~21~
serving late-night fanfiction and yearning for fictional men đ”
⧠sfw; nsfw works (18+ for nsfw)
⧠requests: open
⧠mostly self-indulgent, always written with love
support me here if youâd like: https://buymeacoffee.com/thatsingleinfp
read responsibly⊠or donât, nobody will know
Iâm been getting horribly motion sick from literally everyday tasks latelyâŠâŠand tell me why my instinct is to wonder how Victor Gideon would treat my illness.
PLEASE, IM TOO ILL TO THINK OF A SCENARIO. HEAL ME, VICTOR
Holy shit I'm listening to some like club/dance music and my brain conjured up the image of Victor sans jacket stomping around some darkly lit club and just meeting this absolute beast entirely donned in leather with half his face covered but gold fucking teeth . Probably there to hunt out a few new test subjects but also just to have some fun because Connections money be DAMNED. Just drinking and hanging out with him in some lounge seat getting closer and closer GOD I'm gunna PASS OUT
You only meant to make sure she was okay.
Now youâre trapped in something you donât understandâ
and youâre no longer alone.
Tags: reader insert, second person POV, suspense, implied violence, implied gore, stalking behavior, freeze response, fawn response, no use of y/n, afab reader, female reader
Rating: 14+
Words: ~ 1.9k
Hey ya'll, finally got this beginning of a story out of my head and into words! I'm very rusty, I used to write things just purely for myself when I was taking a lot of writing courses. Obviously I decided "to heck with it" and made a blog for my indulgent fanfiction (read my previous blurb) and now I'm creating this! RE9 is everywhere, including my brain, and so is the weird doctor đ€ Hope you enjoy and leave a comment!
You hadnât meant to follow her this far.
At some point, it had stopped being a decision and turned into stubbornnessâ an unwillingness to let Grace disappear without explanation into something she could die in and pretend her disappearance wouldnât bother you. She had a habit of doing that, of closing herself off to ward off questions. Most people would take the hint and remember that it was part of her actual job.
But not you, idiotically.
The Wrenwood Hotel stood at the edge of the block, set back far enough from the street to feel separate from it. Even from a distance, it didnât look abandoned in the way one would expect. The structure was intact, the windows mostly unbroken, the signage still fixed above the entrance in faded but legible lettering, and the rest of the street busy. It looked⊠almost maintained, in your opinion.
Youâd watched Grace and the officer go into the alley leading to it from across the street, hiding among other pedestrians with the most boring outfit you could put together. You had started chewing your bottom lip, trying to reason with yourself. This wasnât any of your business. This was so not any of your business that you could get yourself and Grace in huge trouble. But sheâs never on the field, sheâs just a data analystâŠ.
Swallowing, you threw entirely rational and sane caution to the wind and crossed the street, splashing through the puddles leftover from the earlier rain, and pried open the door a good few minutes after the former.
The air inside hit your face in the way that makes one squint. Not entirely stale, but still in a way that made the sounds of the street feel like they had been cut off the moment you crossed the threshold. You paused just inside the entrance, letting your eyes adjust.
The lobby stretched out ahead of you, dim and unevenly lit. A few overhead lights still worked, flickering faintly or humming in a way that made it hard to tell how long theyâd last. The rest hung dead above you, leaving patches of shadow that broke up the space. The front desk stood off to one side, its surface cluttered with scattered papers and debris and whatever else had been left behind disturbed. One of the drawers hung open slightly, crooked in its track. Behind it, shelves were half-empty; whatever had been there either taken or knocked loose.
The seating area looked worse. Chairs had been shifted out of place, tipped or broken, fabric worn thin or torn open at the seams. A table sat on its side nearby, one leg snapped clean through. Dust had settled over everything in a thin, undisturbed layer, clinging to the surfaces and dulling what little light reached them, though in a few places it had been disturbed just enough to stand out. Faint smudges broke through the settled dust, subtle but regular. Footsteps.
You pulled out your phone, turning the flashlight on and slowly making your way across the lobby, listening. You didnât want to just catch up to them, or risk it, more like. For one thing, that was a sure-fire way of getting Grace in trouble immediately, but it wouldnât hurt to just⊠follow, right? Hearing faint movement, you silently left the main hall, approximating where the soft sounds were coming from.
The hallway narrowed quickly, swallowing up what little light the lobby had offered. Your flashlight beam floated ahead of you in a thin, foggy line, catching on peeling wallpaper and uneven flooring and dust, the edges of the corridor fading into shadow just beyond it. Doors lined either side, most of them shut, a few left slightly open as if someone had passed through without bothering to close them.
You moved slowly, placing each step with as much control as you could muster. Even then, the faint crunch of debris under your shoes made you cringe. Biting your lip and pausing, you listened hard. The sounds ahead were faint, but they didnât change. Whew. You reached out to the wall to lean on it very lightly, not trusting your balance in the dimness as you continued your slow trek.
You werenât an agent of any kind in any capacity of the word, and you knew being here was a stupid, horrible idea, but Grace wasnât a field agent. Thatâs what went through your mind when she went quiet on you again, and that was what was running through your head now. Why on earth was a desk bound analyst sent out here with, apparently, nothing more than a local policeman? You were loyal to a fault and sometimes reckless, but not entirely stupid. From the bits and pieces youâd got from her the last few months, you knew something was up, and moreover that you might not get your friend back if you just let her disappear.
You turned a corner, trying to hold in your coughs from the dust floating around, you were shaken from your thoughts by⊠silence. It was silent. You froze, the muscles around your ears tangibly shifting to grasp anything. The whispers of life you had been following had simply⊠vanished. No gradual fade, no clear directionâ just gone, leaving the hallway feeling suddenly wider and emptier than it had a second before. Your grip tightened slightly around your phone, and you swallowed thickly.
âGrace?â you croaked, much softer than you intended, the sound sinking into the walls. Your words didnât travel, the slightly damp, peeling wallpaper absorbing them meaninglessly.
The answer came too fast. A crashâ violent, piercing, and way too closeâ followed by the unmistakable sound of something being thrown or shoved hard into furniture. You flinched so sharply your shoulder hit the wall behind you, phone flying out of your hand and clattering to the floor, light uselessly pointed at the ceiling. Another impact followed, a loud growl, a screamâ
You didnât move. You couldnât. Your body locked where you stood, breath caught somewhere too high in your chest as the sounds only worsened, loud and overlapping into something chaotic and violent. Scraping, stumbling, yelling, slamming into walls and floor that made your hands fly to cover your ears. Something broke with a sharp crack. You squeezed your eyes shut, caving into yourself like that might block it out, like it would make it stop. The struggle dragged on for what felt like far too long, each sound ringing louder than the last, untilâ it stopped.
Shaking violently, you blinked, slowly turning your head to gaze up the passageway ahead of you. The hallway stretched out the same as it had before, dim and uneven, the beam of your flashlight highlighting the fog of dust silently. No footsteps. No voices. No sign that anything had just happened at all. Your ears were ringing, fear still locking you coldly to the spot. Your heart felt separate from your body, beating loud in your ears and accompanied by your trembling breath. You should turn back, go home. You shouldnât have come in the first place, at least Grace is somewhat trainedâ
Grace.
You shook your head physically to yourself. No, you had to see if she was okay. If she was, you couldnât leave her here alone! If she wasnât⊠well, at least you could get out and tell someone right away. You forced your breathing to come back slowly, sharp when your lungs complained. You lowered your hands from your ears, fingers still shaking, and swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat. Crouching and grabbing your phone, you set off with more hurried strides, panic for your friend overriding the instinct to stay quiet.
Your footsteps slipped unevenly over debris as you pushed further down the hall. The beam of your flashlight shook with your movement, bouncing off the walls and catching on doorframes and broken fixtures in quick, disorienting flashes. Every shadow felt like it shifted when you werenât looking directly at it, stretching just a little too far before snapping back into place when you looked back hurriedly. The hallway was feeling like it just kept going, each step taking you further from the safety of the entrance, further into something you didnât understand and were woefully unqualified for. The silence pressed harder, heavier after the noise, like the building was waiting for something else to happen.
You finally reached a portion that widened slightly. A staircase came into view at the end of the hall, half-shadowed and worn, the railing coated in dust. And⊠you heard something. A sound, faint and distant, threading its way through the quiet in a way that made you falter mid-step.
Music.
You faltered, your light dipping slightly as you tried to place it. It was soft, warped by distance and whatever it was playing through, but steady. It was completely out of place with everything else you had heard so far, didnât match the chaos from before. A deeper cold settled in your chest, gripping your heart.
âGrace?â you called again, your voice as tight as your throat felt. The music didnât stop. No answer came back.
You swallowed, your grip tightening around your phone as you turned toward the steps, aiming the beam up. The sound grew clearer the further you toed towards them, and you tilted your head. It was coming from above. You looked at the stairs again. There were the same places of disturbed dust from the rest of the hall. Footsteps.
âGrace?â you whispered, lip trembling.
You stood there for a moment longer, staring up at the staircase, before forcing yourself to move. Your foot found the first step carefully, testing it before you shifted your weight. It creaked faintly under you, and you froze immediately, your breath catching as your eyes lifted toward the top. Nothing.
You swallowed and continued, placing each step with as much care as you could manage, barely able to feel your feet at all. The stairs turned slightly to the left as you climbed, and your chest felt so tight, your breathing shallow. You followed the curve of the stairs, your light shifting ahead of you, the upper level coming into view. There was a door at the top that stood partially open, the gentle, so completely off-putting music drifting slowly through it. The music was coming from inside.
You slowed as you reached the last step, your movements hesitant the closer you got. The beam of your flashlight slipped across the floor just beyond the doorway, catching the disturbed dust, the faint marks that led in the same direction everything else had. And a shoe. Your eyes widened hopefully.
âGrace?â you said for the fourth time, clearing the final step quickly. Your voice felt unnaturally loud the moment it left you. Though she didnât respond, you were sure it was her now, recognizing the shoes and pants as you walked more confidently towards the door, shouldering it further open. She was standing just out of the clearance, fixed towards the wall with the blazing fireplace.
The words died in your throat when you registered what you were seeing, freezing in your tracks. A fireplaceâlit, crackling softly like nothing in the rest of the building existed. A side table with a phonograph, the source of that quiet, warped music. An armchair to the left of it.
And slightly beyond them, standing unnaturally tall, a man.
A cliffhanger!! Hope this was alright, I'm trying to be immersive! Thank you so much for reading and like if you want me to continue!
Disclaimers: stalking, creepy Victor, bullish Victor, reader is unaware until reader is, canon typical violence, slight parasocial relationship, female reader (I really struggled to make this gender neutral I'M SO SORRY)
In short: You are Doctor Victor Gideon's beloved secretary. There is literally no way to escape that man's attention (there will be a part 2)
Thank you so much, @ifleasxoxoi , for sending in a request! I would have posted your request, but my dumb ahh accidently deleted it. OOPS <3
I remember you wanted a stalker!Victor Gideon x Reader fic and that you were unsure how to get him to have romantic obsessive feelings for the reader. Which is VERY MUCH agree with. THEREFORE, I figured he'd build a deep affection for someone who has to work relatively close to him often, anticipate his needs, someone he leans on and tolerates his bullshit, like perhaps a secretary...
PLEASE dm me if there's anything I didn't remember right or if you want me to change anything as this is completely MY FAULT.
I'm trying out a slightly different writing style so let me know your thoughts if you've read my content before!
SIT THIS ONE OUT IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 PLEASE
~â~
The sub-levels of the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center were perpetually chilled, a climate maintained with surgical precision to keep the Directorâs biological volatile experiments stable.
In the flickering blue light of his private lab, Doctor Victor Gideon sat like a silent, emerald-scaled gargoyle.
âHe was working, or at least he was meant to be. A petri dish was sat beneath a microscope to his left, but his attention was a fractured thing, constantly snapping back to the monitors above his workstation.
He was deeply irked.
ââThe morning had begun with a profound, clinical insult: an intern. The boy had been trembling so violently the ceramic cup had rattled against the saucer, and the coffee, while technically correct, lacked the specific, grounding scent of the woman who usually delivered it. Then came the final blow: a ping from his workstation. An email. A digital summary of his day, sterile and devoid of the soft, melodic briefing he had grown to rely on.
His multi-lensed visor whirred, clicking as it zoomed in on Camera 4-B.
There you were.
He watched you through the high-definition feed with an indulgence that bordered on the religious.
He noted the way you tucked a stray hair behind your ear, the slight tension in your shoulders that hadn't been there a week ago.
You were avoiding the main elevator. You were taking the staff wings. You were sending children to do a woman's job because you were attempting to drift out of his orbit.
His split tongue flicked out, tasting the recycled air. Even through the screen, he could practically smell the spike in your cortisol. The shift in your behaviour was a variable he hadnât authorized.
â"A summary," he whispered, his voice a dry, dangerous rasp in the empty room. "As if you are a stranger to me."
He reached out, his long, ring-heavy fingers hovering over the sleek desk phone. He dialled your extension, a number he knew as well as his own pulse.
The sharp trill of your desk phone made you flinch, your hand nearly scattering a stack of intake forms. You stared at the caller ID: DIRECTORâS OFFICE.
You couldn't hold in the deep huff that escaped your lips. For months, you had successfully compartmentalized your relationship with Doctor Gideon.
During your onboarding, the HR representative had been practiced and dismissive. They described him as a miraculous survivor of the Raccoon City collapse, a man whose biology had been "uniquely altered" by the viral trauma of the incident. They had used comforting, corporate words like non-contagious and perfectly stable. They told you to expect a tall stature, a flamboyant personal style, and a bit of an ego, nothing more.
Youâd believed it. You had to. The money was great, and he seemed pleasant during your interviews, if only a bit self-absorbed, a bit in his own world. You chalked that up to his personality. No one was perfect.
At first, his attention had even felt⊠flattering. He was brilliant, powerful, and unapologetically fixated on you.
You told yourself his lingering stares and habit of invading your space were just a kind of high-level office theatre. Something controlled, something you understood. A game you were handling well.
But lately, that clinical distance had dissolved. The "banter" had taken on a suffocating, heavy weight. The way he lingered in your personal space and the quiet, possessive edge to his voice had shifted the atmosphere of the clinic entirely.
You had started to pull back because it felt like you were being slowly, meticulously drawn into a snare. But you were beginning to realise your sudden desperate attempts to redefine your boundaries only seemed to make the trap tighten.
"How can I help you, Doctor Gideon?" you said, trying to keep your voice level, sweet.
"I find the digital copies of the Arklay budget reports... insufficient," his voice purred through the receiver, melodic and impossibly soft. It sent a cold shiver down your spine. "I find I am craving the tactile sensation of paper. Would you be a dear and bring the hard files to my office immediately? Do not delegate this; I require your specific... insight."
"Of course, Doctor. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Make it five," he whispered, and the line went dead.
âYou gathered the files, your mind racing. You reasoned that taking the North Staff Wing was the most "efficient" choice; you could handle two tasks at once and minimize the time spent in Victorâs stifling presence. But the hallway felt longer than usual. Every white-tiled corner seemed to stretch.
âYou were passing the supply closets when a shadow eclipsed the fluorescent lights. It was distorted and gargantuan, cast against the sterile wall.
You froze.
â"The North Wing is notoriously busy this time of day, dear heart. A strange choice for someone in such a... hurry."
âVictor stepped out from an alcove near the nurseâs station. The pale greenish scales of his coat looked like oil on water in the dim light. He stood there, a mountain of pale skin and ink-black veins, filling the entire hallway.
â"Doctor!" you gasped. "I was just... I needed to see Nurse Miller about theâ"
"I asked for you. In five minutes," he interrupted, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle your teeth. "When you did not arrive, I feared you had... lost your way."
He didn't move. He stood there, filling the entire hallway for a moment longer, as if to be spiteful. Then he unfolded his arms, his gold-clad fingers twitching.
"But then," he stepped forward, his massive frame looming over you until you had to crane your neck back just to see his chin, "I remembered we have cameras everywhere."
The air felt like it was being sucked out of the room, "Itâs a comfort, isn't it? Knowing youâre never truly alone?"
He didn't reach for your arm. Instead, his hand rose and settled heavily, possessively, on the nape of your neck. âHis fingers were deathly cold, the skin feeling like damp marble against your heated flesh. The sheer size of his hand nearly wrapped around the entirety of your neck, his thumb resting just beneath your ear.
"Come," he said, the pressure of his hand guiding you forward with effortless, terrifying strength. "I'll escort you. We wouldn't want you getting distracted again."
The walk to his office was agonizing. He didn't speak, but his hand stayed firmly on the back of your neck, his thumb occasionally stroking the skin there as if checking your pulse.
When you finally entered his office, the atmosphere shifted violently. While the rest of the clinic was kept at a precise, clinical chill, Victorâs space was a sweltering 30°C. It was a humid, heavy oven, necessary for a man who could no longer generate his own warmth. The air was thick enough to make your lungs labor, yet he seemed to expand in it, his movements becoming more fluid as he absorbed the artificial heat.
He closed the heavy mahogany door. The click sounded like a gunshot.
"The files," he murmured, extending a hand. You handed them over, your fingers trembling.
âHe moved behind his desk and, to your surprise, reached up and unlatched the multi-lensed visor. He set the heavy device down on the blotter with a hollow thud. Without the glass, his black sclera were fully visibleâvoid-like pits that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. He spent a long, agonizing minute pretending to skim the papers, his split tongue flickering as he read.
â"Satisfactory," he finally whispered, setting the files down.
â"If that's all, Doctor, I should get back to my desk." You said as you turned to leave, your chest already loosening at the thought of the cool hallway, but his voice cut cleanly through the humid air.
âStop.â
You froze mid-step, your boots skidding faintly against the polished floor. He didn't raise his voice. It was just pure instinct held you there before thought could catch up, and by then, it was too late. A flicker of confusion crossed your face as you glanced backâ
âand saw him moving.
You watched as he walked leisurely around his desk, past you, and claim the space between yourself and the only exit of the room.
Then he came toward you.
He didnât touch you. He didnât need to. The intent in his posture, the slow, predatory certainty, drove you back step by step until the edge of his desk struck the small of your back.
âHe leaned down, his face inches from yours. The heat of the room made the scent of his expensive cologne and something faintly, sickly sweet fill your lungs.
"Tell me," he began, his voice dripping with a terrifying, indulgent fondness. "Have I offended you? Youâve been... distant."
"Oh, no, no! O-of course not!" You lied, your voice trembling. "I thought if I handled the logistics from my desk, it would save you time. Be more efficient?"
âEfficient?â he repeated softly, the word dragged out as if it offended him. A faint glint of gold flashed between his lips. âNo⊠no, you misunderstand the term entirely.â
His gaze dragged over you, slow and assessing, as though recalibrating something that had slipped out of alignment.
"Efficiency," he continued, the cool draft of his breath ghosting over your lips, "would be you where I expect you to be. When I expect you to be there."
âHis hand rose, unhurried and heavy, to settle along the line of your jaw. The chill of his skin was a shock, a sudden, heat-leaching weight that made your pulse stutter. His fingers pressed with just enough surgical precision to tilt your head back, forcing you to map the blackened veins threading up his throat and the void-like depth of his eyes.
He leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. "Instead, I am forced to waste my time tracking down a secretary who has decided, for reasons unknown, to make herself scarce." His thumb shifted, pressing beneath your chin. "I do not tolerate inefficiency in my facility," he went on, voice tightening almost imperceptibly. "Least of all from you."
"I... Iâm sorry, Doctor, Gideon" you whispered, your voice trembling as the small of your back pressed harder into his desk.
"I know you are," he rumbled, his grip softening only to allow his thumb to trace the trembling line of your lower lip. "But do not confuse my patience for permission. If you attempt to make yourself scarce again..."
He studied your face for a long, suffocating moment, his split tongue flickering once to catch the scent of your rising panic.
âI assure you,â he finished, almost gently, âthere is nowhere in this building you could place yourself that I would not reach.â
ââHe withdrew his hand, the sudden absence of his touch leaving your skin feeling unnervingly raw. The dismissal was sharp, a flick of his ring-heavy fingers toward the door.
"Go back to your desk. And tomorrow... bring me my coffee yourself. I find I have lost my taste for the interns incompetence. Understood?"
You swallowed, forcing your voice to steady. âOf course. It wonât happen again.â
A low hum of approval followed, of bored satisfaction, as if your total compliance was merely a natural law he had finally re-established. He didn't look up again as he reached for the files.
â"Go on, then."
âYou didn't wait for a second dismissal. You murmured a frantic apology, something about a pending shipment of sedatives, and turned on your heel, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind you, the relative chill of the hallway hit you hard enough to make you shiver violently.
âYou started quickly down the hall on the path to your office, but as you passed under the first dome shaped security camera in the corridor, you felt a sickening prickle at the base of your neck.
You didn't look up, but you could feel the lens tracking the crown of your head, following the line of your shoulders, recording every panicked breath.
Pairings: Jason Todd/Reader, Arkham Knight/Reader, Yandere Jason Todd/Reader
Tags: Stalking, Yandere, Yandere Jason Todd, Obsessive Behavior, Surveillance, Threats of Physical Harm, Gender Neutral
Rating: 14+, no NSFW in this part
Words: ~ 1.2k
Summary: A journalist gets too close to the Arkham Knight's plans during Gotham's lockdown. He's just trying to figure out what to do about them now.
He had already decided what to do about you.
Journalists were not a gray area to him, especially not under the current circumstances. Gotham was locked down, the streets controlled through fear and precision, and anything that threatened that structure had to be handled before it became a problem. People like you did not simply observe. You asked questions, followed threads, and filled in gaps with speculation that tended to land too close to the truth.
You had published three articles in the past week, each one circling the same subject: the Arkham Knight. You had not crossed a line yet, but you were approaching one, and that alone was enough to justify intervention.
That was why he was here, lying close to a chimney, M24 in hand.
The position across from your apartment provided a clear view through your window, unobstructed but easy to disguise. He had chosen it quickly after scouting the area, analyzing the buildingâs layout. Entry points, sightlines, timing, everything had been accounted for.
The plan had been simple: take the shot and leave without a trace.
Through the scope, your apartment appeared exactly as it had been for the last few days. Small, functional, and dimly lit except for the glow of your laptop. Papers were scattered across your desk in uneven stacks, some partially folded, others marked with notes he could not read from this distance. It was late enough that most of the building had gone dark, but you were still awake.
You leaned forward slightly, your attention fixed on the screen, fingers moving in short bursts before pausing. He watched the sequence repeat as you deleted something, rewrote it, and paused again: a predictable rhythm.
Shifting his weapon, his focus shifted briefly to the edge of your desk, where a printed page lay partially beneath your laptop. He recognized it immediately, even without a clear view of the text. He had already reviewed that article in full, breaking it down line by line to identify where you had gone wrong and where you had come too close to something you should not have been able to see.
Most of it had been completely inaccurate, but not all of it. That was enough. That was the problem.
You didnât know what you were looking at, but you werenât as oblivious as everyone else in this damn city.
His grip remained steady, his finger resting along the frame of the rifle as he recalculated the distance without needing to consciously think through it. The shot would be simple. There were no external variables to account for, no movement patterns that would complicate the timing. You were stationary, focused, and unaware.
It should have been over already.
He should have already pulled the damn trigger.
He had more important things to be doing. The Cloudburst wasnât going to complete itself, and Batman wasnât going to break on his own.
Instead, he watched as you reached for the mug at your desk, lifting it slightly before pausing. Even from this distance, the hesitation was clear. You glanced into it briefly, then set it back down without drinking, your attention shifting back to your work.
There was something about the motionâsmall, absent, unguardedâthat didnât fit with what heâd come to expect from this hellhole. It was⊠disarming. No, it was irrelevant.
His jaw tightened, a faint pressure building as he pressed his tongue briefly against the inside of his cheek.
This wasnât part of the plan. You werenât supposed to take this much time.
You resumed typing more deliberately like you were onto something. But your shoulders tensed slightly as you stopped again, staring at the screen with apparent frustration as though waiting for something to resolve itself. After a few seconds, you leaned back in your chair, pressing your hands over your eyes for a long moment before exhaling and returning to the keyboard.
He adjusted his grip along the rifleâs frame, trying to get a hold on his thoughts. The weight was steady, unchanged, and exactly as it should be. Unlike this.
A shift in your posture drew his attention again as you pushed your chair back and stood, stretching briefly before pacing a few steps across the room. His gaze tracked you without effort. His shoulders pulled just slightly tighter beneath the armor when you suddenly approached the window.
His fingers stilled completely against the rifle, every movement narrowing as he held his position. The angle was perfect. The darkness concealed him fully. There was no risk of being seen. There wasnât a reason for the tension that settled through him. He should shoot. Now.
You stood there for a moment, looking out into the street below that was silent and dark, besides the few streetlights that were dimly flickering. There was no indication that you sensed anything unusual; nothing but innocent frustration in those pretty eyes, slightly lit by the street below. After a few seconds, you turned away and returned to your desk, your focus settling back onto the screen.
He relaxed and exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, as he reset his grip with deliberate precision.
The moment passed without consequence, but he still had not taken the shot.
The path was clear, the conditions optimal, and the outcome guaranteed. There was no justification for delay, no strategic advantage to continued observation. Every additional minute spent here increased the risk of unnecessary complication.
The delay was unnecessary: a distraction. He didnât have time for distractions. And yet, he wasnât pulling the trigger. Not last night, and not tonight. He grit his teeth in frustration.
You were still a risk, and that had not changed. Risks were handled in the militia. Immediately.
His attention shifted again, this time to the window itself. The latch remained undone, the frame slightly raised to allow fresh air in. It was a small detail, not originally important. He had noted it the first night and confirmed it the second.
But now it wasnât just an observation. It was an option. And a more tempting one the longer he stayed here.
His gaze returned to you as you continued working, letting out a puff of air at how you were so unaware of the danger you were in. You moved through your routine without hesitation, without any indication that you understood the position you were in or the attention you had drawn.
A shot would end it: clean, efficient, final. But⊠it would also leave questions unanswered. How much you actually knew. How close you were to his true plans. Whether this was just blind guessing, or something that needed to be handled differently. Yeah, he needed more information.
He pushed himself up, taking the weapon off of his target and putting it over his shoulder. The mission came first, but⊠you were part of it now. Yeah. Your window was still unlocked, and he could get answers.
He smirked under the helmet. His plan had just changed.
Fanfiction is supposed to be cringy. You're allowed to write bad. You're allowed to be cringe. Fanfiction is supposed to be self indulgent. You're allowed to be cringe. Let yourself be cringe. Fanfiction is supposed to be fun. Stop putting arbitrary rules on yourself and be free.
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