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SPREAD HIS ROT - Ronin x G.N Reader

This is my first one-shot for Killer Chat! I'm so excited to finally take part in the event hosted on the official Discord server. I can't wait to share to write more for this awesome fandom!

PROMPT : SPREAD THE ROT

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Obsession, Manipulation, Death, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

You are a journalist. A "Criminal Journalist." That's what they call you. You have to photograph every crime scene, chase every siren, dig your nails into every open wound of the city. And you hate it.

It's not the blood that really gets to you. It isn't the bodies, the way they slump against pavement like so many discarded mannequins. It's not even the smell—the acrid mix of gasoline, iron, and whatever someone had for dinner before he was reduced to a chalk outline. No. What you dislike is the paycheck. Because the paycheck is always inadequate.

$35 a shot. $50 if there's a face, a really good face—one that makes the morning readers spit out their coffee. If you catch the moment of grief, the mother screaming, the tears cutting through streetlight shadows, you might get $75. Big money. If it's a cop, even better. A dead officer brings in at least $100.

But rent is due in two days, and your pockets are filled with nothing but lint and cigarette butts. So you’re out here again, wedged between alleyways and car wrecks, chasing something worth it. Because it’s never enough.

Tonight's scene is run-of-the-mill. Liquor store, busted register, a guy with more holes in him than a bad alibi. You take the shots-angle the camera, let the lens tell the story. You could do this in your sleep. You have done this in your sleep.

The cops barely acknowledge you anymore. One of them, a rookie, side-eyes you with disgust. You ignore it. You don't care.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Because truth is, you do care. Not about him. Not about them. Not even about the dead guy cooling on the linoleum like a forgotten steak. What you care about is the fact that this? This isn't enough.

There was a time when it was. When sneaking under crime scene tape gave you a rush, when a good shot meant something. But now? Now it's just scraps. And you're tired of scraps.

You want more.

More than the measly checks. More than the dead-end calls from the editor. More than the half-hearted bylines that no one reads.

You want a story. A real one. A big one.

The kind that would make your name stick in people's throats like a hard pill. The kind that would make the networks pay attention. The kind that would make the money pour in.

So you begin to watch. Really watch. Not just the crime scenes, but before and after. Who shows up first? Who leaves last? Who lingers too long? Who pretends not to care? You learn the rhythms of the city's violence. You start predicting it.

It was getting late at night when you came across the scene. A body, twisted in ways that only seasoned detectives can cringe upon. The kind of thing which you would only have heard from the darkest corners of the internet but never thought to see middle suburban streets, thick with the stench of decay, the crimson rivers trailing out from beneath the body like a gruesome map marking the end of a life.

But it wasn’t just the blood or the brokenness of the body that grabbed your attention. It was the artistry.

The killer didn’t just murder this man—they played with him. The victim was arranged like a grotesque puppet, limbs contorted in unnatural positions, eyes wide and glassy, staring into the abyss of whatever hell the Butcher had dragged him from. Whoever had done this didn’t care about the man’s life. No, they cared about the display—the theatrics of death. You could see it in the way the body was laid out like a performer on a stage.

You stood there, looking at it, your breathing steady, heart detached. You were a member of this world, after all—an observer, an architect of stories. This was not meant to touch the horror in which others would splinter. It was just for what it is: an opportunity. An image.

Pulling your camera from your bag, you took the shot. Your hands had moved with a precision, the lens snapping the exact right angle, the perfect composition. The angle of the body, the pools of blood, the quiet devastation of a life snuffed out. And then, once you had it—that shot—you made the call.

The police were on their way, but you were already deep in the game. You'd sold your soul to this grind long ago, and when opportunity knocked, you answered.

It didn't take long for the scene to make headlines. It was gruesome, shocking, a real masterpiece of death. The caption screamed across every paper, every screen:

"Yet Another Killing from the Butcher: 600th Victim"

You felt that familiar rush, the adrenaline of knowing you'd made it. This wasn't just another shot for a local rag. This was the kind of image that would get you noticed. You hadn't just captured death; you've captured the moment. And it worked. The media ate it up.

But what happened next was even more unexpected.

A week later, your phone rang. It was a blocked number. The kind of call you usually ignored. But for some reason, you picked up.

"Is this the photographer from the Butcher's 600th kill?" The voice was low, professional.

"Yes," you answered, keeping your tone neutral, businesslike. It was all just another part of the game.

"We need someone to help us with the investigation," the voice continued, "and we think you're a good fit. You're good with cameras, and we think you might be good with… us."

There was a pause before the voice added, "You've got the knack for catching things, the kind of things we can't. We want you on our team."

You raised an eyebrow. Not what you had envisioned. "I have no interest in the investigation," she said. "I just take photographs."

"We're aware of that," the voice said, dripping with an amused understanding. "But we need your eye for detail. And we'll make it worth your while. We're paying double what you'd normally get, plus a few bonuses for the really interesting shots. We think you can help us get closer to the Butcher. What do you say?"

It was a tempting offer—extra cash, exposure, a chance to build something more than just another gig as a photographer. This wasn't the typical work for a freelance camera guy. And the extra bucks would help, sure. A name in the papers.

You agreed, naturally. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about what came with it. The access. The stories. The people who came with the cases. The murderers. The killers.

You were with the investigation team for weeks. They knew you were neutral, that you didn't care about their moral compass. Neither about the good guys nor about the bad guys. You cared only about the shot. Death, arrest, or slip-up—whichever it was. You were there for the story, for the image.

Now you became the lifeline of that team. Those photographs were not only for public display anymore but were also becoming tactical. You assisted them trace the pattern of the Butcher, picked details they had not seen—details so small and yet so large in their visibility. Your pictures were now an integral part of their strategy. The more they used you, the more they dragged you into their web, and the more you liked it.

The cases became personal. but for them. You'd see the tension in their eyes when they looked at the new photos. They were obsessed with stopping the Butcher, but you were obsessed with capturing his chaos, his carnage.

By the 30th victim, it all began to feel less of a job and more of a sick, almost morbid routine. You were no longer just recording the murders. You were investigating them, peeling away the layers of butchered bodies and their stories. With the body count of the Butcher rising, a disturbing pattern of these killings was beginning to appear. These weren't some random murders, but they had a purpose.

Most of the victims, in retrospect, were not so good people. I mean, at least in any conventional or traditional sense. There were abusers, predators, men who had been arrested multiple times for things that make your skin crawl. You found a pattern in their criminal records—domestic violence, assault, even worse crimes. These were men who lived off the pain of others and hurt those weaker than them, and somehow—somehow—they got drawn to the Butcher.

You started connecting the dots. The men, the pattern of their crimes, that they were easy to find—and almost as if they were looking for him. It didn't take long for you to conclude: the Butcher wasn't killing for fun. No, he had a method. A twisted logic. He had a reason. And that reason, as it appeared, was much more complicated than people had assumed: that most of his victims weren't exactly innocent. They were guilty of hurting other people, usually ways in which society either wasn't enabled to punish or chose not to. The more you looked into the pasts of his victims, the more you would find yourself wondering if maybe—even by default—he had a point. You certainly weren't condoning his actions. Murder was never the solution. But you could see why he picked these men. You could almost understand the reasoning behind it.

The Butcher wasn't an idiot killer, not really. He had his reasons—no matter how twisted, no matter how broken—and they made a sick kind of sense. But it wasn't enough to elevate him. You couldn't make a hero out of a man who solved problems with blood and violence. Normal people didn't solve their problems that way. But you couldn't deny that there was a certain kind of. appeal in the chaos he created. He was a force. A force that made people feel something—whether it was fear, admiration, or something else entirely. And that? That was powerful.

But there was more to it than just that. You could not ignore the sense that crept into your mind in the past few weeks.

Love.

You abhorred the word, but there it was. It was subtle at first, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind whenever you studied his work. You saw it, the way his killings made people care, made them look, made them pay attention. Now you were no longer just following the trail. You were investigating, learning, feeling. Now this was no game for you. No, it was personal. You found yourself almost rooting for the man even as you tried to keep your distance.

But there was more. The photos. The shots you'd taken—each one was feeding your reputation, making you a name, a force in the media, the same way the Butcher was in the criminal world. You had a strange feeling that, without his kills, you would have remained just another nameless photographer. But with him? With him, you had power.

And that was dangerous.

You started to feel like you owed him. It was twisted, perverse, but he was feeding you—feeding your career, feeding your hunger for success, feeding your need to be noticed. Every photo you snapped, every shot that landed in the paper, was part of his story. Your story was his. And maybe, just maybe, that was what you needed. Maybe you were as broken as he was. Maybe you both thrived in this world of rot, feeding off each other, pushing each other into darker, more dangerous corners.

You were obsessed. But the truth was, he was feeding your obsession.

The rot seeps in slowly, unnoticed at first, like a shadow on the edge of your vision, a whisper on the edge of your thoughts. It crawls through your mind, curling into the crevices where your ambition used to live, until it finds the darkness you never knew was there.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing—just a job, just another image captured for the cameras, another headline. But the truth tastes different when it settles on your tongue. It tastes like blood. It tastes like him.

The rot begins as a question, a fleeting thought: Why does it make you feel so. alive?

It isn't the death which attracts you; no, but it's about the purpose itself, the maddening madness through each slash he gives with that knife. Beautified carnages, art made from destruction lies before you – victims twisted in ways that go beyond broken human shapes, more like pieces falling into place because they were so meant to. It's because they were set there for just this sickened, twisted waltz orchestration.

You try to deny it. You try to look away, but the rot follows, creeping through the veins of your heart. It sinks into the muscle, spreading through the blood, until your pulse beats to the rhythm of his kills. You feel it in your chest, the cold gnawing hunger for what he creates. You tell yourself it's just the shot, just the fame, just the game. But you feel it. The thirst. The craving.

Why are you so attracted to him?

Why do you let his rot grow inside you? Like a seed planted deep, so far inside you can't tell where the darkness ends and where you begin.

The brain is a fragile thing, after all. And yours, for all its intelligence, is no match for the poison he's planted in it. The more you photograph, the more you study his art, the more it feeds you. And you've become so hungry for it, you can taste the rot creeping deeper, gnawing at your mind. Each photograph is a poison in itself, a drop of venom that sinks deeper into your veins until your body shakes with the need to capture more.

He's just not a murderer anymore. Now he is a lot more, a lot, much more to you. The muse, that obsession of art you can never look away from. And he scares you—as if one photograph more, study one body part more, can make you irrevocably lose yourself at his hands forever.

It's in your bones now, the rot and the need; the darkness will creep up like something living around your ribs where you can't catch a decent breath of the air in them. You find yourself trying again, but somehow it's almost impossible to keep going; maybe the air becomes so thick from the weight around your ribs: the weight chokes. So, it stays inside your soul.

You remind yourself that you're better than this, that you can walk away. But you can't. You just can't escape what is inside you now.

His kill, his art—it feeds you. It gives you a name, a place. It makes you someone. The world sees you for your pictures, your work. But underneath it all, you know—it's him. He is feeding you. His blood, his violence, his chaos, it's in you now. You've inhaled it, drunk it down, and it has lodged itself in the core of who you are. And you can't deny it anymore.

Why so addicted to him?

You're the thing you once feared becoming: consumed by the rot, driven by a need to capture it, witness it, and be near it. You once thought he was the villain. But now? Now you think maybe you always were the villain in your story. Maybe you were always wanting this darkness.

Maybe it’s you who’s been rotting all along.

You have to go now- To see if the butcher gifted you with another body.

The alley is deathly silent as you step into it. A hollow sense of dread crawls down your spine, a cold sweat forming on your brow. This place, this alley—it's where most of the Butcher's victims are found. His 633rd victim, right here. You hold your breath, the world suddenly too quiet, too still. And then-there's a sound. A soft, muffled sobbing. It breaks the silence, raw and full of terror. But then, impossibly, it's joined by something else. A laugh. Low, guttural, dripping with amusement. Your body freezes. That laugh. You know it now, deep in your bones. It's him.

The Butcher.

You've seen his work. You've followed his trail. But hearing him laugh, hearing that sound come from the shadows, makes everything real in a way you weren't prepared for. You creep forward, silent as a ghost, looking around the corner. There, in the dim light, stands a figure. The air seems to curve around him, suffused with something darker, something wrong. His presence is overwhelming—like the world itself is holding its breath. He's tall—too tall, standing just over six feet. His presence radiates chaos, a perverse kind of power that almost makes the air feel heavier. His dark burgundy hair falls messily under a black beanie, a devilish set of horns jutting out above it. The horns are almost laughable in their mockery of the devil himself, and yet—they're not. His leather jacket shines black in the sparse alley light. That's the kind of leather that crackles with menace, like it's soaked up too many sins. Scissors protrude out of the top, jagged and sharp, And the red 'X' pin on his chest—an enigma that's as much a part of his identity as the scars he's surely accumulated over the years. Safety pins dangle, like a string of symbols no one can fully decipher. His shirt underneath, emblazoned with a skull, a death's head reminder of the man standing in front of you. And his eyes—those eyes. Black as pitch. They pierce the shadows, and you feel like he sees you, even though you're still hidden. Those eyes are endless, voids pulling you into them. He plays with the man on his knees, a feeble, shaking figure caught in his hands. The victim's face is white, eyes open wide with terror. His voice is pleading, begging, but it's of no use. The man laughs, low and cruel, a laugh that freezes the soul. "Why didn't ya just do the world a favor? huh?" His voice drips with mockery, the words drawn out with a slow, deliberate menace. "So many. opportunities. *so many* chances for you to not mess up, to get away. But here you are, crying like a little shit." The laugh that follows is like a death knell. The man steps forward, and the air crackles with tension, under the palemoonlight, his crowbar glinting as if made of steel with the shimmer of an extension of his dark soul. The victim trembles; he knows—the feels—that the end is near. You're still frozen in place, hidden in the shadows, unable to tear your eyes away. And now you know that connection is undeniable.

This is him.

The Butcher.

The Devil.

His personality so well-crafted that even now, even standing in the midst of carnage, he is acting. Every movement, every word he says is part of the act. He is *playing*—but you can't tell if he's playing with the victim or with you. And then, as if he feels your presence, his head tilts slightly, those black eyes narrowing as they sweep the darkness, seeking. You inhale sharply, heart hammering in your chest. You’ve been caught. But what is it? Is it fear? Or is it something else? That glint of curiosity, that subtle tug in your chest—you’re fascinated. Not just by the violence, but by him. This man, this monster. He isn’t just killing for the sake of it. No, there’s something else there. Something almost. personal. And you’re afraid. Not of him, not yet—but of yourself. How did that happen? What drew you into him? When you're there documenting horror and madness, is it then where you become mired in this same mess you are recording and stuck on this thread of madness? You can feel it now-the pull, the addiction. The way the rot spreads in your chest, creeping into your heart. It's not enough to just watch anymore. You're part of it now. And you wonder,

is it too late to stop? He turns away, the Butcher, his steps measured, casual. He does not even look back; he leaves behind a dying man, like a discarded rag, casualty of his twisted performance. The sound of his footsteps fades into the distance, carried off by darkness, leaving behind only the groaning man on the ground. You are frozen, frozen in place, as the man on the ground starts to move, slowly, weakly, lifting himself on his quivering arms. He speaks and his words are just a jumble of incoherent mumbo-jumbo, blurred with blood and agony. "Help me." he whispers, barely above a whisper, a plea barely reaching your ears. But you hear it. You hear it like a siren's call. He needs help. He's begging for it, his face twisted in agony, still so sweet even in his bloodied state. A part of you wants to be disgusted by it, wants to feel the horror of the moment, but the truth is—you don't feel anything anymore. The part of you that was human, that was once connected to sympathy, to empathy—it's gone. And the worst part? You don't care. Your eyes lock with his, dead, empty. And for a moment, you almost laugh. Because here he is, pleading for help, for mercy, with all his innocence shattered, and yet—he doesn't even know how little he matters to you. He doesn't realize how close to death he is. Your eyes slide down to the ground, to a small rock. It's nothing. A simple thing. Lying in the dirt. But it is all you need. You do not even hesitate. You take it, holding it in your hand, the weight of it, cold, solid, filling the hollow place inside you. You approach him, the blood-soaked man who still thinks he can beg for his life. So sweet. So innocent. So stupid. He looks at you approaching, his eyes widening in a mix of hope and confusion. "Please. help me." he manages to croak, reaching out a shaking hand toward you. And it's almost laughable. He thinks you're here to save him. But you aren't. Not anymore. You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s not a smile of sympathy or warmth. It’s a smile that says, "You shouldn’t have asked for help." You place the rock on his chest, pressing down, the pressure against the bloodied skin making him gasp in surprise. His weak attempts to push you away are futile, and with a twisted satisfaction, you press harder, forcing the rock into his ribs, into his lungs. The sound of his breath faltering, the desperation in his eyes—it only excites you more. You hit him once. Then twice. And again, until his cries for mercy dissolve into nothing. Until the last breath escapes him, and he slumps into silence. You don't feel that rush of adrenaline you thought you would. There's just. peace. A stillness that settles over you like a blanket. The world becomes quieter, emptier, and you realize—you've crossed a line now. You've killed, just like him. Just like the Butcher. But it doesn't matter. You never wanted to stop. The man's body lies motionless at your feet. You look down at him, expressionless, but a hint of satisfaction. You don't want him to crawl to the police. You don't want anyone to expose the Butcher. Because now, in a way, you are part of it. You're tangled in his web, drowning in it. You move away from the body, as if savoring the movement. Your movements are slow, deliberate. No racing heart, no fear or guilt.

The world slants, as if shifting ever so slightly, in your acquisition of him. One photograph at a time. Early on, you had harbored the briefest of reservations. But these fade away in the shadow of your obsession. The photographs are no longer about bringing the truth to light, about illuminating his murders. They are your collection now. His murders become a series of images, each one a little closer, a little more intimate, a little more personal. Each picture captures more than death in it; he is an artist, and you are just an unspoken observer, a notary of his sick masterpiece.

Each time you click the button, it feels like you have locked a little bit of him into your life. The photos fill your bedroom, heaps of them, thumbtacked onto the walls, strewn around the floor, a museum of decay and gore. The images are not murders; they're art. You look at them with a twisted, sick smile-one that feels like it's becoming your permanent expression. There's something exquisite about it, about the way the bodies lay, the way he moves through the scene, like an angel of death in black.

You've stopped photographing the victims in their final moments. That's his work. His art. You photograph the aftermath, the rotting remains, the decay, the beauty of it all—the perfect, graceful disintegration. Each mangled limb, every blood-streaked face, every violent distortion of life. it's beautiful in its chaos. The beauty of rot. It's the most honest thing you've ever seen.

You smile as you take another photo. How blind you were, you think, to believe you could reveal him. He was no beast. No, no. He was the Devil. The only thing to be worshipped. The way he carves through the world, killing with such grace, with such purpose—it mesmerizes you. How could you not have fallen for him? How could you resist the call of someone who truly understands the art of destruction, the art of chaos?

And yet, you never think about the implications. Never think about the danger, about how close you are to the edge. A part of you knows the truth—you're playing with fire. A serial killer. He might kill you if he finds out you're watching him, photographing him, collecting him. But that thought doesn't scare you. It excites you. The danger is the best part, isn't it?

You know how to hide the evidence. You’re good at this. Really good. You’ve studied, you’ve watched, you’ve learned. Lou Bloom’s tricks are now your tricks. How to manipulate, how to twist things so that they work in your favor. You’ve made it almost impossible for anyone to tie the killings to him. The photos are perfect—framed, timed, never too much, just enough. Each one is carefully staged, in a way that leaves no room for suspicion. The investigation? It won’t even get close to him. The police are laughingstocks. The public mocks them. The world has no clue. They’ll never catch him.

And the best part? You’re the one who gets to keep him. He’s your secret, your possession, your Devil. The only one who truly understands you. The police will never find him. And even if they do, what evidence could they possibly have? Every picture you've ever taken, every picture of his work, becomes twisted into your story, your narrative. He's just a shadow in the background, a blur in the world's eyes. You made him invisible.

The more you read in the beauty of these photos, the more you see it-the rot. It's everywhere now. In your room, inside your mind, inside your veins. You are the rot. You can almost be able to taste it on your tongue as you flip through each picture. Rotting, dying, mutated beauty of all of this. You are addicted to this. You feel nothing else now but the rush of something dark, something real. This is all that is left for you. This is all that matters now.

You're in love with him. Obsessed. Every waking thought is consumed by him, by his art, by the way he moves through this world leaving death in his wake. Obsession grows like a disease inside you. You don't care that you are losing yourself. The world's a mess; it's broken-and in that mess, in that broken place, he's the only real thing.

So you capture it. You capture the beauty of rot, the beauty of decay, with each shot of your camera. His killings, his art, his legacy. it's all yours now. And the best part? No one will ever know. No one will ever understand. You'll keep it all, locked away in your room, in your mind, in your heart.

And as you keep snapping pictures, you come to realize the most frightening thing of all. You are no longer just an observer. You are becoming him. You are becoming the Butcher's echo, his disciple. And you don't even care.

The rot has already spread.

It is a night heavier than it ought to be, as if the world itself held its breath in expectation. Every corner of your mind is drenched with his shadow. This is your obsession, your need, your unrelenting quest for beauty in his darkness. You have gotten used to the violence, the brutality-it has become your life now, your purpose, your twisted little obsession. His 666th killing on Valentine's Day, of all days. How sweet you'd looked, how just for the occasion. You'd dreamed of candy chocs to give him, of some gesture of affection to offer your warped muse, your idol. No, though, that might get you killed, and you weren't ready to go out with the best yet. Not when the story had just started.

You rushed to the scene, expecting thrills, expecting the moment of the kill; instead, there was the quiet of a deed done. The victim, now nothing more than an object to your camera's gaze, crumpled on the cold concrete, stained by blood. It was such a waste, but there was beauty in it all. Death curled around him like an old lover, softening his sharp edges with an aura of familiarity.

But something was different tonight. Change in the air, tension, pull toward something… something strange. You crouched down in readiness with camera, already thinking ahead to that shot, when you came upon something you hadn't counted on. A heart. Red hand-drawn heart, ink as red as blood—how perfect, how devilish.

A note was tucked beneath it. A message.

Your fingers were always a little shaky as you reached out to touch the paper, your heart racing with an odd mix of excitement and dread filling your veins. You carefully unfolded it, trying to keep back the rising tide of curiosity, the frantic hunger for whatever he'd left behind. Then, you saw it.

. Your breath catches, the edges of the paper smudged with something dark—a trail of blood, or was it something else? You don't know anymore. The note, delicately folded, reads as if it's written just for you, "How was your lil wish coming along, Y/n?"

Your mind freezes, your pulse racing. It's a whisper from the shadows, in his handwriting all too familiar. You never thought he'd take notice of you, not that he'd leave a message especially for you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you realize-he knows. He knows you've been watching. He knows you've been obsessed, cataloging every one of his killings, keeping them in your private collection like a warped trophy. But the idea of him knowing you personally fills you with a sense of excitement mixed with terror.

Everything becomes very quiet for an instant. Time stands still and it seems to bend a bit to the other way; noise and all becomes dull and suppressed. There comes that sick sort of intimacy again; it seems like he invites you into his world: that is, one of death and chaos and beauty. His gift lies in a crimson-stained heart lying upon the ground-a statement in kind saying, "I see you. Do you see me?

But before you can even process the rush of emotions tumbling through you, you hear it. A faint scraping sound, distant at first, like the dragging of metal across pavement, but then it grows louder, closer, more real.

Click. Click. Click.

A crowbar, dragging on the ground, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt like a slow death march. You turn, your stomach twisting in knots, and there he is.

The Butcher.

He stands in the shadows, a silhouette framed by dim streetlights. His presence is more imposing than you could ever have imagined. The faint glow from the flickering lights catches on his black leather jacket, the metallic glint of the scissors in his shoulders, the pin with the 'X' shining like a warning. His burgundy hair is wild and uncombed, falling in waves around his face, while his black eyes, those bottomless voids, pierce straight through you. You feel it in your chest, that shuddering gasp, your body betraying the mix of fear and desire that floods your veins.

The crowbar drags, leaving a line of marks in the dirt as he steps into the weak light. A cruel grin spreads across his face—half mocking, half something darker, more hungry. He's taking his time, letting the sound of his approach echo in the alley like a countdown to something you can't escape.

His voice is low, dripping with that same dangerous charm and yet carries with it an unnerving note of affection, like he's discovered a lost toy to play with.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "What's this? My little photographer has been busy. haven't you, Y/n?" The way he says your name makes your heart skip, the intimacy of it feeling more like a threat than a compliment.

You can't say a word. Your mouth's dry, hands shaking as you let the camera slip from your fingers and feel it dangle loosely at your side. The thoughts scatter before you like smashed glass as you try to fit everything together: he shouldn't be here, he can't be here; but the note, the heart, the watching—how you feel he has been watching for all this.

“You’re quite good at this,” he muses, his voice smooth like silk but laced with an edge that makes your skin prickle. “Could almost say you’ve earned the right to be in my gallery.”

Your breath hitches at that—his gallery. The thought of being included in his twisted world, to be immortalized alongside his art, fills you with a sick satisfaction. You want it. You want to be closer to him. To know him, in the way only a few get to.

You’ve already given yourself over to him in your mind. You’ve already become part of his world—his chaos, his destruction. But now, he's here, standing right in front of you, and the way he looks at you. you’re not just an observer anymore. You’re a part of the performance.

His smile grows, and you can see the glint of madness in his eyes. He takes a step further; his crowbar is dragging behind him, and the scraping he leaves with it cuts across the electric tension in the air.

"Didn't think I'd find you so easily," he muses, going around you like a predator who's sizing up its prey. "But then again, you've been leaving quite the trail. haven't you, Y/n?"

And you know that, in a split second of clarity, that this isn't just some dark coincidence. This man has observed you, even studied you - as you so keenly would do with him. He can see your obsessiveness, this fascination. So now, play he wants.

The excitement in your chest builds and your pulse drums in your ears as you gaze into his face, your body shaking with the fear of something and yet being so hopeful.

You do not want to run. You can't run.

He's here. He is right in front of you

You stand there, speechless, eyes wide in shock and something else—something dark and exhilarating—as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. You feel trapped, pinned against the cold brick of the alley wall, unable to move. He knows. He knows. His black eyes pierce through you like a dagger, and for a moment, all the air seems to leave your lungs. His grin is wicked, stretching across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his words in the air before they even leave his mouth.

"I know about your little. incident," he says, his voice low, dark, teasing. "You thought you could hide it, huh? That rock you used, the way you finished him off. Cute. But you know what?" He presses closer, his breath cold now, a smile twisting at the edges of his lips. "I've been doing the same thing, just. slower, more artful."

The words crash into you, syllable by syllable, as if each word is a needle piercing your skin, but you don't even flinch. You can't. Instead, you find yourself hanging onto every word, every dark admission, every flicker of his twisted affection.

He's been watching. He's always been watching, just like you've been watching him.

And now, his hands are on you.

Oh god.

The raw electricity of it sends a jolt through your veins as he presses you harder against the wall, his strength overpowering, his body close enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing. You can hardly breathe, trapped under the weight of his gaze. His fingers dig into your wrist, pulling you into his personal space, forcing you to feel the undeniable connection between the two of you. It's suffocating, thrilling, terrifying all at once.

A laugh, dark and mocking, slips past his lips. He knows you. He knows exactly how obsessed you've become, how desperately you've followed his every move. He sees your fascination, your twisted need to be a part of his world, to belong to him in some way.

"You're so fucking obsessed with me," he says, laughing again, like he finds the whole thing utterly amusing. "You're falling in love with death, aren't you? With the concept of it. And the best part?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing across your ear, his words slicing through the hollow of silence like a whisper of poison. "I'm the one gonna give it to you. I'll make you feel alive, even if you are dead inside."

And then, as if the entire tension breaks and he finally exhales, his voice is laced with something dangerous, a teasing edge that will cause your heart to double its pace,

"Wanna touch me?"

You hesitate just a second before your hands shoot out, trembling and determined, almost against your will. You want to touch him. You need to touch him. And when your fingers brush against his leather jacket, you feel that you have just signed your own death warrant—and yet, you want it.

"I want you to touch you to death," he whispers. "Make me feel like I'm breathing. Make me feel like I'm human."

You swallow, letting the weight of his words drop deep into your chest. You thought you were in control here. You thought you could be the one exposing him. Now. now you realize something warped and vile. You're his. You have always been his.

You wanted death, perhaps you even craved it, but now you see something else. This man, this butcher of souls, this twisted, grotesque force of nature, is beautiful.

The way he moves, the way he thinks—every action, every word, every killing, it's all a twisted artistry. You've seen it now. The beauty in the rot. The beauty in destruction. And you are more than willing to drown in it. You're willing to live for it. Or, maybe. die for it.

"You're already dead," he whispers again, this time with that same sickly sweet tone. "And so am I."

The world fades into nothingness, as you sink further into this madness. In your mind, you hear his voice—soft, seductive, dangerous—as the words become a mantra that you'll never escape.

"Darling, his looks can kill, so now you're dead. Maybe."

You smile, completely unattached, completely in love with the nightmare of it all. Your fate doesn't matter anymore. You're his now. His masterpiece, his creation. You can already feel the rot settling in your veins, the decay becoming a part of you, and you welcome it.

The perfect rot. The beautiful rot.on

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