daisy ❅ @rikiflrts - Tumblr Blog

Stalker's Tango

pairing. yandere!scaramouche x fem!reader (modern au)

synopsis. you were a busy bee, considering the amount of jobs that you had to juggle to pay for your deceased parents’ debt. you lived alone in a unit in an apartment complex. despite your life being difficult to enjoy, you still looked at the brighter side of things. that was until you felt like you were being watched; no matter where you went, no matter what you did, there was always an eerie feeling you couldn't shake as you felt an unknown gaze boaring holes into your being. thinking it was merely paranoia, you ignored the feeling and thought that work was simply getting to your head, but that was until an unfamiliar face moved into the apartment complex you resided in. no one knew of his origins, and honestly you could care less since you had other things to worry about, but your whole life changes once he greets you face to face with that unsuspectingly two-faced smile that you eventually came to fear. now, you no longer feel safe; be it when you’re outside or even in the comforts of your own home. he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and he has no intention of letting you go until he sees you break and succumb to the cruel and twisted tango that he non-consensually pulls you into.

content. slow burn, dark themes (stalking, perversion, violence, possessive and controlling behavior, non-con), ASSAULT, semi-smut (scaramouche takes advantage of you sleeping), profanity, male rage (scaramouche), push and pull method, not proofread

words. 17.6k words (longest!)

a/n. this was heavily inspired by the song "Stalker's Tango" by Autoheart. i suggest listening to it while reading. also, i've been daydreaming about yandere!scaramouche for a while, so here's my take on it. I plan to make three parts for this mini-series of mine, so I hope you enjoy! It’ll be quite the long read since i really wanted to encapsulate Scara’s twisted views and perceptions of love :]

p.s. i do not condone nor enable obsessive behaviors like this irl. this is all purely fictional, and if you ever feel like you're being stalked, please tell your loved ones or the authorities immediately.

art credits: @/tayu_blood on twitter

chapters. one, two, three (final) | Playlist

reblogs are very much appreciated !! ଘ(˵╹-╹)━☆

Chapter Three

Ever since that intimate exchange you had with Scaramouche, you hadn’t seen him since. Although you offered to tutor him until his ‘big day’, he never showed up. Not in the cafe, not by the typical areas he usually hung around, not even by his own unit.

It had been four days.

Four. Whole. Days.

The first two days were bearable; you thought he needed to focus on his studies alone to prevent himself from getting distracted. You had no issue with him not contacting you whatsoever because it should rightfully be his first priority. Academics are important, after all.

However, he was still nowhere in sight even after his supposed ‘exam day’.

You tried knocking on his door at one point, trying to check up on him, but there was no response. You even tried pressing your ear against the wooden barrier, trying to hear if there was any sound that you could make up with, but there was nothing.

Just silence.

Utterly maddening and deafening silence.

You began to think that he was avoiding you, and it made you feel so helpless. The weight—that was already lingering—in your heart doubled as you felt instant regret wash over you. He must have really felt bad for ‘forcing’ himself on you the other day, or so you thought. If you had just allowed him to keep going, to further his relationship with you, maybe he wouldn’t have avoided you in the first place.

This feels so shitty.

You hate this.

You hate feeling like this so, so much.

It does make sense for him to feel the need to somewhat distance himself, but come on, he was the one who hoped for nothing to change between the two of you even after you both got so lost in the moment with each other. He was the one who waltzed in your life and ruined your inner peace by making you feel things you’ve never felt before. He was the one who was bold enough to make a mess out of you, both mentally and physically.

So how come it’s like you’re the one chasing after him? How come you’re the one who seemed to feel like a portion of your life got dimmer whenever he wasn’t around? How come you’re the one who keeps stealing glances at the place he usually frequents like a hopeless-romantic who just broke up with her ‘the-one-that-got-away’-ex-boyfriend?

This didn’t sit right with you. Not one bit.

You’ve never had a crush on anyone before—not that you had the time to. Now isn’t any different, but it’s just so different with that man. He was a new character that was introduced in your life, but it’s almost as if he’d always been there since the very beginning; like he knew you. Like he knew everything about you. Like he knew all the words to say.

Never in your life had you ever met someone as confident and as bold as him, and like a songbird hearing its own melody echoed back for the first time, you were enchanted—hooked on the idea that maybe, just maybe, he saw something in you no one else ever had.

Back when your parents were still alive, they taught you—through the quiet strength of their love—that affection didn’t need luxury to feel like abundance. Even when money was tight and the world felt cruel, they held each other with the kind of warmth that made everything else fade. You remember them telling you, just before their passing, that someday, you’d find someone who’d love you just as fiercely—someone who’d make you feel like you were the very reason the world kept turning. You never really understood what they meant. Not until you met Scaramouche.

You’d hate to admit, but you really do like him.

In his absence, you found yourself growing fonder of him, though you couldn’t quite explain why. The silence he left behind felt heavier than it should have, and with each passing day, your mind became a maze of ‘what ifs’ you couldn’t escape. Strangely enough, it began to take a toll on you. Your focus slipped, your motivation dwindled, and the work that once grounded you now felt like sand slipping through your fingers. You’d never been like this before—so distracted, so restless. It was as if the space he once filled had left a quiet ache in its place.

To make things worse, you didn’t even have his phone number. You forgot to ask for it. No, you’ve always been around each other so you didn’t feel the need to, but shit. There’s no other way for you to reach out to him other than wait for his return.

"If this is what having a crush feels like, then maybe I don’t want to feel at all," you groaned internally, dragging your feet along the pavement like they weighed a hundred pounds each. The walk to the cafe was supposed to clear your mind, but instead, it only made it worse—quieter streets left too much room for your thoughts, and every corner of your brain was already overrun by him.

It was unbearable. Every time you tried to focus on something else—the weather, your to-do list, literally anything; his face would barge in like an uninvited guest. His smug grin. The low lilt of his voice when he called you “princess.” It didn’t matter whether the memories were real or just figments of your aching imagination; they all felt real now.

You couldn’t tell where reality ended and fantasy began anymore. Had he actually looked at you like that, eyes hooded and hungry? Or was it something you conjured out of desire and desperation? Did his fingers really linger that long on your wrist during tutoring, or had your hopeless longing stretched seconds into eternities?

Your mind played it all back without mercy; the kiss, the grip of his hands on your waist, the way he spoke your name like it tasted sweet in his mouth. And then the scenes evolved, twisted, bloomed into moments that never happened but you could see so clearly: him backing you against a wall, whispering confessions between stolen kisses; his breath hot on your neck as he murmured things no one else would ever hear.

You shook your head violently, as if motion alone could erase him. You even slapped your cheeks lightly, trying to ground yourself, but it only made your skin burn more. Whether from shame or the memory of his touch, you couldn’t say. Your chest tightened, your heart thudding so fast it nearly hurt.

Archons, you think you’re ovulating at this point.

Today was another start to an all-too-familiar routine. Another dull day without a glimpse of that dark-indigo-haired devil you couldn’t stop thinking about. The ache of his absence nestled itself in your chest like a stone, turning the world a little grayer, a little less alive. You sighed quietly and clocked in, mustering a small “Good evening” for Thoma, who greeted you back with his usual chipper smile.

He was the new guy—Kazuha’s replacement. Kind, warm, and dependable. Since his arrival, you didn’t have to open anymore, which meant your shift had been moved to late afternoons until closing. It wasn’t so bad; it fit neatly into your schedule, but today… today you almost wished you had come earlier. As if showing up at a different time might somehow summon him back into your orbit.

You made your way to the back, the echo of your footsteps accompanying the soft clatter of plates and Thoma’s distant humming. Reaching your locker, you jingled your keys absentmindedly, the familiar sound oddly comforting. The lock clicked open with a metallic creak, and as you reached in to retrieve your neatly folded uniform, something stopped you.

There, placed delicately on top of your clothes, was a small envelope. It had a soft pink color, its edges crisp, and a tiny heart-shaped sticker sealing it shut. You blinked. Your fingers brushed against it gently, then picked it up. It felt light, but there was definitely something inside; something that bulged from within.

Your brows furrowed. No one but you and Diluc has the key to this locker.

You flipped the envelope over, inspecting it for any name, any sign. Nothing. Just the clean pastel surface and the single heart staring back at you. You glanced around the room—empty. No sign of the man in question.

“Thoma?” You called, stepping closer to the kitchen pass-through window. “Did you see the boss around earlier?”

He looked up from the sink, hands deep in soapy water. “Diluc? Why?”

You held up the envelope slightly, just enough for him to catch a glimpse. “I found this in my locker. Thought maybe you saw someone put it there.”

“Oh, that?” Thoma’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. “Yeah, I saw the boss slip it in earlier this morning. Said something about it being important, but that was all. I think he’s over at the bar now for a negotiation.”

Your heart skipped. Boss put this here…? But… why? What kind of “important” letter gets sealed with a heart sticker and slipped into your locker without a word? If anything, it looked like a love letter.

Your eyes squint. Did Diluc put this in there to confess to you? Diluc, your boss. Diluc, the stoic and indifferent man who looked like he cared little about anything else other than his craft?

Impossible.

There wasn’t a single heart-racing memory that had you and Diluc all tangled up with each other. Your relationship was strictly professional. If anything, he was like your big brother.

Perhaps it was from Kazuha?

No, Kazuha was in the province. His hands were too full to deliver such a thing. Heck, you bet he didn’t even have feelings for you. So what in the world could this letter possibly be…?

“…Thanks,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him, still staring at the envelope like it might unfold itself and spill out all its secrets.

Thoma gave you a thumbs-up before heading back to the counter just as new customers arrived, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and the mysterious letter. Although you were curious to see the contents inside, you decided to open it later instead when you get home from work. You had to help around in the cafe after all. The letter can wait.

A few hours slipped past, and before you even realized it, your shift was over. The cozy din of clinking plates and warm lights faded into the closing silence of the restaurant. Time seemed to pass faster thanks to Thoma’s ever-cheerful energy; his sunny presence almost contagious, like a brief vacation from your constantly spiraling thoughts.

“Go on ahead,” he grinned, waving you off with a damp towel still in his hand. “It’s getting late, and I know you walk home. I’ve got this covered.”

You’d offered to stay behind, but he insisted. And with Diluc still nowhere to be found, someone had to wipe the counters and lock up. Thoma seemed more than capable. You nodded with a grateful smile before heading out the back entrance, your bag slung over your shoulder, the night breeze instantly brushing past your skin.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Thoma really did leave a good impression. He was dependable and warm, with that soft, honey-blonde hair and a smile that made even the grumpiest customer melt. It wasn’t surprising that some of the regulars had already started flirting with him; they’d practically swoon at the sight of his rolled-up sleeves and determined focus.

Still… he wasn’t him.

“Ugh. What the hell are you thinking, Y/n?!” you hissed, mentally slapping yourself as your thoughts once again veered off toward a certain indigo-haired menace. Seriously? Now?

You shook your head, almost irritated. You’d promised yourself tonight would be different. That you’d go home, unwind, maybe read a few chapters of your book and not daydream about a man who practically haunted your every waking thought.

But then your pace quickened instinctively.

You remembered the letter.

Tucked carefully into your bag, its pink envelope burned a hole in your curiosity. You hadn’t opened it yet. It was strange enough to receive something so delicate, almost juvenile, and stranger still that Diluc was the one who left it. Maybe he’d just run out of standard envelopes and borrowed his younger sister’s—Klee’s—stationery. That had to be it. It had to be, right?

Your fingers absentmindedly brushed the edge of the envelope through your bag as you turned the street corner, footsteps tapping lightly against the pavement. The moon was half-hidden behind clouds, casting only a faint glow across the dim alleyways. Every so often, a crow would call in the distance, its harsh caw echoing in the empty stillness of night.

However, your thoughts were cut off; sharp and sudden like a snapped string.

Your ears strained and your lungs stilled.

You frantically looked back, your senses heightened.

Nothing.

Just the dim sidewalk behind you, cracked pavement, power lines hanging low. A pair of crows cawed in the distance, loud and ugly in the otherwise dead quiet. The wind blew past, cold and sharp, snaking around your legs and lifting your skirt slightly, almost tauntingly.

But no one was there.

So why couldn’t you breathe?

You gulped, the familiar feeling of paranoia sinking back in. That old, ugly dread started to crawl it’s way back to you. The same one that haunted you weeks ago. The one you thought you finally escaped. It slithered up your spine, coiled in your throat, and squeezed.

You didn’t dare to utter a “Hello?” to reach through the void; you’ve watched too many horror movies to know what happens next after staying too long in one spot.

Your thoughts—once clear—were now unraveling like threads being tugged loose one by one. You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, trying to shake it off.

It was happening again.

Archons, it was happening again.

But why?! Everything was going so well…?!

No. No, I’m overthinking. I’m just tired. I’m not being watched. I’m not being watched. I’m not being—

But your body didn’t believe it.

Before you could think, your legs jolted into motion. A surge of adrenaline shot through your veins, overtaking logic. You ran as fast as you could, your footsteps frantic against the ground, your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to escape your chest.

You didn’t even care how you looked. You couldn’t. Panic was a noose, and it was tightening.

Your bag thumped against your side with every step, your shoes slapping the pavement uncomfortably. You cursed to yourself as you completely wore the wrong pair for this situation. You could already feel the sting of skin tearing at your heels, the sharp pinch at your toes. But none of that mattered.

Because suddenly…you heard it.

Footsteps.

Quick and heavy matching your rhythm, step for step. It was too fast to be casual.

Your stomach twisted violently, nausea and terror clashing as you made a sharp turn down the nearest alley, lungs burning. You didn’t even think; your body just moved, desperate to escape the pounding echo following you.

You didn’t dare look back.

Tears stung your eyes, your vision blurring. Your thoughts were slamming against each other, colliding and collapsing in rapid succession.

Why is this happening again?

Everything was going so well.... Why tonight? Why now?

Who is it? Is it him?

Is it someone else?

Am I going to die here?

You clutched your bag tighter, arms trembling as you made another sharp turn down another dimly lit street, shoes scraping against the pavement as you sprinted. The sound of those relentless footsteps behind you hadn’t stopped. They were gaining on you—no, taunting you. Mimicking your every move like some twisted game.

Your lip bled from how hard you were biting down on it. You didn’t even notice. Your thoughts were too loud, overlapping, shrieking in your ears. You scanned your surroundings; the windows were shut, the lights were out, there were no cars passing, and no one peeking out to help. Not a single soul on the street. Just you… and them.

Archons… Archons, I’m alone.

I’m really all alone.

You cursed under your breath. This was your fault. You chose to take this stupid shortcut again. You wanted a change of pace, a different view, something to distract yourself from the thoughts of him. And now? You were paying for it.

You told yourself it was over. You told yourself they had stopped. You naively believed the silence was peace, not just the eye of the storm. Because ever since Scaramouche appeared, they vanished. For once, you felt safe. For once, it was quiet. But now… now that he was gone… they were back.

They were only gone because he was around.

They knew he was protecting you.

They knew you weren’t alone anymore. And now?

Now you are.

Your breath hitched, a sob clawing its way up your throat. Your flight response took full control, legs kicking into overdrive as your vision swam. You stumbled down the stairs—the same flight where you’d collided into Scaramouche just days ago. The memory flashed like a cruel joke. That brief moment of clumsy peace. Of eye contact and shy glances.

And now here you were. Running again.

You nearly tripped. Your knee scraped against the edge of the bottom step, but you pushed through the pain, barely staying upright. Everything hurt; your chest, your legs, your head. But the ache in your heart was worse.

Because suddenly, a new thought sliced through all the others.

What if they got to him first?

You felt your stomach drop violently, breath catching in your throat.

What if they hurt Scaramouche?

What if they did something unforgivable to keep him away from you?

Tears finally broke free, trailing down your cheeks like rain. You were spiraling, unraveling at the seams, every beat of your heart screaming his name.

Please be okay… please, please be okay…

Your head was a tangled mess, every thought feeding the panic clawing at your throat. You took another sharp turn yet again, heart pounding so hard it rattled your bones, hoping to lose them. Your lungs screamed for air. Your hands were clammy. You could feel your body fraying at the edges, every step fueled by sheer fear.

They were close. You felt it like a shadow breathing down your neck.

Your chest tightened as the dread surged up your spine like a cold wave. And just when you thought you might actually escape, might finally shake them off—

A hand grabbed your arm.

You screamed.

“No- PLEASE! PLEASE DON’T KILL ME- I DON’T—!”

You thrashed violently, shutting your eyes as you struck blindly with your bag, adrenaline guiding your every move. You kicked, swung, and even but nothing worked. They didn’t budge.

“YOU BRAT…! Calm down!” The words hit you like a jolt to the system. That voice.... It sounded rough and irritated, but familiar.

Your eyes blinked open, wild and teary, your vision swimming as the dark figure slowly came into focus.

“Why did you have to run so bloody fast… Archons… that was a whole damn marathon.” The man cursed, his voice gravelly and laced with exhaustion. His fingers finally slackened around your arm, letting you go as he bent slightly to catch his breath, scowling all the while.

You stumbled back a step, your knees still shaky, breath still ragged. “Xiao…?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper as your eyes locked with his.

The dim streetlight overhead flickered, casting his features into harsh contrast; disheveled dark hair, piercing golden eyes, that ever-present scowl. It really was him.

The son of the man your family owed everything to. The same boy—now man—you hadn’t seen in five years. The last memory of him was etched in the low hum of a foreign car and the sound of polished shoes on the gravel as he followed Zhongli into your home, quiet and watchful.

“What… what are you doing here?” your voice trembled, breath catching again. This time not from fear, but confusion. Your heart hadn’t quite stopped its erratic thumping, but the adrenaline was beginning to thin.

He rolled his eyes, already annoyed. “Seriously? That’s your first question you ask after making me go through that wild goose chase?!”

“If it’s about the money,” you quickly blurted, your words stumbling over each other in a rush to fill the silence, “I’m not even close to the deadline yet- I’m still racking up some side jobs but I’m going to pay—”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up and let me talk!” Xiao snapped, frustration crackling in his voice like static. You flinched. It wasn’t just the volume; it was the sharpness, like his tone had teeth. But it wasn’t new. Xiao had always been rough around the edges, short-tempered, even as a teenager.

Still, his words made your heart squeeze in your chest, leftover fear mixing with the old, lingering wariness you'd always felt around him. He was someone who held the weight of your family’s survival in his hands once… and now he was here, in the middle of the night, unannounced.

But just as your nerves began to fray again, Xiao let out a sigh—long and tired—and you caught the briefest flicker of something else behind his eyes.

Something that wasn’t anger. Maybe even... concern?

Your breath slowed again, just a little.

The tension hung thick between you, but one thing was clear: you weren’t in danger. Not immediate danger, anyway.

“Father told me to look for you,” Xiao muttered, finally steadying his breath as his sharp eyes pierced into yours. “Said you didn’t need to pay us back anymore.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Your debt’s been settled,” he repeated, as if the words were routine. “You worked hard enough to give us enough, and he had a change of heart.” He crossed his arms with a scoff, clearly uninterested in explaining further—but the way your jaw practically dropped made it impossible for him not to notice. Honestly, you looked like you just got smacked in the face with a dictionary.

“You mean… I’m… free?” you said slowly, the syllables tasting foreign on your tongue.

“Must I repeat myself?” he grumbled with an annoyed glare.

You quickly shook your head, and without thinking, your body moved on its own, immediately bowing low with trembling hands and blurry eyes. “Thank you… Thank you so much.”

The weight you’d been carrying for years suddenly felt like it cracked and fell off your shoulders in one clean break. It didn’t even feel real.

No more constantly juggling jobs. No more late-night shifts and missed meals. No more fear of men in suits showing up at your door asking for money your parents left behind. You could finally breathe.

Your chest tightened as tears began slipping down your cheeks again, but this time they didn’t fall from panic. They fell from sheer, overwhelming relief.

“T-there’s no catch, is there?” you sniffled, hastily wiping your tears on your sleeves, though they kept spilling.

Xiao looked mildly uncomfortable, glancing off to the side like he couldn’t handle seeing you cry. “No catch,” he said flatly, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, wet laugh, your smile wobbly but genuine. “Please extend my gratitude to your father…”

Xiao didn’t reply with words. He just gave you a quick, sidelong look. Then, he turned on his heel, hands in his pockets, and walked off into the night.

You watched him until his figure vanished from the street corner.

Then, almost without realizing, you exhaled a shaky breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding. The sky felt more open, the air a little warmer. The sickening paranoia that had plagued your walk home? Gone. It dissipated like mist under sunlight.

You tilted your head up to the stars, a thousand emotions rushing through your heart.

“Mom… Dad…” your voice trembled, cracking under the weight of it all, “I did it… I finally paid our debt off…”

You wiped the tears gently from your cheeks, but this time without panic, without fear as you began walking home under a sky that suddenly didn’t seem so dark anymore.

Upon returning home, you quickly changed into your pajamas before settling into the wooden chair propped under your study desk. The only light in the room came from the desk lamp, casting a dim glow that made the shadows in the corners of your room seem to stretch. You could feel the heavy weight of the envelope in your hands, and you couldn’t shake the strange knot of unease tightening in your stomach.

You stared at the heart-shaped sticker on the envelope. It seemed harmless enough. You peeled the sticker off, the paper crinkling as it came away. Inside, your fingers brushed the edge of something folded.

You didn’t look closely at first, your attention caught by the unmistakable, sour scent; almost chemically pungent—like Chlorox. Your nose wrinkled in confusion.

Curiosity gnawed at you, urging you to inspect further. Hesitant, you blindly reached into the envelope. Your fingers closed around something small and cool. You pulled it out, your eyes still adjusting to the dim light. As you brought it closer, a chill swept through you, the foul odor hitting you with full force.

Goosebumps prickled along your skin. The texture was thick, clumpy, and disturbingly stringy, as if the contents had been sitting there far too long.

“What the…?” You whispered, barely able to comprehend what you were seeing, your breath shaky.

Why the fuck was there cum inside this letter?!

You fought the rising wave of nausea, fighting to keep it together. “Yeah, no. You’re going straight to the trash.” Your voice trembled with disgust as you gripped the vial by its neck, barely able to look at it as you dropped it into the trash can beside you. Your skin crawled with the feeling of having touched it, your mind struggling to process what you had just uncovered.

You didn’t understand why Diluc dropped this in your locker. Could it have been a mistake? Was he actually a pervert all along???

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you turned your attention back to the envelope. As you inspected it, your stomach lurched. The unmistakable fluid had leaked from the vial, seeping out and dampening the paper. You recoiled, feeling bile rise in your throat. And then, the horrifying realization hit you:

you had touched it with your bare hands.

Heart pounding, you bolted for the bathroom, scrubbing your hands as if they were contaminated. The water splashed against your skin, but it did nothing to erase the feeling of sickness creeping up on you.

Yet, the nagging thought lingered. You still had a letter to read. There had to be some kind of explanation for this.

With a shaky breath, you returned to your seat, hands still damp. You unfolded the piece of paper, but as you scanned the neat handwriting, you noticed something strange. Drops of sweat clung to the surface of the paper, it reeked of ejaculation.

But then, as you read the words, your breath caught in your throat, and your stomach sank.

“You always look so tired when you work. I hate that. I hate that the world gets to see you unravel before I do."

What. The. Fuck.

You shot up from your chair, your heart pounding so loudly you could swear it was echoing in your ears. Your skin felt like it was crawling as your eyes remained fixed on the cryptic message laid out on your desk, horror seeping through every inch of your body.

Your skin prickled. Your arms, your neck, your back—it felt like something was crawling just beneath the surface. The tiny vial beside the paper caught the light, and your stomach twisted. You didn’t want to believe it was what you thought it was. You didn’t even want to touch it.

Was it Diluc all this time?....Could it really be him..?

But it didn’t make sense…!

You gasped, struggling to breathe properly, your chest rising too fast. You pressed your palm to your sternum, as if that could calm your racing heart. The walls of your apartment felt like they were inching closer. The air felt thin and suffocating.

You used to think the fear was just a symptom of exhaustion. A byproduct of too many shifts stacked one after another, of walking home alone in the dark with sore feet and heavy eyes.

You thought maybe your mind was playing tricks on you; whispering shadows where there when there were none, convincing you that someone was always watching when in reality, no one even cared enough to look.

And then, just an hour ago, you had finally felt actual relief. Your debt had been wiped clean like some invisible hand had taken mercy on you. For a moment, you believed maybe things were finally turning around. Maybe you'd get to breathe again.

But now? Staring at the letter spread open on your desk like an open wound, you felt that tiny ember of hope extinguish. Every strange glance. Every lingering silence. Every chill that crawled up your spine when no one was behind you… it had all been real.

Something was wrong. It had always been wrong.

You’d already decided to let go of your other jobs and told yourself you’d keep the café, just one last thread of routine to hold onto. But even that felt rotten now—tainted, even. You felt unsafe.

The thought of stepping back into that place turned your stomach. The idea of being seen again—of him seeing you—made your skin crawl.

Whatever this was, whoever he was… he’d already taken too much. You weren’t giving him anything else.

You weren’t going back.

Not ever.

You didn’t know who to turn to. Or where to go. The world felt too big and too narrow all at once, and you were trapped somewhere in between.

You didn’t have many friends. Kazuha was buried in family matters, unreachable. Scaramouche was gone; just like that. You still haven’t heard from him since.

And Diluc... Diluc was the last person you ever expected to fear and yet, he was the one your mind kept circling back to. He was your boss. The man you once respected, trusted even. He was the only one, besides you, who had access to your locker. The envelope was left there. Thoma saw him. The math wasn't hard.

You didn’t want it to be him. But it had to be him. Right? Why else would he put that disgusting thing in there for you to receive?

Despite the fear clawing at your insides, despite the gnawing doubt, you gathered what little courage you had left and went to the police. Your hands trembled, but your steps carried weight.

You thought, maybe this is where it ends. Maybe they’d take one look at the letter, hear your voice, see how shaken you were, and realize this wasn’t some overblown panic.

You explained everything. The envelope. The message. The vial. Diluc’s access to your locker. Thoma’s testimony. Even the fearful nights you’ve experienced of being stalked; you laid it out like evidence at trial, waiting for their faces to change—for someone to say, “You’re safe now. We’ll handle this.”

But the room never shifted the way you needed it to.

Instead, they looked at each other, and then at you. And then came the questions, the gentle doubt laced with polite disbelief.

“Are you certain you’re not mistaken?”

“We know Mr. Ragnvindr. He’s an upstanding man. Runs charity work with his business funds. Clean record.”

They said the handwriting didn’t match. As if that was supposed to make you feel better. As if people like him couldn’t mask their shadows in someone else’s pen.

They didn’t say he was innocent. But they didn’t think he was guilty either. The police wasn’t able to help you at all. You were at a loss.

And just like that, you were left unheard in the cold again. Your last thread of hope unravelled quietly at your feet.

All you were left to do was to go home, and so you did. You locked your door and then shut the world out.

The passing days were blurred; you stopped counting them. You survived on cheap takeout and cold leftovers, using the money that was once meant for your debt—the debt that vanished like a trick of the light, as if your suffering had been bought off.

You couldn’t leave. You wouldn’t. The thought of stepping outside made your skin prickle. You no longer feared just him.

You feared everyone.

You had nobody. You were completely alone, isolated.

And in the stillness of your apartment, surrounded by silence and shadows, you began to wonder: if the world loved a man like that so easily…

What would it take for them to believe you?

But what if the police was right? What if Diluc was really innocent?

You had every lock imaginable shipped to your door.

Window latches, deadbolts, chain guards, motion alarms—anything that made you feel like the walls could hold him out, even if just for a little while. You spent hours drilling them in yourself, fingers trembling, heart hammering at every creak in your apartment.

You didn’t trust a locksmith. You didn’t trust anyone.

Every night, you whispered shaky prayers to the Archons, begging them to keep you safe, begging them to make it stop. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you first read that letter. Time had become shapeless; no dates, no hours, just before-the-letter and after.

After.

After you told Thoma you were resigning, he'd passed the message along to Diluc. Thoma asked if you were okay, but of course you lied, saying you were. He didn’t pry further. According to him, Diluc didn’t protest. He had no questions nor concerns, he just agreed.

And that silence echoed louder than any accusation ever could.

You tried to tell yourself that it made sense, that the man behind this had to be him. Who else had the access? Who else was close enough to know where your locker was, yet distant enough to never raise suspicion? You clung to that theory like it was oxygen.

Because if it wasn’t him… then who was it?

You cried yourself to sleep every night, a knife hidden under your pillow, the metal cold and comforting against your fingertips. Some nights, you couldn’t even shut your eyes. The second you did, the message burned against your vision. “I hate that the world gets to see you unravel before I do.”

Your mind wouldn’t stop. It spiraled and it was too restless and cruel.

What if Kazuha stopped replying because something happened to him too?

What if you were next?

You tossed and turned under your sheets, sweat clinging to your skin. The air in your unit felt thin, too quiet, too still as if something was waiting.

It was well past midnight, and the hours kept dragging.

And yet your eyes never left the window. You couldn’t either way because some part of you was sure that if you blinked for too long, someone would be standing there.

Watching. Waiting.

Truthfully, your room felt no safer than the streets. The locks on your door, the extra bolts on your windows; they were meant to protect, but they did little to ease the crawling sensation that someone was always watching. That something had already slipped through the cracks. That you weren’t alone.

But where else could you go? You had no one. Nowhere.

And then—

Knock, knock.

You immediately stood upright from your bed. Your mind, which had been spiraling moments before, suddenly emptied, like a radio gone static. Only silence now, pressing heavy against your skull.

“Did I just hear someone knock on my door…?”

You didn’t move. You barely breathed. Your eyes stayed fixed on the door, dread blooming cold in your chest. You waited, convinced that you imagined it—sleep-deprived and all.

Until you heard it again.

Knock, Knock, Knock.

Your heart dropped. This time, there was no mistaking it. A slow panic crept through your veins as you reached beneath your pillow, fingers wrapping around cold handle of your knife. You gripped it tight, your knuckles white.

You rose to your feet, careful not to make a sound. Step by step, you approached the door, weapon raised, every nerve in your body screaming.

But by the time you got there…

Silence.

Not a breath.

Not a sound.

Your adrenaline spiked. Why would someone knock on your door at this ungodly hour unless it was the very same person who drove you to your breaking point?

You crept closer. Every breath was shallow. The silence between knocks stretched, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around your throat. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Your gut screamed at you to stop, to run, to lock yourself in the bathroom and hide—but your feet moved anyway.

You couldn’t sit still. Not now. Not after everything.

If it really was him… if he had the audacity to show up here after ruining your life, maybe he deserved it. Maybe he deserved to feel even a fraction of what you felt. Maybe he deserved the knife you held clenched in your hand.

You blinked. No. No.

You shook your head, trying to exorcise the images clawing their way in. You weren’t a killer. You weren’t crazy. You just wanted this nightmare to stop.

With trembling fingers, you reached for the door. One breath. Just one.

You turned the knob.

And as the door creaked open, you braced yourself—prayers to the Archons looping desperately in your mind—and lunged forward, a scream stuck in your throat, blade raised and ready to strike-

But before you could even react, a hand caught your wrist.

The knife clattered to the floor and your eyes snapped wide.

“S-scaramouche…?” His name left you in a whisper. Disbelief softened your voice, fragile like glass. Your heart, which had been pounding so violently just seconds before, now stumbled into an uneven rhythm—slowing, calming, grounding.

All sense of danger had dulled into silence, like a siren that finally stopped screaming. Your nerves, raw and frayed for days, slowly began to loosen their grip. The tremble in your spine faded. Your heartbeat, once erratic and desperate, now beat steady; though still hollow with disbelief.

You stared up at him, tears blurring the edges of his figure, but even then you could tell that he was exactly as you remembered him. Not a single bruise or wound. Not even the faintest sign of hardship.

Relief crashed over you in waves. You clung to him like a lifeline, burying your face deeper into the soft cotton of his shirt, dampening the fabric with every sob, every breathless stammer of his name.

Scaramouche didn’t recoil. In fact, he barely flinched. A crooked smile slid across his lips as he cradled your trembling form, his expression playing at sympathy—but something about it didn’t sit right. It was too smooth. Too knowing. But you were too preoccupied to notice his guise.

“Wh-where have you been…” you asked, voice broken by hiccups and choked-back cries. The words spilled into the space between you, muffled by the warmth of his chest.

He looked down at you with an almost affectionate glint, tilting his head slightly. “Princess…” he murmured, the pet name falling off his tongue like honey. His tone was sickeningly sweet; a careful balance of comfort and something else that lingered just beneath the surface.

Then, like he belonged there, he stepped into your unit, still holding you. He kicked the door shut behind him with ease, his fingers twisting the lock without missing a beat almost as if it was muscle memory. As though this wasn’t the first time.

He leaned against the wall by the entrance, arms still secure around you. “I had to stay at my sister’s place for a while,” he said casually, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Did you miss me?”

Another lie. But it sounded so natural; it was laced with just the right touch of warmth, the kind that dulled your suspicions rather than sharpening them.

You nodded without thinking. Almost desperately. The thought of him vanishing again made your chest ache. You clung to him harder, eyes still wet and unblinking, terrified that if you looked away, he’d disappear again.

His expression softened as he placed a hand on your head, gently stroking it in slow, repetitive motions. His touch was tender, familiar. It soothed the ragged edges of your fear, even if, somewhere deep down, a quiet voice whispered that something wasn’t quite right.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked, the concern in his voice almost believable.

You looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and lips trembling, unable to form words. Your throat was tight. Your body too spent. The emotions you’d locked away had flooded out all at once, leaving you breathless, helpless, even.

Scaramouche seemed to notice.

Without letting go of you, he moved effortlessly and fluidly, as if your weight was nothing. He walked over to the fridge, still cradling you, and opened it with one hand. From inside, he pulled out a pitcher of cold water, pouring it into a glass with casual precision.

And all the while, you remained wrapped around him like a fragile little thing, clutching him like a child afraid of being left behind again.

He handed you the glass, in which you took it with shaky fingers, blinking up at him like he was the only thing tethering you to reality.

To you, he was comfort. The greatest.

But in this moment, there was only silence and the illusion of safety.

“Drink this up first,” he whispered, his voice smooth as silk, every syllable coaxing you to obey. The glass in his hand caught the dim light like crystal, his fingers curled delicately around it. “It’ll help you calm down.”

His face was close, too close, and your breath hitched slightly, but your body didn’t resist. He brought the glass to your lips, his knuckles brushing your chin in the process. The water felt cool, soothing your throat, and you drank slowly, just as he wanted. He watched you the entire time; eyes half-lidded, lips curled in a knowing smirk, as if he were watching something far more intimate than it was.

A small trickle escaped the corner of your mouth and slid down your chin. Without hesitation, he caught it with his finger, dragging it lightly across your skin before brushing it away. His gaze didn’t leave yours. The motion was slow but intentional.

Finally, your breathing began to steady. Your heart, though still wary, settled into a calmer rhythm. You felt safe. Or at least you thought you did.

“Are you ready to tell me what’s going on now?” he asked, voice dipping just slightly. They were warm on the surface, but something colder lurked beneath.

You nodded, timidly at first, then with more resolve. A breath left your lips as you finally began to speak. Everything you had bottled up came pouring out; the sleepless nights, the panic attacks, the sense of being hunted and utterly alone. You told him how it all unraveled while he was gone.

He listened in silence, only moving to guide you toward the bed. He sat behind you, arms coiled around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. The position was intimate; he was spooning you but while you were sitting down if that made sense.

“I see…” he murmured, his fingers brushing against your cheek. His brows drew together, expression etched with tender sorrow. “You’ve been dealing with this all alone, haven’t you?” His voice trembled just slightly, or maybe you imagined it. “Nobody believed you, didn’t they…? Nobody was there for you, hmm?” His words pierced through you like needles.

You nodded slowly, your eyes stinging again. You couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. He already knew the answers.

“Oh, Y/n…” he sighed deeply, and before you could respond, he slipped his arms under your knees and behind your back. In one fluid motion, he lifted you up, bridal style. The action startled you. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, but he handled you so carefully, so gently, that your tension quickly melted.

He carried you to the center of your bed like you were made of glass, laying you down with almost reverent hands. The sheets rustled softly as he pulled the covers over your body, tucking them around you like you were some precious, wounded thing.

Then, without a word, he reached out and began stroking your hair. The touch was comforting, almost hypnotic.

“You’ve done so well,” he murmured, his eyes drinking in every tear-streaked inch of you. “Holding up these past few days… I’m so proud of you.”

Your lip quivered. A fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. No one had said that to you. Not once. And coming from him—the only person who felt real in this mess—it shattered something inside you.

Your voice was gone, your body too weak to do anything but stare at him in wide-eyed awe. He was so tender. So kind.

However, there was something in his eyes. Something dark, nestled behind the softness. Not malevolent, exactly, but possessive. As if your pain belonged to him. As if every tear you shed proved something to him that you didn’t yet understand.

“You were right not to trust anybody else…” he whispered, his tone barely above a hush, like a secret meant only for you. “And you shouldn’t.”

His fingers moved through your hair with unsettling precision with not just affection, but also intention. Every stroke was slow and deliberate. Soothing in rhythm, but oddly methodical, like someone petting a beloved pet they didn’t want to break… yet.

Your body, drained from stress and fear, softened into the bed. The warmth of his hand and the gentle drag of his nails across your scalp melted the tension you’d carried for days. You blinked slowly, eyelids heavier than they’d felt in weeks. For the first time in what felt like forever, the shadows in your chest loosened their grip.

“If I’d known sooner,” he said, the velvet of his voice tinged with something unreadable, “I would’ve dropped everything… anything. Just to be by your side.”

There was a weight in those words; like they weren’t just to comfort, but a quiet accusation. As if the fault for his delay rested somewhere, with someone. Just not him.

The room offered no clarity. Dim and quiet, the darkness softened his face, cloaking his expression in ambiguity. You tried to search his eyes, but the shadows swallowed them whole. All you could see was the faint outline of his lips, curved into a smile that felt almost too calm.

Still, you didn’t question him. You didn’t want to nor feel the need to.

You trusted him because he was Scaramouche. And somehow, even in the middle of your spirals, he made you feel whole. Sure, you do admit that you like him, but you don’t want to confess to him just yet. Not when your life is still a mess.

Your cheeks grew warm. Embarrassed by the affection swelling in your chest, you ducked your head into the blanket, clutching its edge as if to hide your face from him. He chuckled, low and pleased, like he was enjoying your reaction more than he should.

“I’m sorry for taking so long, princess…” he murmured, his voice curling around you like deceiving smoke. “But I’m here now, alright?”

He leaned close enough for his breath to ghost over your skin. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not until you feel strong enough to face the outside world again.” A pause, a wicked smile holding back his laughter that you couldn't see. “Take as long as you need… I’ll take care of you.”

There was something final in his tone. Something that didn’t feel like a suggestion; it was more like a decision already made.

Heat formed on your cheeks again, you looked up to the man with loving eyes as your hands gripped on the lining of your blanket, bringing them to your face. He chuckled at your shy demeanor.

Your eyes widened slightly. “A-are you sure? What about your university?” Your voice cracked with exhaustion; a soft echo of your usual self.

Scaramouche tilted his head. “Just like yours, we’ve got a two-week break.”

The air turned still.

How did he know your schedule?

But sleep was pulling you under too fast to hold that thought. It slipped from your mind like sand through tired fingers.

“…Thank you, Scara…” you mumbled as a yawn overtook you. Your body curled naturally toward him, drawn to the warmth, the quiet protection he offered.

“Goodnight, Y/n,” he murmured.

He bent down and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering a moment too long. His fingers returned to your hair, brushing and smoothing over and over like a lulling rhythm that dragged you into sleep.

You never saw the way his smile faltered into something unreadable. Or how his eyes never blinked. How they never wavered. How he stood still as you slept peacefully, watching you, studying every twitch of your body, every vulnerable breath that escaped your lips. He didn’t move even after your breaths grew deep and even. He simply stayed and kept still, like a looming sleep-paralysis demon that haunted the corners of your room.

Now that you were asleep, he can finally break that ‘prince charming’ facade of his.

He took a deep breath of your scent, his spine tingling in excitement as he plays with the soft strands of your loose ends. The wait was worth it. He had disappeared for what seemed like weeks on purpose, but he never took his eyes off you, not once.

He’d been anticipating your breakdown; to see the fear build up in your system, to see you struggle to differentiate the blurred lines of reality from fantasy, to have you struggle to open up nor trust anybody else except for him.

Scaring you off on the streets was way too easy, almost child’s play. He knew just where to hide whenever he followed you on the way home. Even in the own comfort’s of your home, his gaze never leaves your cautious figure. He may have been far, but he was close to you this entire time. Watching you with his ego overflowing as you realized soon enough that he was truly the only person you could rely on.

Even now, in the supposed safety of your own home, you were never alone. You never were.

His eyes followed you through windows, reflections, and even cracks in the walls your mind couldn’t even register. He was far enough to keep suspicion away, but close enough to drink you in. Close enough to breathe in your every fearful whimper. And oh, how sweet it was, watching you unravel slowly until the only person left you could turn to was him. Just him.

He didn’t have to lift a finger to make you squirm and grow wary of the world. No threats. No direct contact. All he did was move the chess pieces exactly where they belonged. Diluc was only a pawn; a misled knight marching into the game without knowing the true strategy. Delivering the cryptic message he had no relation to whatsoever, nothing more. The queen—being you—unable to confront him out of fear, only assumed the worse before descending into madness.

Only then was Scaramouche able to move forward and make your skin crawl by backing you into the corner like this with nobody—not even the police—to rely on.

“Checkmate, my little dove…” He grabbed your hand, lifting it up and placing it on his lips in a gentle kiss. His eyes never left your soundless form. Your breathing was music to his ears and he can’t believe that you let him in your unit just like that even though he showed up late at night.

Truthfully, he thought he would witness you throwing a fit; possibly even pushing him away out of caution—but no, you were more docile than he ever imagined. So frightened over nothing.

The fact that you confided in him about your qualms even though he was the real root cause of them exhilirated the cerulean-orbed man. Scaramouche leaned over your sleeping figure, getting a closer look at your features; how your long lashes fluttered with the heave-ho of your breathing, how your cheeks were still rosy from crying, and how your lips slightly parted for every breath you took.

Nothing could compare to seeing you up close in real-life. Seeing you from behind his screen wasn’t enough, but those measures had to be done to drive you to a corner.

His eyes trailed lower as he abruptly removed your blanket off of you to drown in your tempting body. You groaned as your soft layer of comfort got stripped away from you, but you were still in deep slumber.

“Pfft…” Scaramouche tittered, his eyes squinting from joy. He hovered over you on all fours until you were right under him. His arms fully planted on your soft mattress as he trails his nose from your face, until it reaches your neck. He takes another deep breath of your scent, his eyes rolling back from pleasure as he hooks the ring of his shorts down to reveal his hard member.

He let out a soft huff as he freed it from it’s garments. It stood long, proud, and veiny, but it was slightly curved to the side. His tip was a lovely shade of pink, but it was angry; it was in need of friction. With one free hand, he softly caressed his shaft, teasing it ever so slightly as he plants soft kisses all around your collar bone.

You were in deep sleep; nothing could wake you up.

Of course nothing could, he slipped in a hard-dosaged sleeping pill in the water he made you drink earlier while you weren’t looking, and here he is right now, about to take advantage of you like the twisted bastard that he is.

“Ah..” A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and Scaramouche’s cock twitched from the sound alone. He started slowly cupping his tip with his palm, playing with the small gap in the middle with his index finger. Precum started to leak; and with the same finger, he lifted your shirt up to reveal your gorgeous breasts.

“Archons, thank you for blessing me with this meal…” He whispered, eyeing your two bossoms intently with a clouded gaze. To him, you were like a feast waiting—no, aching—to be devoured.

He scooped up his seminal liquid and smeared it on your hardened left nipple before gently massaging one of your soft mounds. He grunted, an unstable whimper fleeing from his throat. He grew hungrier by each second; so he sucked on your other breast, lapping his tongue around as he looked up to observe the contractions on your face. Your mouth was gaping just big enough to let out soft mews and whimpers as he pleasures you during your sleep.

Scaramouch pried your legs open with his other hand, his slender fingers ghosting around your inner thighs before taunting your clothed pussy. Compared to his last ‘visit’, your garments were relatively thinner, and he could have a better feel of just how wet you were for him as he caresses the outline of your needy folds through the fabric. Your body slightly arched, shuddering from his feather-like touches.

“So sensitive…” He growled, his eyes tainted with nothing but his overwhelming desire to ruin you, to have you writhing under him. He stopped sucking to move downwards to your stomach, his lips never leaving your skin. Scaramouche had both of his hands rested on the waistband of your pajamas and your panties combined, but before he could skillfully pull them down to get a glimpse of your crying sex, your voice froze him in place.

“Noooo…~” You whimpered, squirming as you roll and turn over with your back faced against him. Scaramouche had no choice but to get off of you. He almost felt his heart drop from surprise.

“Shit...for a second there, I thought you woke up…” He sighed in relief, his eyes remain fixated on your back as he sits upright by the edge of your bed.

Good things happen to those who wait. That stupid mantra that he kept forgetting to abide by whenever he has you this close to him.

Scaramouche threw his head back, his dick growing impatient as it calls out for your name. He laughs darkly, his gaze shifting down to his aching member.

You had just given him blue balls. What a laugh. You didn’t even know the effect you had on him.

He stroked his cock, closing his eyes due to pleasure. “Y/n…ugh….” Your name left his lips as if it was his oxygen. He clung onto the thought of you desperately as he pumped his cock with vigor, venting his sexual frustrations on his already-agitated dick.

Your slicks had a wet and sticky residue on his fingers, to which he brought it up to his nose, sniffing it like his life depended on it before sucking on his own to taste you.

And Archons, you tasted heavenly.

He’d strip you off your clothing at this very moment to get a full experience of your sweet and intoxicating cunt, but with the pacing that your relationship was going, he figured he’d have it anytime soon. And oh, he just knows it’d taste sweeter if he waited just long enough to get rewarded.

“Fuck…fuck…fuck…!” His eyes rolled back, fingers still in his mouth as he imagined a whole sex tape featuring you and him in his mind. His tongue lolled out; his pleasure hightening with the fear of you catching sight of him pathetically jerking off to your body.

He was about to cum.

Fuck, Y/n, he needed to cum.

You’d let him cum in you, won’t you?

You like him anyway, so it should be fine, right?

He can put it in, can’t he? Even if it was just the tip?

No. He shouldn’t. Not yet. Your face should do.

Yes…he’ll just paint your face white instead.

Scaramouche flipped you so that your back was laid flat on the mattress. He was so out of it. He needed your warmth to fully release his load, otherwise he can’t chase his high.

“Y/n…” He whimpered. With one hand pumping his strained cock dry, he climbed on top of you with his knees on either side of your head. He gazed at your sound expression, his hips bucking foward as he feels his semen ready to shoot at any moment now.

With one last and firm pump, he finally came. His body twitched. Gushes of string released from his pink-ish tip, and they all fell flat on your face. He came so much that it even went pass your hairline. “The next time I cum, I won’t allow a single drop wasted.” He breathed out, admiring your smeared face before leaning in. “I’ll fuck it back in your mouth, even that naughty pussy of yours until you learn to swallow it all.” He growled, taking a good look of your face.

He felt so proud of himself like he had just achieved an award-winning feat for painting you in one of the images he’d always fantasized seeing.

Your face scrunched from the warmth of his semen, but you were still sound asleep.

Scaramouche stood up, wiping his dick clean with tissue before sliding his shorts back up. He couldn’t just leave you like that either even if he wanted to. If you woke up now and saw the state that you’re in, no doubt, it would ruin his plans.

He had just accomplished phase two, he can’t risk losing his progress.

He quickly made his way to your bathroom, moving with ease as if the layout of your unit was already ingrained in his memory. He retrieved a pack of wet wipes from the drawer without hesitation, like he’d done it countless times before. Returning to your side, he kneeled down and began to gently clean your face, his motions slow and careful. Almost reverent.

A small smile crept onto his lips, unbidden. This one wasn’t twisted or prideful like before. No, this was soft. Tender. His violet eyes studied your features quietly, gaze now devoid of the earlier hunger, replaced instead by something quieter. Fonder.

He truly does adore you, you know. With every flaw, every moment of clumsiness, every emotion you wore so earnestly on your face; he cherished all of it. You were imperfect, but to him, you were nothing short of divine.

It hurt, a little, that you didn’t recognize him. Not even a flicker of memory when your eyes met his weeksago. But he didn’t blame you. Not at all. Life had been cruel to you, and he knew how easy it was to forget the people who stayed in the shadows.

Besides, a blank slate wasn’t so bad. In fact, he thought it was poetic. It was his chance to start again.

Years ago, when you were still a beginner at doing housekeeping, one particular job stood out: a wealthy Japanese family with a sprawling estate that required your care every Tuesday. You remembered the endless halls, the polished marble, the thick scent of incense clinging to the air. The matriarch was demanding, but always handed you generous tips after each day of work.

And that’s when he first saw you.

Scaramouche was eighteen at the time. Just a shadow lurking behind the grand staircase, the quiet son of the mistress you never made direct eye contact with. You didn’t even know he existed. But he knew you. Not by name—not at first—but by sound. The faint echo of your humming trailing down the hallway. The rhythm of your feet padding across the polished floors. The way you sang under your breath when you thought nobody could hear.

He’d pass by on purpose. Just to get a glimpse of the girl who lit up dead rooms with nothing but her voice.

Even then, you were already crawling under his skin.

At first, he thought you were annoying.

He had no idea why his mother thought it was a good idea to hire someone as young and green as you to manage the upkeep of their massive home. Too trusting, he remembered thinking. Too naive. From the moment you walked in, he watched you with suspicion. For all he knew, you were a petty thief; another desperate girl who’d sneak valuables into her apron when no one was looking.

And so, he made it his mission to keep an eye on. Quietly. Thoroughly. Diligently.

Every Tuesday without fail, he kept track of your every movement. When you arrived, how long you stayed in each room, how you folded the curtains, what items you lingered on for too long. At first, it was routine surveillance. Waiting for a crack to appear, for a flaw in your performance or character to expose itself.

But it never came.

No matter how long he watched, he saw no falsehood in you. Not in your smile. Not in your tone. Even after he tapped into his family’s resources to investigate your background—the debts, the loss of your parents, the low-income grind—you remained untouched. Despite your circumstances, you never faltered. You never slipped.

And that’s when it started to change.

His reason for watching you… shifted.

You weren’t just clean, you made everything clean. With your presence alone, it was like you washed the dust off the air. You moved through the halls humming your strange tunes, bringing light into every dull corner of their pristine but lifeless mansion. You didn’t just clean a house. You filled it. Saturated it with something warm. Something dangerous.

You were too bright. So bright that he found it harder and harder to look away.

But even then, he didn’t dare approach you. What would he say? What could he possibly offer to someone like you who shined so easily in a world that kept dimming his own light? He knew his sharp tongue, knew the things that lingered in his chest weren’t normal. So, he stayed hidden. Watching. Studying. Waiting.

And when you were let go a year later—laid off after his family relocated back to Japan—he didn’t stop.

No, that’s when it all truly began.

Scaramouche spent the next years sculpting himself into someone worthy. Or, at least, someone you wouldn’t be repulsed by. He worked hard to erase the rough edges, to become the type of man he thought you'd accept. All while running routine background checks to keep tabs on your life.

Where you worked. Where you lived. The classes you took. The clothes you wore when you thought no one was watching. He monitored your debt balance down to the last cent, tracking it like it was his own.

Because to him, it was.

He had mapped everything out from the very beginning, and once he was finally able to come up with a concrete plan to make you as his own, he went back and took care of all the annoying insects that prevented him from setting his plan in motion.

Itto was an easy kill. Scaramouche didn’t even need to get his hands dirty this time. That dumb brute fell for the bait like it was made for him—and in truth, it was. A fabricated opportunity dressed as a dream: a fully furnished house in a better neighborhood, a lifetime membership at an elite gym allegedly owned by his cousin, and the promise of stability that a man like him couldn’t resist. It was all too simple. His men handled the rest. Itto disappeared without a trace; just another missing person in a long list the city forgot to care about.

But Kazuha… he was a different story.

Kazuha was a threat. Too perceptive, too calm, too close to you. Scaramouche couldn’t take chances with someone like that lingering around you. He saw it clearly; the way Kazuha looked at you, the way he spoke to you with warmth and understanding, as if he could see straight into your soul. It infuriated him. The idea of you being drawn to a gentle breeze like him was unacceptable.

So this one, Scaramouche handled himself.

He broke into Kazuha’s apartment during one of those silent nights where the world slept too deeply. He didn’t expect Kazuha to fight back the way he did—fists clenched, heart full of resolve—but it didn’t matter. It took an hour. An hour of noise, chaos, and blood before Scaramouche finally drove the knife straight into the man's heart. And as Kazuha gasped for breath one last time, Scaramouche looked into his eyes and saw it: his defiance. Even in death, Kazuha never feared him. He even had the balls to say “Once she finds out, she’ll never love you…” as his final words.

That pissed him off the most.

He burned the body. Burned his trace. Burned everything Kazuha was. And through his connections, the boy was erased from every system, every file, every life, every digital ghost he may have left behind. Like he never existed at all. Everyone who came to know and love Kazuha was led to believe that he moved to the province to live a quiet life.

And as for Diluc…

Scaramouche didn’t even need to touch him. He was a background character, barely relevant to the script. A man like him—distant, aloof, too occupied to care—was predictable. So all Scaramouche had to do was plant the letter. A vague, unnerving note slipped to a hired hand posing as a delivery man. Diluc received it just before your shift. Of course, he wouldn’t open it. He’d do what most disinterested coworkers would; toss it into your locker and move on. And just as expected, Thoma, the new hire, would witness it.

Every piece had a role. Even the irrelevant ones. Pawns, rooks, bishops—they served their purpose, moved how he needed them to, and fell when the time came. In his world, no one was ever more than a tool on the board. Because to Scaramouche, that's all they were—pieces.

And he? He was the king.

Not the figure who waits behind the chaos. No—his crown was earned through control, through precision, through sacrifice. The king doesn’t charge blindly across the board. He waits. He watches. He clears the path with deliberate patience, removing obstacles one by one until the game bends to his will.

Because victory doesn’t come from brute force. It comes from strategy. From obsession. And in the end, it wasn’t just a win.It was checkmate.

The queen—you—had been cornered perfectly. Not by accident. Not by fate. But by design. He had played every piece just right, set every trap just so.

And now, the queen belonged to him.

You awoke, your head pounding.

Each throb in your skull pulsed in time with the ringing in your ears. A dull ache settled behind your eyes, thick and heavy, like you were just dragged out of a too-deep slumber. You blinked a few times, your vision hazy, your body oddly sticky with sweat. It felt… strange. Like you had just woken from a dream you couldn’t recall—only bits and pieces clinging to your consciousness.

Scaramouche.

You remembered his voice. His touch. Something…warm? Like his…semen-?

No, no…it couldn’t be. It must’ve been a wet dream. You shook your head quickly, your fingers clutching at the sheets.

You sat up groggily and grabbed your phone from the side table. “Huh... it’s just four in the morning…”

Only a few hours had passed since you knocked out on the bed earlier. You didn’t feel exactly well-rested. If anything, your body felt heavier. You wanted to go back to sleep, but your ears wouldn’t stop that high-pitched whine, as if warning you; prodding you to stay alert.

Then it hit you.

Scaramouche.. where… was he?

You turned your head, scanning the space of your small studio unit. There was no sign of him. The spot beside you on the bed was empty. Your brows furrowed. He promised to stay. He said he’d guard you for the night.

Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on the only source of light—the soft, flickering glow coming from the small kitchen by your entrance. The overhead bulb twitched and blinked like it was on the verge of burning out.

And then you noticed it.

The door.

It was slightly ajar.

You blinked. That wasn’t how you left it. That definitely wasn’t how he would’ve left it either… right?

Panic crept into your chest, slow and suffocating. Maybe he just stepped out to take a call? Maybe he went to smoke?

Does he even smoke…?

But something else tugged at your thoughts. Something you hadn’t considered until now.

Why was Scaramouche staying here?

This apartment complex was falling apart, with creaky floors and mold creeping up the walls. You could barely afford your rent and still had to fight off rats near the stairwell. Yet here he was; someone who wore a Rolex, the kind that looked like a limited-edition custom model, someone who casually mentioned his Versace Eros cologne like it was nothing, someone with porcelain skin that spoke of monthly facials and the kind of tailored fashion you only ever saw online.

You remembered crying into his shirt earlier, and how the fabric felt like something out of a designer boutique. His presence screamed money.

So why the hell was he living in the apartment right next to yours?

It didn’t add up. None of it made sense.

If you were him, you’d be in some penthouse overlooking the skyline—not in this cracked shoebox of a building where the water pressure could be a hit or miss.

You slowly swung your legs over the bed, a creeping sense of unease tightening around your throat like a noose.

You tried to make sense of it all, but it still didn’t.

Your thoughts were scrambled, all foggy, restless, and knotted up in a way you couldn’t untangle. Despite your headache, despite your ringing ears, one thing remained crystal clear: your front door was unlocked. Carelessly left open in a building like this? That alone was unsettling. And so you moved toward it, intending to shut it and twist the lock, but you eventually stopped.

Your hand hovered over the knob.

Something in the back of your mind… urged you to look for him. Urged to look for Scaramouche.

The thought of going back to sleep without him nearby; it made your stomach twist with unease. It was irrational, you told yourself. You barely even knew for that long him. But tonight, for some reason, his presence felt like a comfort you desperately needed. Especially with how he comforted you earlier.

You tried to brush off your hesitation. You two were neighbors, after all. It wasn’t like you’d be intruding too much just by checking in on him, right? Maybe… maybe you’d ask if he could sleep over? But just to sleep though. No funny business at all.

The idea of asking such a thing made your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but the dread clawing at your chest made you more desperate than shy.

You inhaled slowly, then exhaled. Steeling yourself. And then, you opened your door.

The night air kissed your skin with a chilling breath. It was silent, too silent. The kind of silence that pressed on your eardrums like a weight, making each creak of the floorboards sound like a scream.

You hugged your arms around yourself for warmth, tiptoeing the few short steps to his unit. You raised your hand and gave a soft knock on the wooden door.

“Scara…?” you whispered, barely audible. No answer.

He’s probably sleeping, you told yourself, biting your lip. That made sense, didn’t it?

Still… you lifted your hand again. You didn’t say his name this time, but your knuckles rapped gently on the surface.

However, the third time, your knock was halted.

Click.

The door creaked open.

You froze.

It hadn’t been locked. Not even closed properly. The gap widened slowly, an unnatural stillness lingering behind the threshold—as if it had been waiting for you.

You gulped, your pulse stammering in your throat. You knew you shouldn’t go in. You knew it wasn’t right. But your body moved before your brain could catch up.

“Scaramouche…?” you called out again, softer this time, your voice swallowed whole by the darkness. You stepped inside.

The air shifted.

It was heavier. Warmer. Thicker. It clung to your skin like static, and the moment you shut the door behind you, the apartment felt like it exhaled, swallowing you in.

You smelled a familiar scent the moment you stepped in—one strikingly similar to yours. Lest be it, you thought it was your own. Maybe it clung to your shirt or your hair, and maybe you were just imagining things.

But the more you walked in, the more it surrounded you.

This wasn’t a studio-type unit like yours. It had rooms. Hallways. Doors.It was larger than you'd imagined; larger than what a run-down building like this should even allow. You had to walk through one door, then another, just to even see where each space led to. Still, the scent didn’t fade.

If anything, it got stronger.

And yet, you chalked it up to fatigue. To your spinning head and the sleep you’d been torn from. You tried to shake off the unease crawling under your skin like ants.

It was too dark to make out anything properly, so your fingers fumbled for the switch by the doorway. You turned on the lights, and immediately blinked in surprise.

His unit… was big.

Much bigger than yours, and yet… strangely empty.

The floors were clean. The corners were bare. The furniture—what little there was—looked like it had never been touched. A single table. One chair. A shelf without books. No pictures, no knick-knacks. No warmth.

It was barely furnished at all.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to come out light, trying to mask the tightening of your chest.

“Scaramouche? Are you home? I’m sorry to intrude—” you called out gently, glancing around as you wandered deeper into the unit.

You reached the first room you saw and gently pushed the door open.

A bathroom.

It looked like a typical one, at least at first glance. The tiles were spotless, the mirror gleamed, and everything was neatly arranged on the sink counter. But then, something caught your eye.

You stepped in closer, squinting.

Your shampoo.

No, not just your shampoo. The exact brand. Same scent. Same bottle, slightly squeezed at the middle. The conditioner, too. Your favorite hair mask. Your exact skincare routine lined up in pristine order. Even the body wash you only used on weekends.

Your brows knitted together.

"Odd… does he live with a girl or something?" you murmured, half to yourself. But you were quick to debunk this theory because if he really did, then his place would at least look more lively than it did.

It was the most reasonable explanation your mind could grasp, and so you clung to it. That made sense, right? A girlfriend. A sister, maybe. You weren’t about to jump to conclusions over products that anyone could easily buy at a store.

However, these products were common, so it could just be a coincidence. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t want to.

But something shifted, like a cold hand grazing your spine.

A sudden, inexplicable wave of dread crashed into you, it was sharp and immediate, like a static jolt to your nerves. Your instincts screamed at you to leave. To get out while you still could. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your curiosity got the best of you so instead… you pressed on.

You hadn’t been to his place before, and curiosity tugged at you the moment you stepped in. You told yourself you just wanted to see the space he slept in, nothing more.

His bedroom was unremarkable at first glance. Neat, tidy, and strangely empty. There was a bed with two pillows, the sheets tucked in with surgical precision, and a plain computer desk pushed against one wall with a full PC setup; tower, keyboard, mouse, and a wide monitor still faintly glowing in the dark.

That was it. No personal touches. No books or clothes lying around. No signs of someone actually living here.

It didn’t feel like a home. It felt… staged.

Your attention shifted back to the computer. The monitor was still on, the screen locked behind a password prompt. The hint read:

“an important date.”

You tried the first thing that came to mind—his birthday. No luck. Hmm… what about your own? Your heart thumped fast as you typed your birthday, ayour suspicions rising, but luckily, it was still nothing. You racked your brain for other possibilities: the day you two first met? The day you moved in? None of them worked. You didn’t know why, but for some unexplainable reason, you feel as though it’s connected to you.

Frustrated, you glanced down at the corner of the screen where the date blinked back at you. May 4.

You hesitated, then typed it in.

05/04.

Access granted.

Your breath hitched slightly. That worked?

You wondered if today meant something to him. Maybe it was the death anniversary of a loved one—someone he never talked about. That would explain why he wasn’t here tonight.

Still, that didn’t explain why you felt like you were intruding on something you weren’t supposed to see.

You clicked into his files, expecting to find the schoolwork he always claimed to be working on; group projects, research papers, something. Anything. But nothing was there.

His Word application opened to a blank slate. No recent documents. No assignments. No folders labeled for school. It was all empty.

Your brows knit in confusion. “What…?” you muttered, leaning closer to double-check.

He always said he was submitting things digitally. Said he had a ton of coursework. He even bailed on hanging out with you a few times because of it.

But there was no trace of any academic work here. Not even a draft. Not even a folder named after a class.

The pit in your stomach grew heavier.

He had lied to you, repeatedly. But why?? You don’t see him benefitting from this at all?!

You moved the mouse with trembling fingers, pulling up a new tab as you tried searching for the university Scaramouche said he was attending. Your heart thudded louder with every second of loading time. Maybe you were just being paranoid. Maybe he was enrolled under a different name. Maybe—

No. Nothing came up. No match for the institution. Not even a school website.

Confused, you tried the next logical step: accessing his student portal. You searched for any trace of a university-linked Google account, hoping there might’ve been a mistake. You clicked the account tab on Chrome, hoping to find something like an educational domain, maybe a .edu email.

But there was nothing. Just two emails: one personal, and one labeled under a string of numbers and letters, something that didn’t resemble any school ID or professional account. There wasn’t even a trace of a school server or drive linked to it.

And then it hit you like a brick to the chest.

He wasn’t a university student. He never was.

The school he told you that he went to didn’t even exist for Archons’ sake?!

The realization made your stomach drop, your mouth suddenly dry. You took a step back, staring at the glowing monitor like it had just spat out something foul.

Why would he lie?

He had always talked about group projects, about studying late at night, about submitting coursework digitally. He even compared classes with you, made jokes about professors, and talked about “finals week stress” like it was his own.

But it had all been fabricated. Every word. Every detail.

You swallowed hard. “No… no, that can’t be right…”

But the truth stared back at you.

The name of the school he gave you didn’t even exist.

Your pulse was erratic now, your thoughts tangled with panic and disbelief. Something wasn’t right. You could feel it in your gut, heavy and coiled like a warning.

Despite the frantic beat of your heart telling you to get out, your hands moved on their own, guided by some twisted need to understand. To find proof. To know why.

You clicked open the file explorer.

Nothing seemed unusual at first—just standard folders: Downloads, Pictures, Documents. But tucked away beneath the main list was one out-of-place item, barely visible unless you scrolled with purpose.

A hidden folder.

It wasn’t even named. Just a string of characters that looked like gibberish.

Your mouth went dry.

You hovered the mouse over it, your body tense and hesitant. You could almost hear your instincts screaming at you to shut the computer off and leave, but your fingers clicked anyway.

Inside were multiple files. The first thing you noticed was that none of them had thumbnails. No previews. Just dates and strings of numbers. Video files.

Dozens of them.

There was also an application sitting at the top, it was some kind of viewing software. Not anything you recognized though. With your breath caught in your throat, you opened the application first, hoping it would explain what you were looking at.

The program booted up with a cold, sterile interface—timestamped footage, file names, camera IDs.

CCTV software.

Your body went rigid.

With a trembling hand, you double-clicked one of the CCTV feeds.

It loaded instantly and to your horror, it was your room. Captured in full, invasive clarity.

The footage played in eerie silence. Your bathroom. Your bed. The camera angle was fixed at just the right height to watch you sleep. Another angle was from the top corner of your room—watching you sit at your desk, legs tucked under, right where the light caught your face. There was one by your nightstand. Another—deeper—shot from beneath your desk, pointed upward at your clothed sex, and lastly…

Your teddy bear…

You gasped, your heart plummeting to your stomach, bile crawling up your throat. You needed to puke. You felt absolutely sick. You hovered over the camera, seeing that it was different from the rest. Once you found out that it could zoom-in on you, you paused to look away from the screen to process everything that you had just learned.

“This… this is all just a dream…right? I-I must be dreaming… t-this isn’t…” you croaked, the words catching at the edge of a sob. Your fingers flew to your mouth to stifle the sound, your body beginning to shake as the weight of what you were seeing began to crash down over you like a tidal wave.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

You scrambled to exit the application, trying to convince yourself it was a mistake—that somehow, this wasn’t real. But curiosity turned to dread as you opened the subfolder labeled “RECORDINGS.”

You sat there, paralyzed, forcing yourself to go through them one by one. Every file was worse than the last. Footage of you waking up. Cooking. Brushing your hair. Singing softly to yourself while doing chores. Tiredly slumping over your desk after work.

Moments of your life that you thought were yours.

He had watched them all. Labeled them. Archived them.

Little notes appeared in adjacent text files beside the videos. Details of your habits, what you ate that day, what time you came home, how long you showered, whether or not you looked happy.

And then—

You saw that recording.

You didn’t want to click it. Your hand hovered. But you did.

You watched yourself, your ass up high as you moaned for Scaramouche’s name with so much longing. Shame growing with every passing second. You thought you were alone, but he was looking at you the entire time as you were vulnerable, even though you were under the impression no one would ever see you this way.

But he did. He recorded you. He watched you.

No wonder he left abruptly after kissing you…he knew this would happen…

You couldn’t look away. You were frozen. Like prey realizing the predator was always in the room.

You clicked out, barely holding down the wave of nausea rising in your chest, only to find another folder sitting below the recordings.

“CANDIDS.”

It was worse. Inside, there were photos, hundreds of them. Of you.

In uniform. At your jobs. Eating lunch. Waiting for the bus. Walking home at night. Even ones taken through your window—your silhouette lit by the glow of your laptop.

They were dated. Some of them went back years, long before you ever officially met him.

Your head was spinning.

The very thing you didn’t want to confirm… that you wanted to deny can’t be denied anymore.

Reality finally sets in.

Scaramouche was your stalker all along.

He was never your friend, he never approached you with great intentions in the first place. He had orchestrated every meeting. Every “coincidence.” Every moment he made you feel safe.

But the question persists, why you?! WHY, for the love of Archons, IS HE DOING THIS TO YOU??!

You backed away from the desk with your knees weak, as if the truth was physically weighing you down. You gripped the edge of his desk to steady yourself, but nothing could anchor you now. Your lungs were tight. Your chest hurt. And you felt nothing but filthy, raw, and violated.

Worse of all, you had fallen in love with the very person you should’ve feared the most.

He made you believe the world was cruel and dangerous. He made you think he was your sanctuary. But all this time, he was the monster waiting at the end of the maze, and you had walked straight into his den.

You cursed at yourself again and again, your voice cracking under the weight of betrayal.

“Idiot… stupid, stupid!!! How could I be so blind?” You sobbed through clenched teeth, fists trembling at your sides.

Hot tears streamed down your cheeks as the adrenaline surged. Your thoughts spiraled in chaotic circles, and your breath became sharp and patchy. You couldn’t ground yourself. Your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape your body, the pressure in your chest rising until it felt unbearable.

And then—snap.

You bolted upright too quickly, the dizziness knocking your balance off. You collapsed, hard.

Your knees gave out beneath you as your body smacked against the carpeted floor with a loud thud. Pain bloomed along your shoulder and hip from the fall, but it barely registered. Not when your cheek pressed against something wrong.

The carpet was damp. And cold. But more than that—it reeked. It awfully smelled something akin to bleach. Like the Chlorox-smelling vile that Diluc gave you the other day.

Hold on…I don’t think Diluc knew about the vile….

However, that harsh, unmistakable sting of bleach filled your nose, making you pull out from your thoughts as your eyes sting while you winced. But it wasn’t just the smell. Your skin prickled as you noticed something off about the texture. The spot your face had landed on wasn’t soft like the rest of the carpet. It was dry and stiff, almost sticky.

You recoiled in disgust, scrambling back with shaky limbs, trying to rub the feeling off your cheek. You barely caught your breath before your gaze snagged on something under the bed.

A box.

It was barely visible—shoved deep into the shadows—but your rattled instincts dragged you toward it. You reached out with hesitant fingers, pulled it out with a soft scrape, and flipped the lid open. What you found inside made your blood run cold.

Your breath hitched. You couldn’t move.

Inside, packed neatly as if they were sacred treasures, were your things.

The pair of underwear you swore went missing after laundry day. Your favorite pen—the one you thought you’d left at work. The worn bandaid you slapped on your finger last month after a kitchen accident. Your work apron. A crumpled napkin with your lipstick stain. The towel you used to wipe sweat from your neck after one of your longer shifts. Hair strands… ticket stubs… a used tissue.

And more.

So much more.

Things you had thrown away.

Things you had forgotten about.

Things that should’ve never ended up here.

He kept them.

He kept them all.

You could barely breathe. The bile in your throat threatened to rise again, and your hands started trembling so violently that the box nearly slipped from your grip.

And then it clicked.

The apron. The one you just saw hanging by the supply rack at work the day before you quit. How did he—?

Your eyes widened. Your heart plummeted.

He was there.

Not just here. Not just outside your window or across the hall.

He’d been at your job.

He had infiltrated every corner of your life. Nothing had been a coincidence.

Shit.

Your mind reeled as puzzle pieces snapped together in grotesque, twisted shapes.

He was the one who made Diluc plant that creepy letter in your locker. He probably threatened him or paid him. Fuck, at this point, you don’t know anymore.

Seeing how he miraculously got this place all to himself too out of the blue, you assumed that he was the one who manipulated Itto into moving out of the apartment complex.

And… Kazuha.

Your heart clenched so tightly it physically hurt. You hadn’t heard from Kazuha in weeks.

Your breath hitched.

What did he do to Kazuha?

You were in danger.

Real danger.

The kind that made your skin crawl and your instincts scream at you to run.

Your hands trembled violently as you clutched the edge of the box, your legs stiff and unwilling to move, as if your body hadn’t caught up with your brain yet. But your mind was racing, spiraling into full panic mode.

You had to go. Now.

The police. You needed to call the police.

You couldn’t stay another second in this twisted hellhole disguised as a home. You had seen enough. More than enough. The truth was laid bare before you, raw and horrifying, and it left a sour, metallic taste in your mouth almost as if you’d bitten into something rotten.

You solved the puzzle. Every piece, every breadcrumb, led you to the grotesque truth. And it shattered something inside you. Not just heartbreak. No, this was worse.

It was betrayal on a scale so personal, so invasive, that your entire understanding of safety, of reality, cracked beneath its weight. You were nothing more than a puppet in his carefully crafted fantasy. A pet he groomed. A prize he hunted.

He had built a false haven for you to fall into; something warm and comforting, familiar even. He made you trust him. Need him. Every act of kindness was laced with poison. Every moment you felt safe was just another chain tightening around your throat.

Your interest in him—the warmth you once felt—it all curdled into revulsion.

How could he? How dare he?

He had never even gone to university. That whole story—his course, his professors, the deadlines he stressed over—they were all fabrications. A paper-thin mask tailored to reflect your world so he could fit seamlessly into it. So he could be close to you.

So he could watch you. Why else would he act as a troubled student? He probably already knew you work part-time as a tutor…?

If that’s the case then it was no wonder he was a fast learner… he already knew everything, he just pretended that he didn’t.

But then… why?

Why was today’s date his password?

Your stomach churned as the question festered in your brain like rot. Was it because he knew? Did he plan this far ahead? Did he know you’d get curious enough to snoop? That you’d dare to cross the line?

Was this the final act?

Shit.

Shit, shit!

You made a huge mistake.

He planned for this day.

He wanted you to find everything. To realize there was no escape. That you were his and always had been. That your terror, your despair… all of it was part of the plan.

Run.

You needed to-

You needed to leave. You needed to get out now before—

Click.

Your heart stopped.

That sound—It was unmistakable.

The front door has been locked.

The air left your lungs as you slowly turned toward the door, your ears ringing with sheer panic. You weren’t alone anymore. He was here.

You looked around frantically, your breath stuttering in sheer panic.

The closet? No, too obvious.

Under the bed? No good either. That’s always the first place they look in horror films. And right now, you were living one.

This wasn’t just any apartment either, it was his apartment. And it was empty. Barren. Sterile, like it had only ever been a stage. A trap. There were no cabinets, no shelves, not even a coat rack to hide behind. Just four cold walls and a man drawing closer with every passing second.

You were trapped.

You were completely fucking trapped.

Your heart pounded so loudly you swore it was echoing against the drywall. Just as you were about to dive under his bed as if it was your last resolve, your worse nightmare came true.

"You just had to feed your curiosity now, didn’t you?"

His voice slithered through the silence like a knife through flesh; mocking and deliberate. It wasn’t the sweet, patient tone you had grown used to. No, this was lower. Darker. It didn’t ask for trust.

It expected obedience.

You didn’t dare turn around. You were still kneeling on the floor, surrounded by your own belongings—your underwear, your pen, your bandaid—your life dissected and collected like trophies. You clutched them like they could somehow shield you.

“You weren’t supposed to learn so much… tsk.” His voice sliced through the silence like a knife dipped in venom. It was measured, unbothered, and laced with an eerie calm. The kind of tone someone uses when they’ve already made up their mind about something grim.

You could feel him behind you. A shift in the air. A weight. It was heavy. Inevitable. Suffocatingly haunting.

Your instincts screamed louder than your thoughts. You scrambled to grab anything—anything at all—but your fingers barely grazed the corner of the desk before he was on you.

He yanked you by the collar with frightening ease and threw you onto the bed. The impact knocked the breath out of you.

“This ruins Phase Three altogether,” He sighed, running his fingers back through his hair. “Ah, but I suppose it was bound to happen. You always were a little too curious for your own good.” He tilted his head, a mockery of pity in his tone. “Still... you came here. Just like I knew you would.” The smile he wore didn’t reach his eyes.

It never had.

"You...YOU DISGUSTING, HORRIBLE, LIAR!!! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!" You shrieked with everything you had left. Your throat burned. Your limbs flailed in a panic, kicking out blindly, desperate to reach the door, the window, anywhere but here.

But his expression didn’t falter. Not even once. The mask was off, and what sat underneath was colder than you could’ve imagined.

The polite, soft-spoken neighbor—the one who offered his full company when you were troubled, who laughed shyly when you complimented his handwriting—was gone. That Scaramouche was never real to begin with.

Instead, a stranger crawled towards you, slow and calculated. Like a predator toying with prey already caught in its trap.

Your foot connected with his jaw, he paused for a moment, blinking as he tries to remain patient.

His head snapped to the side from the force, but the moment he turned back, he simply popped it back into place with a grim click, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “That was cute,” he muttered, his lips forming a frown.

He then grabbed your ankles. Hard.

"LET GO OF ME!! IM GOING TO REPORT YOU TO THE POLICE!!" You screamed, pushing at him with your knees, clawing, thrashing—anything to keep him off—but he didn’t even budge. His strength was unreal. You would have never imagined that he could be this strong despite not looking like it.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, his voice dragging each word out like a quiet sentence. Slowly. Mockingly. He dragged your body closer with one firm pull, like it was a game. “You can’t report me. You won’t.”

There was something so off about the way he said it. It was casual yet… final. You were shaking and confused as your mind scrambles to find a way out, to find anything that could give you leverage. But there was no plan forming. No sudden stroke of luck. Just the weight of his voice and the dread it buried you under.

Then he laughed. Not the nervous, quiet chuckle you had once thought was endearing. This laugh was something else—raw and unhinged. You flinched at the sound, your blood running cold.

“After today’s events,” He said, plucking a small pill from his pocket and tossing it into his mouth, “you won’t be able to do anything of the sort, darling.” His gaze never left you as he lunges himself forward to clash your lips with his.

You turned your face away instantly, jaw clenched shut, body coiled in refusal. Every instinct in you screamed for self-preservation. You refused to open your mouth, and he tried to be patient with you, he really did. But you just wouldn’t budge.

He thought if he bit your lower lip harshly, you’d eventually give in, but you didn’t. The metallic taste lingered on your tongue as tears pricked your eyes, but not just from pain, but from betrayal. You were still in disbelief.

You were also unreasonably stubborn, and just like Kazuha, you put up a fight. Your defiance and resemblance alone was enough to frustrate him further.

His patience snapped.

He started choking your neck harshly, making you gasp in pain. This gave him enough space to transfer the pill in yours as he pushed it down your throat with his tongue. You coughed violently, feeling a lump in your throat as you struggle to swallow the pill.

“Of course,” he whispered more to himself than you, voice thick with venom. “You’re just like him. Always pushing back. Always running. Always thinking you have a choice.”

‘Him’...?…Is he talking about…Kazuha? Your eyes widened and he noticed.

He smilled bitterly, “That fire in your eyes,” he said, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek mockingly. “I’ve seen it before. It didn’t save him. It won’t save you either.”

“W-What did you…” you tried to ask, but the words barely left your lips. They cracked and faltered, swallowed by the burn crawling up your throat. Your limbs refused to listen. You could feel your strength slipping away like water through cupped hands.

You blinked once. Then twice. The world blurred, tilting and warping around the edge of your vision.

“Shh,” Scaramouche cooed, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead. “Not to worry… you won’t end up like he did.”

Your heart lurched violently in your chest, even as your body betrayed you. You couldn’t even run anymore. You felt numb. What’s worse was that he confirmed being involved in Kazuha’s disappearance. There were so many things you wanted to ask, but you felt an overwhelming wave of exhaustion wash over you.

“I’ve waited long enough for this moment to happen, Y/n.” His tone was low and quiet, but simmering with obsession. His fingers dug into your cheek as he yanked your face toward him. You finally locked eyes with him. They looked sharp and maddening, you don’t even think he had been blinking.

“I can’t bear to wait any longer.” He purred into your ear before continuing, “You’ll understand, won’t you?” he whispered, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Your lips quivered. Your jaw ached. But you forced the words out anyway, trembling against the weight of your fading consciousness.

“I will…never…forgive…you…” You managed to mutter, but he scoffed at your naivety as if your defiance was nothing but a child's tantrum.

“So will I,” he murmured coldly. “But that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Your head lolled slightly as he pulled you in, lowering his face to your neck. “If you’re not obedient when you wake up…” You could feel his breath; it was hot and filled with the deep desire to possess you as he inhaled the scent of your skin like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“I’ll just have to break you until you are.”

That was the last thing you heard before you completely fainted.

a.n. Woohooo! Stalker's Tango has finally come to an end! I hope you all had a blast reading this little mini-series I wanted to work on.

Again, this is all purely fictional! I don't romanticize their situation at all, I genuinely just wanted to try and explore the more... 'grotesque' depths of Scaramouche's ideals when it came to love, even in the modern world. He seemed like an individual incapable of giving something so pure, so I hc that he offers something twisted in return, deluding himself into thinking that it's the only right way to keep a relationship going, especially if it's based on rewards and punishments.

I plan on writing a bonus chapter that showcases the aftermath of this 'kidnapping'. but only if you all want to read it! ^^ Let me know in the comments hehe. (I plan to write the full-blown smut there, LOL)

++ Anyyyhooow! If you want to see me write other things, don't be shy! Leave a prompt on my 'love notes' section located on my profile! I'll tend to them when I can <3

Thank you for reading Stalker's Tango, beautiful people. Until next time!

Stay safe and hydrated! (˶◜ᵕ◝˶)♡

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