out there.
You jumped when the knock came. Too loud in the quiet cabin. Maki froze, his eyes fixed on the door. Lexi stopped breathing. You could feel it. Her body went still beside you, like a rabbit waiting for the hawk to pass. No one said anything. The knock came again. Three dull thuds, even and polite. Maki stood, blanket falling off his shoulders. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t look at Lexi. Just walked straight for the door, slow, measured. He unlatched it. Hinges creaked. The door swung wide. Nothing. Just the porch. Just the night. The sound of the woods pressing in, thick and endless. Maki stepped outside. Bare feet against the old boards. He scanned the yard, the path to the lake, the black mouth of the trees. “Hello?” His voice was low but carried. “Who’s there?” No answer. “Hey!” Louder this time. “Quit screwing around.”
Still nothing. Just the small creak of the porch boards under his weight. You sat forward on the couch, your throat dry. Lexi’s hand found your arm, fingers digging in. The silence was wrong. Too complete. No crickets. No owls. Just quiet. Heavy, waiting. Maki turned his head, peering into the tree line. “I know you’re out there,” he said. He sounded angry, but it was the kind of anger that comes from being scared. The woods gave him nothing back. Finally, he stepped inside again. Shut the door. Locked it. Double-checked the lock. He looked at you then. At Lexi. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual. “Empty,” he said. But his voice didn’t make it sound true. And the cabin didn’t feel empty at all.
The sound of glass shattering tore through the cabin. You jolted upright. Heart slamming. Jungwon was still snoring on the floor. You grabbed his shoulder and shook him hard. “Get the fuck up.” His eyes snapped open, wide and wild. “What—what’s going on?” “Someone’s breaking in!” Lexi’s voice cracked sharp, high-pitched. She was on her feet now, back against the wall, trembling. Maki was already moving. His face tight, eyes hard. He spun toward you. “Kitchen. Knife. Now!” The words hit like a slap. Your legs carried you before your head caught up running to the kitchen. Bare feet on cold wood. Your breath ragged. The silence after the glass was worse. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like another intruder’s step.
You didn’t make it to the kitchen. Your foot caught, almost tripped you, and then Lexi slammed into your back. You both stumbled. “What the hell—” she started, annoyed, but the words cut off the second she saw what you were staring at. In the kitchen. He stood there. The same man from the porch. From the woods. Pale face. Still as stone. Your voice cracked out before you could stop it. “What do you want?” He tilted his head, eyes flat. “You lied,” he said. The words hit wrong, made your gut twist. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Lexi shouted, her voice breaking high, sharp. “You lied,” he repeated, steady as a hammer. “You said you didn’t have sugar.” His hand reached out, fingers long, curling. He smacked a canister from the counter. Sugar spilled everywhere, white grains scattering like sand. Then he started toward you. Lexi grabbed your arm. Her nails bit your skin. You didn’t think. You just turned, the two of you bolting back down the hall. The living room opened up in front of you only to stop you cold.
Maki and Jungwon were down. Both of them on the floor. Not moving. You froze, brain seizing. Then something heavy fell behind you. Lexi’s scream cut short. You spun. She was on the ground. Out cold. “Lexi!” You dropped to your knees, reaching. A hand clamped the back of your head. Hard. Fingers like iron digging into your scalp. Before you could breathe, before you could fight, your skull slammed against the wall. Light exploded in your vision. And then nothing.
You come back slow. The world swims in and out like bad radio. Your head pounds. Your mouth tastes of blood. The first thing you make out is Maki, he’s on the floor, flat, one arm twisted under him, screaming the broken sounds, throat-raw. Jungwon isn’t screaming. He’s face-down, quiet. Too quiet. Lexi’s voice threads in next, thin and trembling. “Hey—come on—please—wake up…” She’s close. So close you can feel her breath, hot with panic.
You force your eyes open. The living room is sideways. TV light stutters across the walls blue, then pink, then white. You’re on the floor too. The wood is cold against your cheek. And then a voice. “Look who’s finally awake.” You roll onto your side and see him the man from the woods, from the porch. He stands over you, eyes bright and flat. Lexi whimpers, pulling herself smaller against the couch. He doesn’t look at her. He drags a chair to the center of the room and sits, legs splayed, casual as if he owns the place, as if this is normal. “Hiiiii,” he says, grinning too long. “I’m Koga Yudai. But you can call me K.”
Your chest tightens. You stare at him. You can’t help it. He doesn’t like that. His smile drops. His voice snaps, sharp. “Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?” You drop your eyes to the floorboards. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t give him more. The silence stretches. Then he laughs. “Let’s play a game,” he says. “If I untie one of you, and you make it to your car before I catch you, I’ll let you all go.” The words thud into the room like rocks. None of you move. “But…” His voice softens, almost playful. “I get to pick who.” He stands, the chair legs scrape the floor. He walks toward Jungwon, slow and deliberate. Jungwon stirs, his breath catches. His eyes flicker open, fear burning behind them. Maki tries to push up, tries to lunge, but K plants a boot in his ribs and shoves him back down. Maki gasps, all air punched out. “Stay down,” K says, voice even. Lexi sobs, pressing her face into her bound hands, whispering something that doesn’t make sense.
You lie frozen, chest hammering. K crouches near you now, close enough that you smell his sweat, mildew, something sour. He tilts his head, studying your face. “Big eyes,” he murmurs standing straight. K paces the floor, knife twirling easily in his hand, the blade catching the TV light. He doesn’t rush, he lets the silence do the work. Every creak of the boards under his boots feels loud enough to snap a bone. Maki groans where he’s sprawled, curling on his side, one arm wrapped around his ribs. Jungwon doesn’t move, he stares up at the ceiling, blinking slow, like he’s not sure this is real. Lexi keeps whispering your name under her breath, over and over, like a broken prayer. K stops in the middle of the room, crouches down and plants the knife tip against the floorboards, and leans on it, eyes sliding from one of you to the next. He grins. “You know what I like?” he asks. “I like choices. People get funny when they have to make choices.”
No one answers. You wouldn’t dare. He lets the quiet ride a few more seconds before continuing. “But here’s the thing I get bored easy. So let’s play” He taps the knife against the wood. Maki pushes up again, teeth bared, face red. “You sick—” K’s boot lashes out, hard, catching Maki’s jaw. The crack makes your stomach clench. Maki hits the floor with a heavy thud and stays there, coughing, spitting blood. “Stay the fuck down,” K says again, his voice turning deadly. He turns his head toward Lexi. She freezes, hands pressed tight against her chest, breath rattling. K crouches low, the chair behind him forgotten, eyes narrowing as he studies her like some strange painting. “You’d run fastest,” he says softly. “Pretty legs. Good lungs. But you’d scream the whole way.” Lexi’s tears spill. She shakes her head in tiny, frantic jerk, no words come. K smiles wider and straightens. The knife spins once in his hand before he snaps it shut and tucks it into his pocket like he’s done with it though his eyes say otherwise. He takes a slow step toward Jungwon, who still hasn’t moved much. Another step. He stands over him now, shadow stretching long in the TV light. “Or maybe him,” K says, tilting his head. “Quiet type. The quiet ones…sometimes they surprise you.” Your heart hammers so hard it hurts. You try not to breathe too loud try not to exist too loud. K just stands there, between all of you, smiling as if the night is young.
K yanked Jungwon’s arm, high on the bicep. Jungwon’s skin went pale where the grip landed, blood draining away under the pressure. He winced but didn’t say a word. “Get up,” K barked, jerking him upright like a dog on a leash. Jungwon’s eyes darted around, not to you, not to Lexi, not to Maki writhing on the floor. They darted everywhere all at once, wild, the way animals look right before you put them down. K shoved him hard toward the door. “No funny games.” The voice was flat. For a second….just a second, you thought he might actually make it. Jungwon’s bare feet slapped against the wood as he bolted, stumbling toward freedom. He grabbed the knob, twisted, yanked it wide. A rush of cool air burst inside, a smell of night, wet grass, and open space and hope, so much hope. And then it ended.
He didn’t even make it over the threshold. It was like he hit something you couldn’t see, a wall dropped from the sky. His chest caved in with the sound of something tearing. He staggered back, eyes wide, a sound clawing up from his throat that wasn’t a scream, wasn’t a cry. More like a gasp that wouldn’t finish. The blood came first at the corners of his lips, a slick, bright red. Then it poured from his chest, soaking his shirt, running down his stomach in fat, sticky lines. He clutched himself as if pressing his palms there could stop the tide. His knees buckled. He swayed, blinked at you like he wanted to say something, anything but only managed to spit a mouthful of red onto the floorboards. Then he dropped. The sound his body made was dull, final.
You screamed. It tore out of you without thought, raw and jagged. The kind of sound that rips your throat, a sound that means you still think there’s some chance, even though you already know better. “No—no, no, noooo—” Beside you, Lexi’ couldn’t take it anymore. She collapsed into a heap, fainting dead away. Her head knocked on the floor hard. A hollow crack. Maki tried to stand, tried to do something but K’s boot met him halfway. One hard kick sent him sprawling back to the floor. The second found his ribs. The third his head. And then K didn’t stop. He kept going. Over and over. The sound of heel on bone, heel on flesh, was a wet percussion that filled the room and drowned everything else out. “Stop—please, stop!” you screamed, begging, but K’s face didn’t change. No grin, no snarl. Just that blank look, like he was checking something off a list. Maki stopped moving. The blood pooled fast, thick and black in the shadows. The silence that followed was worse. The silence told you everything. Your chest heaved. You felt your heart trying to punch its way out through your ribs. Your hands pressed to your mouth to keep from screaming again.
And suddenly, “You started the fun without me.” The voice. That wasn’t K’s voice. It came from the front door. From the open dark where Jungwon had tried to run. Your head snapped toward it, neck muscles seizing. K shrugged. His boot was still planted on Maki’s shoulder, pinning the body down. “You took your sweet time to get here, Jo.” He stepped into the room like he owned it, shutting the door slow behind him. In his right hand, a knife. The blade still wet, blood dripping down in long, lazy strands. Jo gave Jungwon’s corpse a nudge with the toe of his boot. The body rolled an inch, nothing more. Jo crouched low, cocked his head, studied the face like it was a painting. “Yeah,” he said. And he laughed. “He’s sure is dead.” The laugh crawled under your skin. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t manic. Just a boy laughing at a joke no one else had heard. Jo raised the knife, admiring the blade under the light. The blood caught the glow, red like a jewel, dripping down onto the polished floor.
And in that second you realized the game had changed. One monster was bad enough. Two was worse. And now, you weren’t looking at escape. You weren’t looking at rescue. You were looking at survival. And survival looked impossible. “Please—stop.” The words tore out of your throat, shredded, small. Jo didn’t stop. He stepped over Jungwon’s body like it was nothing more than a rug, one boot heel sinking into the soft of his stomach with a wet sound. He walked slow, steady, the way a hunter closes in on a wounded deer. You could see it in his eyes the delight, the inevitability. There was no hurry. You weren’t going anywhere.
“You weren’t lying when you said she’s pretty,” Jo said. His voice was quiet, almost affectionate. His hand came up, fingers rough and warm, sliding across your jaw. He held your face like a lover might, thumb brushing your cheek with mock tenderness. That touch made your stomach twist. Your skin crawled like it was trying to tear itself away. The stench of him, the heat of his breath, turned your insides to acid. So you did the only thing you could. You spat. Right in his face. The spit ran down his cheek, caught in the corner of his mouth. For half a second, the room went dead silent. “Oh, shit,” K said behind you, his voice breaking the quiet. He almost sounded amused. “You done fucked up.” Jo froze. His eyes fixed on you. And the look there it was the kind of look you’d give someone who’d killed your whole family. Rage, disbelief, and a promise. All in one sharp glare. Ironic, since his hands were the ones killing yours.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. Didn’t even blink. He just hit you. The slap cracked through the air, harder than you could have braced for. Your head snapped sideways. The taste of iron filled your mouth, thick and hot. You staggered, knees giving way, the world tilting. You fell back into Lexi. Her body was limp, heavy against yours, but the impact jolted her awake. She gasped, eyes snapping open, confusion morphing to terror as she saw him towering there, knife still slick in his hand, blood dripping onto the floor. You were both trapped in his shadow now. Jo smiled. The kind of smile that didn’t reach the eyes. “There she is,” he murmured, like waking her up was the punchline of a joke. The room was too quiet. Too still. The kind of stillness that tells you the worst part hasn’t even started yet. K stood behind you, silent now, letting Jo have the stage. The smell of copper hung heavy in the air Jungwon’s blood, Maki’s blood. It mixed with the faint scent of wine, of candle wax, of something elegant twisted into something rotten.
You knew what came next. You didn’t want to know, but you did. The way Jo’s fingers flexed on the knife. The way K’s breathing slowed. The way the house itself seemed to lean in, hungry. You’d thought you’d seen enough horror for one night. But the look in Jo’s eyes told you different. It wasn’t over. It was just beginning. Jo’s hands locked on Your arms, right above the elbows. Fingers like clamps, squeezing so hard it hurt, as if he wanted to grind bone. He leaned close and told K to do the same with Lexi. K obeyed without hesitation. He hauled her across the room by both wrists, her knees banging against the coffee table leg, one shoe coming off, dragging behind her like it was trying to hold her in place. Lexi was crying already, the kind of crying that comes out of the throat raw. A mess of snot and sobs, chest heaving like she couldn’t find her breath. It filled the room, every corner, every seam in the wallpaper, making it hard to think.
Jo shoved you down onto the couch, hard enough Your head snapped forward. K flung Lexi beside you. Jo told us to sit. Just that one word. Sit. And we did. Lexi couldn’t stop. She rocked forward, hands trembling in her lap, sobbing harder, louder, like the sound was being ripped out of her. K turned to her, his voice flat as stone. “Shut up.” It didn’t work. It only cracked her worse, the sobs breaking into jagged little gasps. He lifted his hand, sudden, mean, no hesitation in it. “Please!” The word shot out of you before you could swallow it. “Don’t. She’s—she’s upset. What do you expect her to do? Smile? While you kill our friends?” For a moment the air froze. His hand hovered, fingers curled, veins standing out across the back. Then it dropped, slow. But the dropping was worse. Because he turned to you. He moved in, one step, then another, until the room shrank down to nothing but the two of you. His breath brushed against Your lips. Warm, sour, meat still caught in his teeth. He tilted his head, studying you like an insect under glass.
“You,” he said. Almost kindly. “Look at you. Trying to be brave.” His eyes didn’t blink. He leaned in closer, and you knew he was smelling you. Nose flaring, chest rising deep. “I can smell it on you,” he murmured. “The fear. It’s leaking out of your skin.” He inhaled again, long and greedy. His eyelids fluttered half-shut, like he was savoring it. Then his lips curled back. “I can’t wait,” he whispered. “I can’t wait to see you crumble.” He pulled back, slow, unhurried, like he’d just eaten something and was full. Jo hadn’t moved. Just watched. His arms crossed, one finger tapping against his bicep. Calm, steady, like all of this was part of a script he’d memorized. Lexi’s sobbing carried on beside you. She pressed both hands to her face now, as if she could block it in, smother it, but the sound forced its way out through the cracks in her fingers. K turned his head, smirked at her. Not wide. Not obvious. Just a tug at the corner of his mouth, the hint of a secret.
The room itself seemed smaller. The walls crept closer, the ceiling hung lower. You heard the clock on the far wall. Tick. Tock. Louder with each second, pounding against Your skull. The couch cushion dipped under Lexi’s shaking weight, under mine. Jo’s shadow stretched across the floor, long, steady. K shifted his feet, the boards creaking under him, slow, deliberate, as if reminding us how trapped we were. You wanted to move. Your body refused. Your hands rested limp at Your sides, legs leaden. His words gnawed at you, looping again and again. You can’t wait to see you crumble. And You believed him. The silence held too long. Heavy and thick. K clapped his hands together splitting the air. “Let’s play a game,” he said. Voice light. Almost cheerful. “Hide and seek.” Lexi and You looked at each other. Eyes wide, wet, like two animals in a trap realizing the door just slammed shut. K smiled, broad this time. “Whoever we catch first…” He dragged a finger across his throat, slow. The gesture said more than words. He let the moment hang. “You’ll have the whole woods to hide. We’ll even give you a head start.”
The floor creaked. Jo stepped into the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag already stained dark. He planted himself by the wall, back straight, head tilted, eyes locked on us. And then he started counting. “One.” Lexi’s shoulders shook. She looked at you. You looked back. Your hand reached for hers without thinking. “Two.” We ran. Jungwon’s body lay sprawled just past the threshold, head twisted wrong. We vaulted over him. Lexi gasped when her foot clipped his arm. The front door crashed open under our weight. Cold air hit Your face like water. “Three.” Jo’s voice carried out behind us. Calm. Steady. We stumbled off the porch, feet slipping on the wet earth, shoes catching roots. The woods opened ahead, black as tar. No moonlight. No path. Just the dark swallowing us whole. We ran into it anyway.
Branches tore at us, clawed skin, ripped fabric. Every step was blind. Roots rose from the ground like bones reaching to drag us down. Lexi stumbled again and again, her hand slick in mine, slippery with sweat and dirt. She tried to muffle her sobs, but the sound still slipped out, thin and broken, carrying into the trees. Behind us, the laughter swelled. K, shrill and jagged. Jo, deep and steady, pacing it like a drumbeat. They didn’t sound tired. They didn’t sound rushed. They sounded hungry. “Seven…” Jo’s voice echoed through the trees. Counting still. Counting while moving. Counting as if he had all the time in the world. Lexi’s breath tore in and out, ragged, choking. “I—I can’t—” “You can.” You yanked her harder. “You have to.” The woods were endless. The dark thicker than air, pressing against our faces. Your lungs burned. Your calves screamed. Every sound was too loud the snap of a twig, the slap of shoes against mud, the rasp of breath. Each one a flare in the dark, announcing where we were.
A crack. Not ours. Off to the left. We froze. K’s laugh rang out. High. Hysterical. “I seeeee you…” Lexi’s nails dug into Your palm. We bolted right, crashing through a tangle of brush, the thorns slicing our arms. Your shirt shredded. Your skin burned. We didn’t care. Something followed. Footsteps. Deliberate. Slow. Like they wanted us to hear. A howl cut the night. Not an animal. K again, long and wild, making it a game. Your guts twisted. Lexi whimpered into her hand, her body shaking so hard it threw her off balance. You caught her under the arm, shoved her forward. Your throat was raw, lungs clawing for air, but You forced words out. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” The ground dipped suddenly, steep. We slid down a hill slick with wet leaves, tumbling, crashing, rolling. Lexi screamed as her head struck a root. You landed hard on Your side, breath punched out of you, black spots filling Your eyes.
Silence. Just the ringing in Your ears. With that, a delicate crunch broke the silence. Above us. Heavy boots. The sound of something or someone standing at the top of the hill. You grabbed Lexi, pulled her against you, Your hand clamped tight over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, whites glowing faint in the dark. Blood streaked her temple. We stayed still, scared to breathe. K’s voice sang down the slope, teasing. “Let’s playyyy…” Jo’s laugh followed, low, steady, rolling through the trees like thunder. Lexi’s chest heaved against Your arm. Your heart hammered against Your ribs so hard You thought they could hear it. The footsteps shifted. Leaves crackled. They were moving. Downhill. Toward us. You forced Lexi up. No time. No choice. We ran again, stumbling deeper into the trees, darkness wrapping tighter around us, every sound in the night a threat. And behind us, their voices stayed close. Patient. Certain.
Lexi stopped running. She doubled over, gasping, hands on her knees, chest heaving like she was about to tear her lungs out. “I can’t. I can’t do this.” “You have to,” You begged, grabbing at her arm. “Lexi, please.” Her eyes glistened in the dark, wide, broken. “No. You go. You’ll hold them off.” “Fuck no!” You hissed, voice cracking. You yanked at her, shook her. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you dare. Run!” You dragged her, forcing her legs to move, but she was clumsy, feet snagging roots and undergrowth. Her sobs tore out of her throat, carrying too far into the woods. Just then, her foot hooked against a thick branch, snapping loud. She pitched forward, hit the ground face-first with a wet smack. You spun, reaching down, grabbing for her hand. And the world seemed to stop. K was already there. Standing over her like he’d risen out of the earth. His white shirt was smeared with mud, streaked with blood. Too much blood. You prayed it was his. That he’d been hurt. But the grin said otherwise.
“I found you,” he sang, high and cruel, like a nursery rhyme gone bad. Lexi whimpered, clawing backward through the dirt. He didn’t even glance at you. Knife in his hand caught what little moonlight slipped through the branches. You took a step back. Then another. Your breath rattled. Your feet stumbled against a root. And then You felt it. The arms closing around you, tight, crushing. “K,” Jo’s voice. “Look.” K finally turned his head, his grin widening as his eyes landed on you, trembling, trapped in Jo’s grip. “Which one should we get rid of?” Jo asked. His tone wasn’t rushed. Just curious. K didn’t answer with words. He answered with action. The knife came down. Fast. Into Lexi. Her scream shredded the night, cut off too quick. “No!” The word tore out of you, raw, ripping Your throat. “No, no, no, please, don’t—” Jo patted Your head. Almost tender. Like You was some kid needing comfort. “Get off me!” You screamed, thrashing. His arms only tightened, iron bands around you. But you wasn’t going to wait here and die. Not like Lexi. Not like this. You jerked Your elbow back, hard, sharp, into his nose. Bone cracked. He cursed loud, ugly. His grip faltered. You tore free. Ran.
Branches tore Your face, ripped at Your arms. Your legs burned, each stride a fire, but You pushed, lungs on the edge of collapse. The forest seemed endless, each tree a wall, each shadow a trap. Behind you, the woods came alive with their fury. Boots pounding. Heavy. Fast. The crunch of leaves, the snap of branches. “Get back here, you fucking bitch!” K’s voice, shrill with rage. You ran harder, blind, stumbling, sliding over wet ground. Your heart hammered so loud your thought it would burst. You could hear them always behind, never far, their shouts chasing you, their laughter curdling the night. Jo’s heavier steps crashed closer, his breath hissing. K’s voice shrieked somewhere to the side, circling. Hunting. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Looking back meant slowing down. Slowing down meant dying. Every step was terror. Every sound behind you was death. And You knew sooner or later they’d catch you. But You ran anyway.
You kept running because the only thing left that felt like living was the pulling at Your legs. Pain was there in every muscle. The forest didn’t let up. The roots that wanted to twist ankles, low branches that reached for Your face, mud that grabbed boots and tried to turn you over. You slid. You fell. You rose. Every time You thought Your lungs would give out, some animal part of you found another step. Behind you their feet were a drumbeat, heavy then light, close then farther, always tracking. Once, for a beat, the sound thinned and You dared a glance over Your shoulder. Nothing but trees. A broken moon, a strip of sky. You let the hope in even though it tasted wrong. Then a laugh, sudden and close, Jo’s deep chuckle, soft and patient. K’s voice, high and delighted, answering from a different direction. They were splitting up, circling, corralling. It made Your chest ice. They weren’t in a hurry. Why would they be? The woods were theirs now. They’d played this before, or they’d thought up a way to enjoy killing. Either one made the blood in you go cold.
You cut through a stand of pines, pushed low to keep Your shoulders under the branches, hand scraping bark and resin, fingers sticky. Needles fell like rain. You kept Your breathing shallow until the stabs in Your ribs calmed and then started again, regular and fierce. Every little sound was a rifle shot, a squirrel’s little footsteops, the slap of an owl’s wings, the roll of a rock down a slope. You hated every one of them. A stream popped up ahead, a thin ribbon of water catching the pale light. You didn’t think. You dove into it, water up to Your knees, then waist, then bitter cold up Your thighs. The current grabbed at Your calves as if it, too, wanted to slow you. You let it. Your feet found firm stones, then mud. You walked deeper until the bank hid Your tracks.
The water muffled more than footprints. It took scent and hid it for a little while. You slid downstream on Your belly when it narrowed, soaking Your shirt, hugging the cold, letting the current and the sucking mud hold you like a blanket. Above, the trees were a dark ceiling, and the cries of the men were quieter, like people calling from another room. You thought You heard the splash of boots, the hiss of voices. You tried to hold Your breath until Your lungs burned. When You had to breathe, it sounded huge and wrong. You crawled out of the stream into a tangle of fallen trees and old leaves. You found a hollow between two trunks and squeezed into it, the wood pressing Your back. For a long minute You lay there and listened to the night rearrange itself. There was the wet thump of Your heart, Your breath, the creek’s low voice. You told yourself they wouldn’t look here. Madmen were confident; they liked space and big open things. Maybe they’d never think to check a little burial of rotten wood.
You heard them anyway. A step, light and cautious above you. A light curse. The scrape of a boot. Jo’s voice was soft, as if talking to himself. “She went this way, K. She can’t have gone far.” His cadence was bored, like he was describing a tree. K’s answer was close, too close. “Smell her,” he said. “There’s a taste of her every wheres.” What the fuck does he mean he can taste you. The word taste slid straight under Your skin. Your palms cold-slicked against rotten wood. You held Your breath until Your head hummed and You thought You’d faint. They left. For twenty heartbeats You thought Your legs would never move again. Then You heard them split, hands on trees, joined laughter, a voice that sounded like Jo saying, “We’ll find her. We always do.” You didn’t stay for the next pass. You eased out of the hollow, moving like a thief, bent double. Leaves dampened the sound of Your feet. You crawled out a little way, found a deer path and followed it, because animal trails were made to disappear in a hurry. The trail turned and the ground fell away. You ran down, slipping, sliding, catching myself with hands that left dark streaks on rocks. Air bit Your face. You hit a stand of ferns and the world went green and soft for a second. Your lungs screamed mercy. Your feet were nothing but two weights. You had to choke sound out of Your throat, a bark, a sob, a laugh anything would hand you over to them.
A branch above quivered, a shadow moved and You pressed yourself flat, felt the damp wood press against Your cheek, smelled the growing rot and the stubborn leaf-mold in Your hair. They passed, so close their shadows braided with mine. Jo’s boot scraped the dirt. K hummed, a tune like a threat. A piece of bark fell and rolled; a tiny, stupid sound. K cursed and stooped, a hand reaching for it, and for a second the world focused on those small movements and You almost laughed because they could take their time. They’d made a game of this.
They kept circling. They’d call Your name sometimes, or call to each other with a line like, “She can’t be far. She can’t be far.” The repetition was a metronome counting you down. Each time they said it, hope died a little. By the time the night bled into something that might be dawn, Your feet were maps of cuts, Your shirt a flag of mud and blood. You’d doubled back on Your own trail more than once to fool them, crossed the creek a dozen times, waded into marsh that tried to hold you. Twice You thought You’d lost them. Twice their voices found you like a fist. Once Jo’s boots cracked right behind you while You ducked under a low branch, and his whisper said, “There you are.”
The chase had a rhythm now, like a heartbeat. Run. Hide. Stumble. Hear them pass. Run again. It took everything of you to keep moving, to keep the hope that somewhere the woods would open and You’d find a road or a house or even a stranger who could be a sudden angel with a phone and light. You knew better. You knew the real mercy was rare. You kept moving anyway. When You finally burst into a clearing, something new appeared straight lines, sharp edges, not forest. A house. Far off, but real. Your legs found new fire, pounding against the earth. Your throat ripped open and You screamed, raw, broken, “Help! Over here!” The house stayed quiet at first, blind, deaf. Then came salvation. A glow. Porch light flicking on, sudden and yellow in the dark. A beacon. You ran harder. Faster than You thought You could. Heart hammering against ribs, lungs burning. You screamed again, hoarse, desperate. “Please! Help me!”
Hope swelled. Actual hope. It filled Your chest, threatened to break you open. Every step carried you closer. Light meant people. People meant safety. Maybe. And then the ground vanished. A weight hit you from behind, iron-hard, slamming you face-first into the dirt. The air burst out of you. Mud filled Your mouth. Your cry died halfway out. A hand clamped over Your face. Hot. Sweaty. The stink of copper and dirt. Your own scream smothered against a palm. Strong arms hooked under you, lifting you like a sack of meat. Your feet kicked air, useless. Nails clawed, teeth sank, nothing broke free. The porch light was gone. The woods pressed in again. No more yellow glow, no doorway, no chance. Just trees, endless and black. Jo didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. His arms locked around you, solid as steel, Your body dead weight in his grip. Your legs kicked. Your heels dug into the earth, leaving furrows in the mud. It didn’t slow him. He only adjusted his hold, dragging you backward like he’d done it before, like it was habit.
The hand over Your mouth stayed clamped tight. Your breath came hot and panicked against his skin. You bit down hard, teeth scraping, tasting sweat, salt, maybe blood. He grunted, shifted, pressed harder, crushing Your jaw until the bite faded into nothing but pain. “Easy now,” Jo said, voice low, almost soothing. “Don’t make it worse.” K answered somewhere ahead. His laugh split the night, shrill, eager. “She thought the house would save her.” His footsteps crunched through the brush. “You see her face? Lit up like Christmas. Then gone. Just gone.”
He laughed harder. Your chest heaved, trying to draw air through the pressure of Jo’s palm. Every breath shallow, whistling, Your lungs clawing for more. Tears stung Your eyes, slid down into Your hair, mixed with dirt. Your arms flailed at his arms, his forearm, weak as paper against him. The forest floor dragged under Your feet. You felt every root, every stone. The night smelled of damp rot, pine, the copper tang of blood from somewhere close maybe from you, maybe not. The further we went, the quieter the world seemed. The sounds of the house faded until there was nothing but the rustle of leaves and the deliberate steps of the men. K moved closer, skipping ahead a few paces, then darting back, circling you like a dog testing prey. His knife flashed faint in the dark, stained, never clean. He crouched low, his face pale and wide-eyed, his grin split too far. “Still think you’ll make it?” he whispered, close enough that his spit hit Your cheek. “Still think somebody’s coming?” You thrashed harder, muffled screams bubbling under Jo’s hand. K leaned in, listening. His grin widened. “She’s still got fight.” Jo dragged you further, steady, unhurried. Your hair caught on branches, ripped free in strands. Your nails split against his skin. None of it mattered. The house was gone. The road, gone. Only the woods left. Only them. And you, being pulled back into the dark, one inch at a time.
Jo dropped you in a small clearing, Your back hitting the ground hard. The world tilted. Your breath came jagged, broken. He stood over you, arms crossed, chest rising slow. Calm. Satisfied. “This was fun,” he said. His voice was steady, like he was talking about a video game, not a hunt. “We should do it again.” K hummed, off-key, nodding. His grin cut too wide in the dark. “Yeah. But I’m so ready for a prize. After all that chasing.” The way he looked at you made Your stomach flip. His eyes, bright, unblinking, devouring. You felt stripped, peeled open under them. You forced words out, anything to cut into that silence. “I—I won. The game. You said hide and seek. I made it. I won.” You didn’t want to think about how that win happened. About Lexi. But it was all You had. They both laughed. Cruel. Ugly. “She really thought we were gonna let her go,” K said, shaking his head.
Jo stepped closer, heavy boots sinking into the soft ground. He crouched, stomping just close enough that the earth vibrated beneath you. He leaned in, his shadow swallowing you. His hand came up, slow, deliberate. Fingers brushed Your cheek, slid down Your jaw. Too gentle. Wrong. He pulled you closer until his breath touched Your lips. “No,” he whispered. “This is where the real fun begins.” The clearing held still. Nothing moved but them. Jo stood up tall, his arms loose at his sides, eyes locked on you like he was enjoying the view of a bug pinned to a board. K crouched low, his grin wide, his hands never steady. His breath came quick, eager. “Please,” You whispered again. The words weren’t mine anymore. They came out small, used-up.
K tilted his head, knife glinting in one hand, the other tugging at the zipper on his blood-smeared shorts. “You hear that, Jo? Begging already.” Jo chuckled low. “She’s learning.” Your eyes darted left, then right. Trees rose on every side, walls of black. No escape. “You’ve been screaming all night,” K said, voice thick with something gleeful and rotten. “Let’s see how much more you’ve got.” He took a step closer. He was close enough now that You could smell him sweat, dirt, the metallic tang of blood not mine. His knife dragged lazy circles in the air, not close enough to touch, just enough to remind you it was there. Jo’s stepped to the side of you and dropped low again, eye level, his face shadowed, calm. His hand reached out once more, brushing the hair stuck to Your cheek, tucking it back like he was some father fixing his daughter’s face. The tenderness made bile rise in Your throat.
“No,” You rasped, voice cracking. “Please. Don’t.” He smiled, small, cold. “Shh. It’s gonna be fine.” K laughed as he leaned in close, the knife flashing as he pressed the tip under Your chin, just enough pressure to lift Your head against the tree. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We’ll make it quick if you stop fighting.” Your whole body shook. Your mouth opened, but no sound came. Just air. K’s free hand moved lower, tugging his shorts open, his eyes burning into you, hungry. The bark was rough against your back, a splintered reality you tried to melt into. You pushed harder, a stupid, desperate hope that the old oak might just absorb you, split its skin and take you into its heartwood away from this. Anything to be gone from the hot, meaty hands on you. He fumbled himself free and his fist was in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough to make your eyes water. He dragged you down, your knees scraping through the damp leaf rot and sharp pine needles. The earth smelled of decay.
“I’ll be gentle.” K grunted, but the promise was a lie before it left his lips. Jo gave your back a patronizing pat, the way you’d encourage a dog. Go on, girl. Fetch. Something hot and blind surged in you. Your hand swung back, a weak, flailing thing. It never landed. Jo’s grip was instant, a steel trap on your wrist. He snatched the other one just as fast, twisting your arms up and behind your back, folding you forward. He moved in close behind you, his chest against your shoulders, pinning you there. You were caught between them like a wounded animal in a press. His breath was a hot, damp ghost in your ear. “If you don’t fucking stop,” Jo hissed, his voice low and gravelly with a sick kind of excitement, “I’ll fucking breed you right here on this forest floor. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? You’d fucking love to be full of it.” His breath came in ragged pants, smelling of blood and violence. You went still. Not surrender. A frozen, internal shutdown. The fight drained out of you, leaving a hollow, cold terror.
“There now,” K murmured, his voice thick. He used the fist in your hair to guide your face forward. The smell of him filled your nostrils. Your lips pressed together in a tight, useless line. “Open up,” K said, a dull command. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Jo increased the pressure on your pinned arms, a sharp, upward twist that made a sob catch in your throat. Your mouth fell open on a gasp. K didn’t wait. He shoved the blunt, rubbery head of his cock past your lips, grinding it against your teeth. You gagged instantly, the reflex violent and uncontrollable. He ignored it, pushing deeper, the thick, veiny shaft stretching your jaw until you felt the strain in the hinges. Your throat convulsed, trying to reject the intrusion, but he just pushed harder, fucking into the tight, spasming muscle. “That’s it,” K groaned, his hips beginning a steady, brutal rhythm. “Take it. Just a warm, wet hole, ain’t you?”
Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the saliva that dripped from your chin. You couldn’t breathe. Each thrust blocked your airway, a slow, rhythmic suffocation. The world began to grey at the edges. “Look at her,” Jo said from behind you, his voice dripping with contempt. “Not so feisty now. Just a good little cocksleeve. Doing what she’s made for.” K gathered the loose strands of your hair, his grip tightening, pulling it all back into a crude, painful ponytail. He used it like a rein, yanking your head back to a sharper angle, giving himself a straighter shot down your throat. “Yeah,” he panted, driving into you harder, faster. “Oh, fuck, that’s the spot. Gonna paint that pretty little throat, you dirty slut. Gonna make you swallow every drop.” The degradation was a physical weight, heavier than their bodies. You closed your eyes, disappearing inside yourself, a tiny, silent scream in the dark while the world became nothing but the slam of his hips, the taste of salt and skin, and the crushing certainty that the forest would not save you.
The tears were a betrayal. A hot, salt uselessness leaking down your cheeks and you didn’t know if it was the fear, a cold, sharp animal terror coiled in your gut, or the bright, throbbing pain from the blow that had sent you stumbling into this dark corner of the night. Your body was a traitor, too. It wouldn't move, wouldn't fight. It just stood there, trembling, your hands flat and obedient against the rough plaster of the wall. A hand. Not rough, but deliberate, possessive, sliding down the knobs of your spine, over the damp fabric of your shirt. It was a slow, claiming exploration. You sucked in a breath to scream, but it caught in your throat, strangled by a fresh wave of sobs. The cold came next. A point of ice against the small of your back, followed by the sound, a sound you felt more than heard the shhh-thwick of the blade slicing upward through your shirt. It wasn't a tear, it was a surgeon’s cut, clean and precise. The fabric fell away in two useless flaps and the cold air of the night hit your bare skin, raising goosebumps all across your back. You gasped, the air cold in your lungs.
The hand followed the path of the blade, sliding around your side now, palm flat and hot against your ribs. Then the other hand joined it. Jo’s hands. They were strong, unyielding. They cupped the soft weight of your breasts, still covered by the lace of your bra, and a fresh, shameful heat flooded your belly. This wasn't a caress. It was an appraisal. A rough, knowing kneading, thumbs scraping back and forth over your nipples until they tightened into hard, aching points against the lace. You whimpered, a low, desperate sound. The voice was a whisper in your ear, hot and close. "You keep those hands right where they are." It wasn't a suggestion. It was a law. And your body, that traitor, obeyed. Your palms stayed pressed to your side, your fingers splayed wide, while Jo’s hands worked you, owned you, twisting a pleasure out of the terror until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
The taste of him was still in your mouth, a bitter, salty film on your tongue. Then you felt the hot, sudden pulse deep in your throat, a thick release that you had no choice but to swallow. K pulled out with a wet sound, a smirk on his face you could feel more than see, and he moved away, a shadow melting into the darker shadows of the trees. You had a second. One second of just the taste and the sound of your own ragged breath.
Then Jo’s hand shoved you hard between the shoulder blades. You pitched forward, the world tilting, and the forest floor came up to meet you a jarring impact of damp leaves and cold, wet earth. A clump of mud, rich and rotten, filled your mouth. You spat, gagging, pushing yourself up onto your elbows, the instinct to run screaming through every nerve. A kick caught you square in the face. Your head snapped to the side, white light exploding behind your eyes. The world went fuzzy at the edges, sound fading to a dull roar. Useless. You were useless. You felt his rough hands at your waistband, the rasp of your jeans being tugged down your hips, your thighs, past your knees. The cold air hit your bare skin. Your last defense was the thin cotton of your underwear. You heard the sharp shwick of the blade again, and then that was gone too, sliced away, leaving you naked from the waist down on the bed of leaves.
Jo grabbed your hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and flipped you onto your back like you were a side of meat. The exposed roots and stones dug into your skin. Your vision was still swimming, but you saw him looming over you, a dark shape against the bruised purple sky. His hand cracked against your cheek, a sharp, stinging blow that brought the world into terrible, sharp focus. "Hey. Look at you." Your eyes, wide and streaming, locked onto his. There was no anger in his face. Just a flat, chilling intensity. "There, there," he whispered, his voice a grotesque parody of comfort. He was fumbling with his belt, his jeans. "Hang in there. Just gonna get what's mine. Been watching you wiggle in those jeans all night. Knew you wanted this. Knew it." He was on you then, his weight crushing the air from your lungs. He didn't bother with any more preliminaries. He drove into you, a single, brutal thrust that tore a choked scream from your throat. It was a violation so complete, so absolute, it felt less like sex and more like being dismantled.
"See?" he grunted, his hips already driving into you, a ruthless, grinding rhythm. "See how fucking tight you are? You been saving this for me? Huh?" You tried to turn your head, to escape his gaze, but his hand clamped on your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His breath was hot and sour on your face. "Look at me. Look at me while I fuck you. Look at me while you take it." His pace quickened, becoming savage. The wet, slapping sounds of his body hitting yours echoed in the small clearing. You could see K now, leaning against a tree, his arms crossed. He was just watching, a faint, interested smile on his lips, enjoying the show.
"You like an audience, baby?" Jo snarled, following your glance. "He likes it. Loves seeing me break you in. Tell her, K." "Beautiful," K's voice drifted over, calm, appreciative. "Keep going. She's almost there." "You hear that? He says you're almost there. Gonna come for me, you filthy bitch? Gonna come on my cock while I take you in the dirt?" You shook your head, a frantic, desperate denial, but your body was a traitor, responding to the brutal, relentless friction. A sick, unwanted heat was building in your core, a wave of pleasure rising from the depths of the pain and the terror. "That's it," He moaned, his eyes glazing over. "Oh, fuck, that's it. Squeezing you so tight. You can't help it, can you? Your body knows what it's for." He leaned down, his mouth next to your ear. "I'm gonna fill you up. Gonna pump you so full you'll feel you for a week. And then maybe I'll want a turn. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You greedy little whore."
The words, the feeling, the sheer overwhelming violation of it all crashed over you. You came with a ragged, broken cry, your body convulsing beneath his, a shuddering surrender you couldn't control. He laughed, a low, triumphant sound, and drove into you one last, deep time, groaning as he emptied himself inside you. He stayed there for a moment, a dead weight, his sweat dripping onto your chest. Then he pulled out, the sudden emptiness a fresh violation. He stood up, buckling his belt, and looked down at you, lying broken and exposed on the ground. "See?" he said to K, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I told you she was a natural."
“Aren’t you a pretty picture?” - Byun Euijoo (변의주) x f!reader
After fleeing a violent, controlling relationship with wealthy optics tycoon Byun Eui Joo, you believe you've finally escaped until news arrives that he’s died by suicide and left you a large inheritance. At first the fortune seems like freedom, but your life quickly unravels
content warming - drugging, physical violence, paranoia, gaslighting, PTSD, therapy, panic attacks, anxiety, fear of open spaces (agoraphobia), suicide, and exhibitionism, non-consensual sexual content, explicit dirty talk, use of restraints (tie as gag), slow-burn dynamics and creampie.
word count : 9.7k
This is the first installment of The Silver Screen Haunting Series.
You may think you’re only watching a story but the story may be watching you back.
Enter at your own risk. The first showing is about to begin.
Everything was ready. The pills you slipped into his drink would keep him under for hours, maybe longer if you were lucky. The duffel bag was shoved into the back of the closet, the one place you knew Euijoo would never bother looking. It was packed tight with clothes, cash, the scraps of yourself you had managed to keep hidden in this marriage. Which wasn’t much because Euijoo had always insisted on control. Always...
At first, he’d been perfect. Sweet, disarming, the kind of boy who could make you laugh just by flashing that smile. You met him your freshman year of college. Both of you were lost on campus, fumbling with maps and schedules. You’d been rushing to find your class when you slammed into him so hard you almost dropped your books.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “No, that was me,” he said, and then he smiled. That smile, that bright, boyish, so easy to fall for. It was the first thing you noticed about him. Back then it was your favorite part of him. Now it was the reason you woke up screaming. You tried to edge past him, but his hand clamped around your upper arm. Tight. You froze. He laughed, nervous, like he knew he was being too forward. “I know this is weird,” he said. “But… would you like to go out with me sometime?”
The question knocked the breath out of you. You stammered, cheeks burning, “Yes. I’d love to.” You exchanged numbers. You walked away smiling. And if you’d known, if you’d had even the slightest glimpse of what that moment would grow into. The suffocating nights, the panic attacks, the bruises hidden under sleeves. You would have run. But you didn’t. And now the pills are working, and the bag is waiting, and the clock is ticking down to the moment when you’ll finally risk everything to claw your way out.
You turned, your eyes darting to the bed. He was still out. His chest rising, falling. A monster made harmless for once. Every step had to be silent. You pressed your weight onto the balls of your feet, tiptoeing toward the closet. The duffel was right where you’d hidden it. You wrapped your fingers around the strap, eased the bag out. You exhaled through your teeth and crept out of the closet and into the hall. One hurdle down. The worst still ahead.
Euijoo lived to control you. Every move, every word, every thought. He owned them all. He had the money for it, the power. A brilliant optics engineer. A ruthless businessman. And when you disobeyed, your body paid the price. Slaps. Hair yanked hard enough to burn your scalp. Bruises that bloomed under your clothes like poisonous flowers. The bedroom door clicked shut behind you. You hurried to the garage. Fingers shaking, you pressed the button. The heavy door groaned, rattling, every sound a blade against your nerves.
The cars gleamed under the harsh lights. You wove between them, careful not to touch the paint, careful not to breathe too loud. The alarms were hair triggers, and one shriek would bring him running. You were almost clear. Then a scrape. The duffel brushing against polished metal. The car alarm detonated, a scream that split your ears. From somewhere deep inside the house, you heard your name screamed with a fury so thick it echoed through the walls, vibrating with rage
Panic slammed into you. You bolted, feet pounding concrete, bag bouncing against your hip. The gate loomed ahead, the metal bars trembling in the night air. You hurled the bag over. It hit the ground with a heavy thud. You grabbed the bars, climbed, fingers slipping. Behind you, Euijoo stepped out of the garage door. His eyes found you. Locked on. That was all it took, the adrenaline burned through your veins. You clawed your way up, threw yourself over, dropped to the other side. Pain shot through your knees but you kept moving.
Down the hill, down to where Nayeon’s headlights burned through the dark. You flung yourself into the car, slammed the lock down, screamed, “Go! Go!” your eyes caught hers instead. Her face, pale, confused and fumbling with the wheel. You were staring at her, begging, when the world cracked apart. Euijoo. Right there. His face against your window, his fist pounding the glass. You shrieked, jerking away, and the look in his eyes filled with hatred, pure and blinding freezing the air in your lungs.
“Get the fuck out of the car!” he roared pulling at the door’s handle, his throat corded, a vein straining along his neck. He bent down, snatched up a rock, smashed it against the window. Glass exploded, showering your lap. His hand darted inside, fast, brutal, closing around your throat. Air cut off. Pressure. His face inches from yours. Hate searing in his eyes. You bit down. Hard. Copper flooded your tongue. He howled, grip loosening. You shoved him back, Nayeon slamming the car into drive. Tires screamed, the car lurched forward, leaving him in the middle of the street, bellowing your name into the dark.
“What the fuck was that?” Nayeon shouted, her voice breaking. You couldn’t answer. Your chest heaved. Your throat throbbed where his fingers had been. You just stared straight ahead, the road blurring into darkness. You didn’t realize you’d made it to Nayeon’s house until her hand touched your shoulder. The sudden pressure jolted you out of the trance, your body flinching like she’d burned you. Somehow, impossibly, you’d gotten away.
Months of planning, getting the pills, rehearsing the lies, convincing your friend to pick you up in the dead of night without a single explanation. You couldn’t tell her why. Couldn’t risk dragging her into the orbit of a man like Euijoo. The less she knew, the safer she was. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you packed your bag in secret, as you practiced how to breathe without making a sound. But the truth was a knot in your stomach, safety was a lie. Because Euijoo never lost. He didn’t know how. He’d always been the one with the money, the power, the control. And men like that didn’t just sit back and watch you leave. They come after you.
The months blurred, stitched together by sleepless nights and Nayeon’s steady hand pulling you through the wreckage. Therapy had become a lifeline, even on the days when stepping outside felt like stepping into a trap. Some mornings, you couldn’t even step outside to get the mail. The thought of open air, of being exposed, left you shaking. Certain he’d be there. Waiting. Lurking. Ready to drag you back into the nightmare you’d barely escaped. Luna was the kind of therapist you hadn’t believed existed. Patient. Sharp. Unyielding in a way that didn’t scare you. She chipped away at the rubble he’d left behind, laying the foundation for something stronger. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
“Today’s session was really good,” Luna said, walking you to the door. Her smile was kind, but not pitying. “Call me if you need anything.” “Thank you,” you managed, though the word felt too small. Nayeon was in the waiting room, like always. She stood when she saw you, wrapping you in a side hug that smelled like her shampoo, warm and safe. For a heartbeat, it was like you were both back in high school, careless and safe. “What should we get for dinner?” she asked, easy and casual, as though you hadn’t just spent an hour scraping open old wounds. “Pizza,” you said, a small laugh catching in your throat. “Always pizza.” “Yes,” she grinned, steering you toward the exit. Her car was parked close, right by the entrance because she knew. Because she understood that wide-open spaces still made your skin crawl.
You slid into the passenger seat. The door clicked shut. And just like that, the night of your escape came roaring back, his hand on your throat, the window shattering, the sound of your own scream. Your chest clenched, vision tunneling. The burn of his breath in your ear, the slam of Nayeon’s door closed jolting you back. The car was warm, safe, her presence steady beside you. You forced a smile, buckled your seatbelt. “Okay,” you said, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “Let’s head home.”
She looked at you and smiled back. Not the kind of smile that said everything was fine. But the kind that told you she’d be right there, no matter how many times you broke. For the first time in months, you believed her.
You pushed through the front door, shoulders heavy, ready to collapse into the comfort of the night. Every step carried you toward your room, each one echoing too loudly in the quiet house, like the walls were watching as you tried to settle in.
“Shower time,” you muttered to no one, you stripped, skin prickling with the cool air, and twisted the shower handle until steam began to roll across the glass. Before stepping in, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. For a second, you didn’t recognize the face looking back. Not the hollow-eyed shell Euijoo had carved out of you. This version of yourself looked different eyes brighter, a spark there, something stubborn and raw. Hope. The will to fight.
Then crash. A sharp noise from the bedroom. You jumped so violently your elbow clipped a bottle, knocking it to the floor. The sound ricocheted off the tiles, yanking you backward in time. A plate slipping from wet hands. Shattering on the tile. His shadow stretching long behind you. Euijoo’s hand wrapping around your waist, grip vice-tight, breath hot against your neck. His laugh low and cruel. The yank as he dragged you from the sink, bending you over the counter. The fabric of your dress tearing upward. Pants never allowed. “Easy access,” he’d said once, smiling as he reached for his belt.
“Hey!” Nayeon’s voice snapped through the fog of memory. “You want pineapple on the pizza?” she called from the kitchen. Your chest heaved, lungs dragging in air that didn’t want to come. You forced your voice out, high and too quick: “Yes, please!” Silence returned. Just the hiss of water heating behind you. You turned back to the mirror. Your reflection stared, pale and shaking. You braced the counter, met your own gaze, and said it out loud, voice trembling but firm, “He can’t hurt you anymore.” The words cracked something loose inside you. You exhaled, long and shaky, then stepped into the shower. The hot water hit your skin, and for the first time in years, it felt like you might finally be washing him off.
You stepped out of your room, skin still damp from the shower, hair clinging in strands to your neck. The steam clung to you like a second skin. For a moment, you felt clean. Safe. Nayeon was already in the kitchen, a box of pizza in her hands, smiling like it was just another night. “Table or TV?” she asked, tilting her head. “TV,” you muttered, your voice low, already moving, your body heavier than you realized. The floor seemed to pull at your feet as you dropped down onto the carpet, sinking in, ready for nothing. An uneventful evening. Quiet. Normal or you wished it was. The screen flickered alive, bathing the room in a pale glow. Static. A news anchor’s voice droned in the background, the sharp edge of the broadcast cutting through the smell of pizza. Nayeon reached for the remote, already about to change the channel until his name stopped her cold. “Byun Euijoo, the wealthy optics engineer and businessman, was found dead in his home tonight. Authorities are calling it a suicide—” The screen went black. Nayeon’s thumb jammed the button hard enough to crack plastic.
He’s dead. He’s dead. The thought pulsed in your skull like a hammer, drowning out the world. Your stomach pitched. The air thickened. You couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe. Nayeon glanced at you, her mouth opening like she wanted to speak, to explain, to soften the news. The phone rang. Your body went rigid. The sound filled every corner of the room, every nerve in your skin.
When Nayeon lifted the phone to her ear, the room seemed to still, every sound swallowed whole. Her eyes flicked to you as she listened, her knuckles tightening white around the receiver. Her voice was steady when she finally said, “Okay.” Click and the line went dead. Nayeon set the phone down too carefully, like it might explode. “That was Euijoo’s lawyer,” she said quietly. “He… left you money in his will. Since you were technically his wife, you have a claim to his estate. He didn’t have family. You were the closest thing he had.” Her words landed like blows you couldn’t block. “His lawyer’s name is Koga Yudai,” she added. You knew exactly who it was. The one person Euijoo had never bothered to hide his true self from. The memory clawed at you, sharp and unrelenting the night he had forced himself on you in front of Yudai, a so-called lesson in “manners,” as he’d cruelly put it.
And all you could remember, burned into your mind like acid, was Yudai’s smile. The way he had watched you break, watched you be wrecked, as if it were entertainment. Your chest tightened, stomach dropping into a pit that never seemed to end.
The next day, you walked into the building with Nayeon beside you. A shadow at your shoulder. A body to hold you upright when you weren’t sure your legs would carry you. The elevator hummed too loud. The hallway too long. Yudai’s office door gleamed, polished and cold. Inside, the air reeked of coffee gone bitter and papers stacked too neatly, the kind of order that dared you to disturb it.
Yudai stood behind his desk, tall, severe. His suit was pressed sharp, but his eyes dark and flat that cut deeper than knife ever could. He didn’t offer condolences. He didn’t even sit before dropping a thick folder onto the desk. “Euijoo always knew where you were,” Yudai said. His tone wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was a blade, honed and deliberate. “He thought, foolishly, that you’d come back to him. He waited. Hoped. And when you didn’t…” Yudai’s lips tightened. “He blamed himself. He let it eat him alive.”
You flinched at the words, but he didn’t slow. He shoved the papers toward you, the folder sliding across the desk like a shove to the chest. “He left everything to you. Everything. His estate. His wealth. His name. It’s yours now.” His eyes never left your face, the weight of his gaze pressing down harder than his words. “Do as you please with it. Burn it. Spend it. Waste it. Doesn’t matter.” The pen rolled toward you.
Your hand trembled when you signed. Each stroke of the pen felt like an accusation. The room was suffocating, Yudai’s silence louder than his voice had been. The second your signature hit the page, Yudai snatched the folder back. He closed it with a snap that echoed like a door slamming shut. “Get out.” The words hit harder than the pen, harder than the papers. Spat like venom. No courtesy. Just dismissal. You stumbled back, Nayeon’s hand on your arm, steering you toward the door. The air in the office clung to you, heavy, choking, as though Euijoo’s ghost lingered in the walls and Yudai had made sure it followed you out.
It had been weeks since you signed the papers. Since Yudai slammed the folder shut and spat you out of that office. Weeks since the words he’s dead had settled into your bones like ice. But the uneasiness never left. It grew. It crawled across your skin at night, in the silence, when you swore you were alone. A prickle at the back of your neck. The shadows that seemed to move in ways shadows shouldn’t. Euijoo was a genius. Everyone knew that. A mind that bent light and glass and truth itself. Dangerous in ways you only half understood. You wouldn’t put it past him to cheat death, to build something that could crawl its way back from the grave.
The first time it happened, Nayeon was gone, her backpack slung over her shoulder, off to her night class. The apartment was yours alone. You were in the kitchen, barefoot, the hum of the refrigerator filling the quiet. Dinner was nothing complicated. Just grilled cheese. You pulled bread from the cabinet and set it on the counter, reached for cheese in the fridge. The light from the fridge spilled across the kitchen floor. When you turned back, the bread was gone.
Your chest seized. You froze, cheese clutched in your hand, staring at the empty counter-top. You knew you’d set it there. You remembered the weight of it, the plastic crinkle. You scanned the counter, the floor, the sink. Nothing. Heart pounding, the cheese slipped from your fingers and landed on the counter with a soft slap. You opened the cabinet again, hands shaking, and there it was, the bread. Sitting in the same place you’d taken it from. Sitting exactly where it had been before. Slowly, carefully, you pulled it out again, your eyes darting around the kitchen, every shadow suddenly too deep, every corner too dark. The silence was crushing. You weren’t alone. You knew you weren’t. The certainty rooted in your gut, cold and absolute.
The next morning, you told Nayeon. Your voice was low, half-expecting her to flinch the way you had. Instead, she laughed it off, sliding her coffee mug across the table. “You probably just forgot to take it out. Happens to me all the time,” she said lightly, easy and unconcerned. You nodded. Forced a smile and let her have the last word. But you hadn’t forgotten. You knew. And the feeling didn’t go away.
After seeing Luna, your nerves finally eased. She had a way of doing that pulling you down out of the storm in your head and planting your feet back on the ground. Her voice was sharp, logical. “Euijoo was just a man,” she reminded you. “He can’t come back from the dead.” Simple. Final. And you believed her, at least for a while. The panic dulled. The shadows stopped looking like claws. For the first time in weeks, you felt something almost alien in your chest. Relief. You started living again.
First you sorted through his accounts, his cold strings of numbers on screens that still carried his name. Two of them, both heavy with money. You didn’t want it. Not really. It burned just to look at it. So you decided to send it somewhere good, to children’s charities, to animal shelters. A chance to scrub something clean out of all the filth. The transfer would take a week to verify. You told yourself you could wait. Next came the house.
That house was a wound. His house. Your prison. A scar carved into your nightmares. You couldn’t stand the thought of walking through those rooms, of sleeping under that roof, his absence heavier than his presence ever was. You didn’t hesitate. You put it up for sale and didn’t give a fuck what it sold for. You just wanted it gone. There was freedom in that. Sharp, bright, intoxicating. You even offered to pay for Nayeon’s college, to shoulder some of her weight after all the ways she had steadied you. She smiled, shook her head, stubborn as always. In the end, you compromised, half. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you were happy. Actually happy. You laughed without hearing an echo. You slept without waking up in the dark screaming, listening for footsteps that weren’t there.
“Hey, we should go watch that new demon slayer movie that just came out,” Nayeon says as she bursts into your room, not even pretending to knock. Her voice bright, like a burst of sunlight through storm clouds. You look up, startled, and the yes leaves your mouth before you can second-guess it. Her eyebrows lift, surprise flashing across her face, then she grins like she’s won something. Minutes later, you’re buckled into her car, the seatbelt biting into your chest as she guns the engine. She drives like she’s racing an invisible clock, like something’s chasing her down. Five minutes, maybe less, and you’re skidding into the mall parking lot. Your stomach is still climbing up your throat. “That’s a new record,” you laugh, stepping out with wobbly legs. “Shut up,” she snaps, laughing. It feels good. Normal. Ordinary. Maybe even happy. The kind of night that tastes like freedom. You walk side by side into the theater’s neon glow, buy the tickets, balance greasy popcorn and syrupy sodas, and slip into your seats. The lights dim. The previews roll. The movie begins.
For the first time all week, you breathe. Nayeon leans in with whispered commentary that tickles your ear, and you almost forget yourself. Almost. Then the seat beside you shifts. Your stomach knots. You know it’s empty. You saw it empty. Every row has gaps, people scattered, nowhere near you. Still, the cushion sinks under invisible weight, pressing down like someone just sat next to you. A breath touches the side of your neck. Your head jerks to the right, so fast your spine cracks. Nothing. Just shadows, air, and that screen flashing bright against the dark. You rub at your neck, skin tingling, your pulse screaming. The breath is gone, but you feel it anyway, ghosting along your skin. The movie goes on. Pretend. Pretend it’s the AC. A faulty seat. Anything that makes sense.
When the credits finally roll and the lights snap back, you stand, forcing your legs to move. But then you see it, the seat beside you is upright again. Empty. As if someone just stood and left. You can’t move. Your blood has gone to ice, your chest locked. Nayeon collides into your back, laughing. “You okay?” she asks, voice light, unaware. You nod too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.” But your skin still burns with the memory of breath that doesn’t belong to anyone you can see.
A job interview, that’s the next step. You came in ready. For once, your hands didn’t shake when you smoothed your jacket. The elevator ride hadn’t felt like a march to the gallows but a climb toward something that could finally be yours. Independence. Your portfolio sat heavy in your hands, organized to the point of obsession. This was it. The interviewer’s smile was professional, clipped, but you matched it with one of your own. You shook her hand, steady, firm. When she gestured to the chair, you sat tall. “So,” she said, uncapping her pen, “tell me about your design process.” Easy. You leaned in, voice steady, like you’d rehearsed. “I usually begin with sketches to unlock concepts, then expand into digital drafts. Once I have three strong directions, I refine them to match the client brief.” She nodded. She was listening. You were good. You had this. “And you’ve brought samples?”
“Yes.” You smiled and opened the folder with a small flourish, already picturing the polished case studies, the neat tabs, the proof of your competence. Empty. The breath stopped in your throat. Pages missing. The entire section gone. Blank sleeves where your work should have been. You blinked hard, once, twice, as if that would conjure them back. “I—I had them,” you stammered, throat tightening. Your fingers scrambled through the folder, too loud, too desperate. The room magnified the sound. The pages flapping, plastic crackling, your pulse pounding. The interviewer’s face changed. The patience drained, leaving something thinner, sharper. “You don’t have your samples?” Her voice was even, but the pen tapping against her notepad snapped like a whip. Your tongue felt swollen. “I—I must’ve—I checked before I left, I—” The words stumbled, tripped, turned to gravel in your mouth. “Alright,” she said flatly, closing her notebook. “Let’s move on.”
But you couldn’t move on. Your confidence leaked out with every second of silence, every glance she gave that folder that now mocked you, gutted and useless. She asked another question, sharp, simple, something you could’ve handled blind. But your answers twisted, fell apart, broken phrases that made you sound small, unprepared, stupid. Her smile thinned into dismissal. “That’s all I need.” The interview was over. You stood, the chair shrieking across the floor, a graceless noise that branded you. Your apology came out strangled. She didn’t bother to reply. Outside, the street air felt like punishment. You clutched the empty folder to your chest, as if it might still save you. But it was gutted, sabotaged, wrong. You’d checked those papers. You knew they were there.
Home should have been safe. The one place where your humiliation couldn’t follow. But the moment you opened your bedroom door, the air tilted. Your papers were there. On the bed. Stretched out neat as corpses, waiting. You froze. They weren’t just lying there, they were staring at you. You tore through the room, hands shaking, searching every corner, every drawer, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But nothing else was wrong. Nothing else was touched. Just the papers. You picked them up. The pages were smooth, organized, unmarred.
By the time Nayeon came home, your stomach was already a knot. You told her. Every word spilled out in a rush, raw, desperate about the missing files, about how they’d appeared on the bed, how you weren’t crazy, how you knew you had put them in your folder. She listened. Her eyes soft, her hand grazing yours like she was smoothing the panic out of you. “Babe,” she said gently, “you’ve been under so much stress. Maybe you misplaced them. You probably just overlooked it.”
You wanted to scream. But her voice slid under your skin, and the certainty began to crumble. Had you really checked? Had you really seen? Maybe you’d been too nervous, too careless, too desperate. Maybe the shame was your own fault. You sat down hard on the bed, the papers clenched in your fist, your heart thrashing. The room felt smaller, closer, as though the walls were bending toward you. The cycle was back. Doubt tightening its leash. Because what was worse that you were losing your mind? Or that something else was moving your world around, piece by piece, just to watch you break? After that, you started to doubt yourself. You thought death would fix everything. His death. You thought the moment he was gone from the world, the air would feel lighter, your body would unclench, your mind would stop replaying every bruise, every threat, every whispered promise of what he’d do if you ever left. You believed like some idiot child, that freedom would heal you like magic, like flipping a switch. But you know better now.
He still had you in a chokehold. A grip you can’t break. Every time you think you’re clawing your way up for air, it drags you under again, hand on the back of your skull, shoving your face into the past. All the progress you’d made with Luna dissolved the day you stopped answering her calls. The day you let her voice go to voicemail. She had been the only one who could pull you out, the one who sat with you through the panic attacks and made you eat when food felt like ash. But then the shame crept in the fear of being too much, of bleeding on someone who had already patched you up too many times. So you stopped. You told yourself she’d be better off without your chaos soaking through her days. When Nayeon asked if you were still talking to Luna, you lied. You smiled, the kind of smile that stretches too wide and makes your cheeks ache, and you said yes. The lie hung in the air between you, sour and heavy. First it had been the bread. You told yourself you had forgotten, but you remembered the exact way you’d left it. Gone, as if someone had been standing over your shoulder waiting for you to turn away.
Second, it was the incident in the movies, the seat shifting on its own, leaving you raw and unsettled. Lastly, it was the papers. The ones you needed. The ones you’d checked and rechecked before the interview. Gone. A blank space in your folder, not just absence but erasure. Like someone had reached in and stripped them out, wanted you to fail. You tried to be reasonable. Told yourself it was stress. Forgetfulness. Madness creeping in at the edges. But the whispers wouldn’t stop. It’s him.
“Are you sure you are going to be fine?” Nayeon asked worried, standing by the door. She was late, her mother was sick and you could feel her guilt dripping through every movement, the way she fussed with her coat, her bag, her keys. “I will,” you lied, the words scratching down your throat. You wanted to tell her the truth. That you weren’t fine. That something was wrong in the house. That you hadn’t misplaced the bread or the papers, that they’d been taken, moved, stolen by a presence you couldn’t see. But you swallowed it. You wouldn’t put that weight on her shoulders. Nayeon lingered with her hand on the knob. “I left my home number on the counter. If you need anything—” The rest trailed off into silence. She didn’t believe you would call. She knew you too well. And then she was gone. The door clicked shut, the echo reverberating like the lid of a coffin slamming closed. You were alone. Except you weren’t. The silence spread through the house, thick and oppressive. The lights hummed overhead. The refrigerator ticked. Pipes groaned deep in the walls. Normal noises. Harmless noises. But to you it felt uneasy.
You felt it watching. Like a set waiting for the actor to walk back on. The walls leaned too close. Even the shadows looked rehearsed, their angles sharp and deliberate. You wrapped your arms around yourself and walked into the kitchen, listening. The ticking of the clock grew louder, magnified until every second thudded in your skull. The house was too big with only you inside. The ceilings vaulted high, the windows yawning wide, the air stretching out into emptiness. Every sound you made came back to you, mocking. Footsteps echoed too long. Breathing bounced off the walls. Even the scrape of your nails against your palm sounded alien.
You told yourself you were safe. Nayeon had locked the door behind her. The windows were closed, the security system blinking its tiny red eye. You repeated the words like a prayer safe, safe, safe. But your body didn’t believe it. The hair on your arms prickled. Your pulse throbbed too fast, too loud. You could feel it that pressure at the back of your neck, the sensation of breath just barely brushing the shell of your ear. You spun. The kitchen was empty. Of course it was. But when you turned back, the knife block sat crooked on the counter. You didn’t remember leaving it like that. Your stomach clenched. You took a step toward it. The wood base gleamed under the light, every knife in its slot. Except…no. One sat out of place on the counter, impossibly precise, as if it had been placed there just for you. Every instinct screamed that it wasn’t supposed to be there.
You forced yourself to look away, to walk to the table, to sit down as if nothing had shifted. But the chair across from you seemed different. Pulled back a fraction too far from the table, angled like someone had been sitting there. You stared at the indentation in the cushion. Swore it hadn’t been there before. The silence pulsed. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself and whispered, “You’re going to be fine.” But the walls listened. The air listened. And you knew that you weren’t fine at all. You decided to keep busy. Better that than thinking. The house looked like it had been torn apart by raccoons and you were the raccoon. By noon, you were elbow-deep in gloves, scrubbing plates like they’d personally wronged you. The radio murmured in the background, a too-cheerful voice that made the silence between songs feel nauseating. By three, you were dragging damp clothes from the washer, scolding yourself for letting the pile grow this high, the wet fabric heavy as guilt in your arms.
Time slipped away in pieces. Windows rattled when the wind picked up. A floorboard creaked, but you told yourself it was settling wood, nothing more. By the time you noticed the clock, it was nine. Your body ached from the chores, muscles leaden. You dragged yourself down the hallway, flicking off lights one by one. Darkness pooled behind you with every click, swallowing the house whole. Your bed looked impossibly soft, a siren’s call. You didn’t bother with your phone. Didn’t bother double-checking the locks again. You slipped under the blanket, eyelids heavy, breath slowing. And just before sleep pulled you under, you swore you heard movement at the end of the hall. A shift. A pause. Like someone had stopped the moment you started listening. But exhaustion won. You told yourself the house was empty. And let go.
You’re asleep. At least, your body is. Heavy, sunk deep into the mattress, breath dragging slow and even. But somewhere beneath the surface of the dream, something is stirring. The room is still as if someone pressed pause on the world while you drifted. Something’s wrong. Even inside the dream, you can feel it. The air isn’t empty. It has weight. The sheet slips, a whisper against your skin. At first, you tell yourself it’s nothing. A twitch. Gravity dragging fabric. But it doesn’t stop. It keeps sliding, peeling down your legs until cool air licks at your ankle. Your eyes snap open at the touch of cold. You grab for the blanket, yanking it back. It resists. Not caught, not tangled. It was like it was fighting you, like another hand grips the far end. Your pulse pounds in your ears. Then, suddenly, the sheet lets go.
You sit up, every muscle locking in place, your body a trap sprung too late. The dark presses in. You don’t dare call out. You know if you speak, it will answer. The corner across the room isn’t empty anymore. Or maybe it never was. Something swells there a density of shadow, black folding over black until it’s heavier than the others. Your gaze slides to the chair. That chair. That goddamn chair. Angled like someone’s only just left it. Or worse like someone never did. The longer you look, the more it breathes.
Your bare feet find the cold floor. You clutch the blanket like a weapon, ridiculous as that is. Your chest squeezes tight, breath scraping like sandpaper in your throat. You feel the weight of eyes. Not imagined, not paranoia. Eyes pressing down on your pulse, flattening the beat into panic. You creep forward, slow, cautious, calculating every inch, like the floorboards themselves might scream. You keep the space between you and the chair wide enough so it can’t reach. Wide enough that if it moves, you’ll have time. The sheet trembles in your hands. You fling it. A desperate reveal. The fabric flutters, folds. Collapses. Empty.
A laugh bursts from your chest, strangled and broken, relief jagged as glass. Too sharp, too sudden. Wrong. You stoop, gather the sheet again, but freeze when you hear it a soft, low, a chuckle curling up from behind you. Your head whips around. The dark is blank, empty. Your eyes insist on nothing. But your skin… your skin screams something. You held the blanket tight, ridiculous though it was, a flimsy barrier between yourself and the unseen terror. Your hand shakes as you toss it forward into that space where your eyes keep snagging. For a heartbeat, the fabric clings to something solid. A shoulder. A chest. The outline of a man. And then it falls. Flat. As if nothing was ever there at all.
You barely registered the floor beneath your feet as you bolted down the hallway, heart hammering like a war drum in your chest. Every shadow flickered, stretched, and leaned toward you, alive with intent. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed low, a sound too precise, too sharp, like static in your skull. Then it struck. Not a shadow, not a shape but a force. Your body lifted clean off the ground, slammed against the wall, pain flaring in your neck and back. Stars erupted behind your eyes, a halo of white agony. You spun, eyes wild, looking for the culprit. Nothing. Just walls. Just silence. The room mocked you.
Your hands pressed against the wall, knees trembling, searching for a grip. And then cold, invisible fingers tightened around your throat. Air vanished. Panic wrapped around your ribs like iron. You clawed at the empty space, desperate to breathe, as the force dragged you up the wall. Your feet scraped against drywall, your nails breaking, but it didn’t matter. You were weightless. Helpless. A slam. Your back collided with the kitchen counter. Pain exploded across your skull your vision gone for a second. The knife, gleaming under the half-light. Shaking, you snatched it up, brandishing it into nothing.
You hit something. Solid. Real. The figure flickered into existence, glitching like a broken hologram, hovering just beyond comprehension. Your stomach plummeted. Your mind screamed. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. Its hands wrapped around your head, fingers like iron. Pain lanced through your skull as it slammed you down again. You saw stars, shapes, glimpses of yourself in the knife’s reflection.
You scrambled back, but the kitchen wasn’t safe. Cabinets slammed open and shut, the air growing thick, suffocating, alive. Every movement you made was anticipated, every breath stolen before it reached your lungs. You tried to steady yourself against the counter, but the invisible hands were everywhere on your arms, your shoulders, your legs pushing, pulling, taunting. You swung the knife blindly, slashing at air, and each time you felt it something solid, something wrong. It moved, danced just beyond the edge of sight, a shape in the corner, gone when you blinked. Your confidence, your courage, all dissolved into trembling fear.
The house had grown smaller, darker. Corners stretched. Hallways twisted. Each room seemed like a death sentence. You ran toward the living room, knife in hand, but the floor beneath you shifted, your foot catching on nothing. You fell, scraping your palms, but before you could recover, a grip locked around your ankle. A pull, hard, and you tumbled into the sofa, lungs burning, heart hammering, knife clattering from your hand. The air thickened. Your pulse throbbed in your ears. You can’t hide.
You dove for the knife, hands shaking, and swung. It caught something again. The figure flickered again, closer this time, glitching in and out, and a cold laugh or was it your own fear it shook the walls. It grabbed you again, lifting you like a ragdoll, and slammed you against the floor. Pain cracked your skull open, vision spiraling into white. You tried to scream, to fight, but everything was wrong, everything slipping. You were weightless, helpless, and the figure controlled every inch of the room. You dared to breathe. You were suffocating in disbelief, and the last thing you registered before darkness claimed you was the soft, impossible sound of something laughing.
You came to with your vision gone, the world reduced to darkness. Something black and heavy covered your eyes, pressing against your skin, sealing you off from everything. Panic clawed through you like fire and ice. You thrashed, pulling, trying to tug at the blindfold but your hands were trapped, tied to the chair as if the world itself had locked you in place and with every failed move it was reminded you that you were utterly, irreversibly powerless. It was like your own body had betrayed you. You were desperate, trying to find even a shred of freedom, when a pair of hands settled on your shoulders. Firm, insistent, and terrifyingly familiar. “Shhhh,” a voice hissed into your ear. “Calm down. You’re safe.” The sound made your stomach drop. You knew that voice. It haunted your dreams, your nightmares, whispered in the corners of your mind even when you thought you were alone. The name slipped out of your lips before you could stop it. “Euijoo…” A low chuckle, warm and impossibly close, pressed into your skin. “Aww, I love it when you say my name,” the voice said, and suddenly all the shadows became solid, all the whispers real.
Hands moved along your arms, unsettlingly intimate, leaving heat and panic in their wake. Lips brushed against your neck. Every kiss, every whispered word, made your blood freeze in terror. “I missed you,” he murmured between kisses, and the words were a weight in your chest, impossible to ignore. You were trapped, helpless in the darkness. Every nerve screamed, every instinct shouted escape, but the hands, they knew exactly how to hold you, exactly how to make fear feel like inevitability. The room was alive with him, and there was no way out. The blindfold lifted, and light stabbed your eyes, searing the last traces of darkness from your vision. You blinked, struggling to adjust, and your stomach plummeted. You were back. Back in the dining room where you had tried to escape, the one place you thought could never hold you again. The polished table stretched before you like a trap, every chair empty, every candle flickering with sinister patience. And there he was. Euijoo. Standing at the far end, black suit sharp as a blade, every movement controlled, every shadow bending toward him. A demon masquerading in human skin, and somehow, impossibly, more terrifying because it was him.
He stepped forward, and before you could think, his hand shot out for your chin. Reflex screamed at you to pull away, and you did but he was faster. Fingers closed around your jaw, unyielding. “Oh,” he purred, voice low and lethal. “I missed when you were my submissive little bitch.” Your chest tightened. Your pulse hammered, and your hands flailed uselessly. His grip pulled you closer, so close you could smell him minty, sharp and inhumanly intimate. His eyes bored into yours, black and endless, and his words crawled inside your skull. You look down and the breath leaves your body. The clothes you put on this morning are gone. In their place is red satin, an elegant dress that clings to you like skin. The fabric gleams in the low light, catching every line of your body, sculpting you into something you never agreed to be. You don’t remember changing. You don’t remember being touched. But you know he did. The realization settles like ice water poured down your spine.
A laugh slices through the silence, low and amused, curling into the room like smoke. “Oh, don’t worry, babe,” he says, his voice too close, far too close. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” The sound makes you wince, your shoulders hunching as if you could fold yourself smaller, vanish inside your own skin. You clutch your sides, fingers digging into the chair. It feels wrong like it’s mocking you. You wonder how long he stood over you while you slept, how long he watched, how long his invisible hands arranged every detail. The thought turns your stomach, but you can’t escape the image. You try to speak, but your throat clamps shut. Any words would crack, betray the panic that’s already crawling out of you. He moves around you, the air shifts with him, brushing against your cheek, rustling your hair, pressing at your shoulder. He’s circling, admiring. “Red suits you,” he murmurs. “I always knew it would. Soft. Dangerous. Perfect for a dirty little whore like you” His tone curls with satisfaction, like you’ve proven him right simply by sitting here, trembling in the costume he forced on you.
The satin clings tighter as if it hears him, as if it wants to please. Your pulse hammers, loud enough you’re afraid he can hear it, too. He laughs again. Like this is nothing. Like you are nothing. “Don’t be shy,” he says, the words dripping warmth that burns like acid. “You don’t think I know every inch of you by now?” You flinch so hard your teeth clack. His breath grazes your ear, his lips brushing the air. “You’re mine in this. Always mine.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “I can’t wait to break you down again,” he whispered, brushing your cheek lightly, mock tenderness laced with threat. Then he released you, stepping back to the head of the table. He sat like a king surveying his dominion, the flickering candlelight outlining him as if the room itself bowed in deference. The table was set for a dinner that should have been romantic plates, glasses, silver but the elegance only twisted in your stomach, a trap dressed as civility.
You wanted to run. Wanted to vanish into the shadows, wanted to scream until your voice shredded. But the air itself pressed down, heavy and thick, charged with his presence. The room wasn’t just a room anymore it was a cage. He leaned forward slightly, gaze locked on yours. “So quiet,” he murmured. “So cute thinking you could get away from me.” The room seemed to pulse with him, every candle flicker a heartbeat in time with yours, every shadow bending to watch. You swallowed hard, the taste of fear rising in your mouth, and realized you were utterly, completely trapped. You stared at him, words scraping up your throat like broken glass. “So that was it? You decided to fake your death just to torture me some more by becoming invisible?” He laughed. The sound was low, cruel, too casual for the weight it carried. “No, love. I decided to kill two birds with one stone.” He reached for the wine glass at his side, swirling the deep red liquid before taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving yours. The motion was so elegant, so deliberate, that it felt obscene like you were watching a man toast to your suffering.
He set the glass down with a soft click that echoed far too loud in the room. “To test out the new optics experiment I was working on before your little getaway plans… and see what my darling was up to.” Your stomach twisted, bile rising hot. He tilted his head, the smile sharp enough to cut. “But I’ll admit, it was fun watching you try so hard to erase me from your mind. To pretend I was gone. But I bet your body remembers me quite well.” The wink he shot you felt like a violation in itself, a finger pressing against an old wound. Then his expression shifted, the smile thinning into something harder, crueler. “Of course, since you stabbed into the suit, I’ll have to make a new one.” His voice dropped almost bored. But the frown that pulled at his mouth was worse than rage, it was disappointment. And disappointment was always more dangerous.
The silence dragged, stretching your nerves to the breaking point. And then, without warning, he smiled. That fucking smile. It was a slash of white in the dim light, a carefully constructed mask of innocence meant for anyone else, anyone who wasn’t tied to this chair, staring into his abyss. But you knew. You knew the real him lived in the cold, flat emptiness behind it. The smile never reached his eyes. That’s where he kept his demons, churning in the soulless black of his pupils, and right now, they were staring right at you. His gaze was a physical violation, a slow, deliberate crawl from your terrified eyes down to the frantic pulse hammering at the base of your throat, then lower, over the thin fabric of the dress he put you in. You could feel it like a brand. “So,” he said, the word a soft, lethal whisper that scraped against your nerves. “What should I do with you… hmm?”
The options were a study in terror. He leaned in, his voice dropping to an intimate, horrible murmur. “Should I fuck you on this table? Remind you who you belong to?” The image was immediate, brutal, degrading. Your stomach lurched. “Or…” he drawled, drawing out the syllable, savoring your panic. “Should I take Nayeon? Show her what happens when she helps you?” Nayeon. The name was a jolt of pure lightning. You jerked against the ropes, the coarse fibers biting deep into your wrists, a fresh bloom of pain you barely registered. “No. No, no, please, Euijoo. Don’t. She’s innocent!”
“Yudai is watching her right now,” he began, his voice slow, savoring each syllable like it was some private joke. “And he thinks she’d look so damn pretty with tears running down her face.” “No—Euijoo, don’t,” you begged, your words tumbling out in desperation. “She doesn’t deserve that—” A smirk cut across his face, sharp and merciless. “You know how Yudai gets when he sees something pretty.” His eyes locked on yours, gleaming with mockery. “I could barely hold him back when he saw those sweet little tears on your face when I fucked you like a slut in front of him.” He laughed and the sound of it made your chest seize. You cried harder, the memory digging in deeper. “Alright, fine. Fine.” He waved a hand, dismissive, as though you were nothing more than noise. “I’ll call him off.” Then he leaned back, his voice dropping, almost playful in its cruelty. “But you know you might have to give him something in return.” He ended it with a shrug, like he was talking about the weather. Like it was the most casual fucking thing in the fucking world.
The laugh that escaped him was a dry, rustling sound, like bones in a bag. He stood up, his shadow engulfing you. His hands went to the knot of his tie, pulling it loose with a slow, deliberate tug. Each step he took toward you was a lifetime of dread. “So if you want Nayeon to be safe and sound,” he whispered, the word slithering into your ear as he walked behind you, his presence a dark heat at your back, “you better be a good little whore for me”
“I’ll be your whore Euijoo” The plea was ripped from you, a soft, desperate sound. You leaned forward, a useless, thrashing movement against the unyielding binds. You were offering submission, anything, everything. He halted at your side, not touching, not speaking just leaning in until the heat of his breath grazed your cheek like a threat you couldn’t see his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot. “I can’t wait to be inside you again.” The promise was a violation in itself. A sob broke free from your chest, the only weapon you had left. Hot, helpless tears carved paths through the grime on your cheeks. You felt the soft silk. He brought the tie over your shoulder, the fabric slithering against your skin like a threat made real. He drew it across your mouth, pulling it tight between your lips, muffling your cries, your promises, your very breath. He tied it at the back of your head, a brutal, efficient knot. Then he bent close and kissed the back of your neck, soft and impossibly intimate, and the tenderness was the worst kind of threat.
He untied your hands with a swift, practiced tug, then kicked the chair out from under you. The sound of the chair clattering against the floor was so loud in the silent, expensive room. Before the echo could die, his hands were on you, a brutal, familiar ownership that turned your bones to water. He bent you over the cold, polished wood of the dining table, your cheek pressed against the grain he’d so carefully chosen. His palms rubbed down your sides, a mockery of a caress, settling on your hips with a grip that meant to leave bruises. “There now,” he murmured, his voice a low, condescending purr right against your ear. The heat of his breath was a violation. “Look at that. Gosh, I almost forgot how perfectly you fit right here. Like you were made for it. For me.”
He didn’t wait for a response you couldn’t give. The fabric of your dress was flipped up, a sudden rush of air, then the sharp, stinging crack of his palm against your ass. You jumped with a choked squeal, the sound strangled by the makeshift gag. Tears of shock and humiliation instantly welled in your eyes, blurring the room. Spit dribbled from your stretched lips, a hot, shameful trickle down your chin. Your vision swam, desperately seeking an anchor, anything to pull you out of this moment. It found the chair at the end of the table. You focused on the intricate carving on it, a spiral, a vortex. You could fall into it. You could just… go away. You were so close to disappearing, the edges of the room dissolving into static, when you felt him. The blunt, insistent pressure of him at your entrance, a slick, terrible promise. “Oh, God,” he groaned, feeling the way your body was reacting to him. His laugh was a dark, filthy thing. “Still trying to play, darling? Still think you have any control here? Cute.”
He pushed in. This was his style. Hard. And rough. A single, devastating thrust that stole the air from your lungs and drove you into the unforgiving table. Your hips hit the edge with every piston-like drive of his body into yours, a painful, rhythmic punctuation to his fucking. “This is what you needed, wasn’t it?” he grunted, the words labored but dripping with contempt. “All that pretending. acting like you could leave me behind. This is where you belong. Right here. You’re just a pussy for me to use.” He moved, his grip shifting. He grabbed your thigh, wrenching your leg up and planting your thigh flat on the table. The angle changed, became obscene, deeper than you thought possible. He plunged into you, and the sensation was a white-hot spike of pain-pleasure that shattered your fragile escape. You felt him hit your cervix, a deep, internal collision that made you see stars behind your eyelids. “Fuck,” he snarled, the curse a raw, guttural sound of triumph. “There it is. Right there. That’s mine. You feel that? That’s all me. Remember it.”
The world narrowed to the splintered grain of the wood beneath your cheek, the cold press of the table against your rising and falling ribs. His arm wasn’t an embrace; it was a bar of iron pressing across your neck, brutal, unyielding, stealing every ragged breath. Your back arched against him, helpless, presented like prey. The memory hit you like a blade, the night you thought you could escape, the night you almost tasted freedom. And now… now you were back at the starting line, trapped in the same cruel cycle, every instinct screaming that there was no way out. A puppet master yanking his favorite doll’s strings. “That’s it,” his voice was a condescending rasp, a foul secret breathed directly into your ear. “Let me see what a desperate little thing you are. Chest all puffed up, begging for it. You’re not even a person right now, are you? You’re just a warm, tight hole for me to use.”
Each thrust was a punctuation mark on his ownership, a brutal, piston-like drive that slammed the breath from your lungs. Spit dribbled in a shameful thread from your gagged mouth, pooling on the wood. You could hear him, a raw, animal groaning that seemed to vibrate through your very bones, a sound that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with his own base, grinding pleasure. “Shit. You feel that?” he grunted, his voice thick and straining. “You feel how deep that is? I’m coming.” Your eyes flew wide. A silent, frantic plea. No. No. Not that. Your head managed a weak, jerking shake against the oppressive weight of his arm. The sound he made was a low, dark chuckle that curdled into a moan. “Awww, baby,” he crooned, the false sweetness laced with venom. He drove into you, a final, devastating plunge that stole the world. “If I want to put a baby in you, I will put one in you. This body? It belongs to me. Not to you. To me.” He moaned then, a guttural, broken sound against the shell of your ear. “Oh God… I’m seeing stars…”
And you felt it. A hard, final series of jerks, a hot, claiming spill deep inside you that felt like a brand. He came to a shuddering halt, emptying himself, marking his territory with a violence that left you hollowed out. As suddenly as it began, the pressure was gone. The arm left your neck. You heard the soft rustle of clothing, the definitive click of a belt buckle. The mundane sounds were almost more terrifying than the violence. Your vision swam, focusing on the chair at the end of the table. His figure came back into view. Calm. Composed. He sat down in that very chair, the one he’d been sitting in before this started. He picked up his wine glass, swirled the blood-dark liquid, and took a slow, contemplative sip. His eyes never left you. He watched the mess he’d made of you the trembling limbs, the tear-streaked face, the slow, shameful trickle already starting to slide down your inner thigh. A slow, possessive smile spread across his face. “Well, now,” he said, his voice smooth and horrifyingly conversational. “Aren’t you a pretty picture?”
