aidan (tryst's version)

Welcome to my masterlist! Here, you will find all my fanfics <3 i write abt whatever character(s) im currently obsessed w :3

18+ LITERALLY MINORS DNI YOU WILL BE BLOCKED!!!

My AO3

Right Now, You're Feeling Helpless (SMUT) (Hoffman, Reader) (SAW)

pt. 1 (REWRITTEN)

pt. 2

Pt. 3(FINAL PART)

Complete Collapse (SMUT) (Kenny Lacos, reader) (PICKET FENCES)

What It Is (SMUT) (Hoffman, reader) (SAW)

The Drug In Me Is You (SMUT) (Mark Hoffman/Peter Strahm x reader) (SAW)

Somewhere In Neverland (SMUT) (Hoffman, reader) (SAW)

A Match Into Water (SMUT) (Hoffman, reader) (SAW)

Strawberry Sunscreen (SMUT) (Chase Harper, reader) (PRIMAL DOUBT)

Greatest Almost (SMUT) (Paul Blankenship, reader) (FALLING FOR YOU)

Make Me Disappear (SMUT) (Erik Campbell, reader) (FINAL DESTINATION BLOODLINES)

Alive In The Lights (SMUT) (Tryst, reader) (FAKES)

Look What You Made Me Do (SMUT) (Vern, reader) (LOWLIFES)

I luv that u hate me (SMUT) (Bobby Nash, reader) (911)

Morte et Dabo (Horror/Slasher/True crime/Suspense) (Esteban Ramírez, Muriel, original characters) (The Suite Life of Zack and Cody)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

-chapter 5-

Content: possible murder charges against esteban

Word count: 1k

They found Maddox Cane’s phone. Not his body, which was already long gone in a pool of acid. Not his blood, which Esteban had spent hours ensuring was down the drain, not a trace of it left over. Just the phone, wedged beneath the dresser in Suite 902, screen cracked down the middle like a spiderweb.

Esteban looks at it through the clear evidence bag and feels, for one second, nothing at all.

Then Detective Alvarez says, “We recovered a deleted video.” She opens a laptop, hits a key, and turns it around to face Esteban. 

Esteban blinks as his own voice fills the room.

“Good evening. This is Esteban Julio Ricardo Montoya de la Rosa Ramírez, general manager of the world-famous Tipton Hotel…”

Detective Alvarez watches him as he stares at the screen, his own face staring back at him.

Esteban does not move. Not when his recorded self says Maddox was warned, or when the camera pans to Maddox curled up on the carpet, or when the video ends with Esteban smiling softly and saying, “Stay tuned.”

But the video doesn’t show the bathtub, the knife, the blood. It doesn’t show Esteban dragging him to the bathroom or shoving him into a storage tote right after. It only shows Esteban recording a man who was clearly uncomfortable being recorded, giving him a taste of his own medicine before seeking vengeance for Jasmine.

When it is over, the detective closes the laptop, and for a moment, no one speaks.

Then she asks, “Care to explain that?”

“He broke into a closed room,” Esteban says. “He was filming my hotel, my staff, my guests, without permission. He was harassing people in my hotel. I wanted to scare him.”

“You wanted to scare him.”

“Yes.”

“And after that?”

“He left.”

“Funny,” Alvarez says. “No camera shows that.”

Esteban smiles politely. “The cameras here have always been temperamental.”

“Mr. Ramírez,” Alvarez says with a firm voice, “you were the last person to see Maddox Cane alive. As of right now, you are our primary suspect in his disappearance.” 

Primary suspect. The words should scare him more than they do. He thinks about the phone, the video, his own face on Maddox’s screen, smiling like he forgets that evidence can always exist outside of his control. 

“What evidence do you have besides a video on a phone?”

Alvarez stares. “That video, showing you alone in Suite 902 with a very scared Mr. Cane, you telling him that he was warned, the disappearance of Maddox Cane, all gives us enough for a search warrant.” 

For eighteen years, Esteban cleaned rooms, scrubbed blood from tiles, wiped names from logs, and turned cruel men into early checkouts. But Maddox Cane had done what nobody else had; he brought an entire audience into Suite 902. Esteban seems calm on the outside, but inside, his heart is thumping hard against the knife he keeps in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The knife that is fully cleaned and sanitized after every use, but still the knife regardless. 

Detective Alvarez watches his reaction, which is nothing more than a raised eyebrow. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Esteban folds his hands in front of him. “I manage a famous hotel, detective,” he says. “People make accusations. Have you seen the comments?”

“People don’t usually disappear after being recorded, alone, in a closed suite.”

“No,” Esteban says softly. “I suppose they don’t.”

Alvarez steps closer.

“You said he left.”

“I did.”

“Then where did he go?”

Esteban shakes his head. “I wish I knew.”

By sunset, Detective Alvarez leaves the Tipton with Maddox Cane’s phone, three hours of useless security footage, and one deleted video of Esteban Ramírez smiling into a dead man’s camera. It’s not enough to arrest him, not yet anyways. Across the lobby, Esteban watches the gold doors close behind her.

For the next three days, the Tipton remains the most watched building in Boston.

Reporters linger across the street with cameras pointed at the gold doors. True crime TikTokers film themselves whispering outside the lobby like the hotel is a graveyard instead of a business. BookTok girlies hover in the lobby with their phones out, hoping to catch glimpses of Esteban. Some guests cancel reservations, other guests book rooms specifically because they want to sleep somewhere a man disappeared.

By the fourth morning, Detective Alvarez enters the Tipton once more. Not to arrest him, but to inform him that, for the time being, he is no longer their primary suspect. Esteban stands in his office with his arms folded in front of him, staring out the window at the St. Mark Hotel across the street, and then back at Alvarez.

“I see,” he says.

Alvarez does not sound pleased. “A witness confirmed your whereabouts during the time frame we believe Mr. Cane disappeared.”

Esteban does not need to ask who the witness is… He already knows. 

The next morning when Esteban arrives, Muriel is waiting in his office when he returns.

Of course she is.

She sits in the chair across from his desk with one leg crossed over the other, a coffee in her hand and a cigarette tucked behind her ear. Esteban closes the door behind him.

“Why did you do that?”

Muriel takes a sip of coffee. “Good morning to you too.”

“You told Detective Alvarez I was with you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I wasn’t with you.”

“No,” Muriel says. “You were busy being stupid. A celebrity, Esteban? Really?”

“Then why?”

For a moment, the room is quiet except for the low rumble of the air conditioning and the distant piano drifting in from the lobby. Muriel’s face softens, just barely.

“Because I found your cousin,” she says.

Esteban just stares at Muriel.

Muriel looks down at her coffee. “I found Isabela. I saw what that did to you. And I’ve watched you spend eighteen years trying to make sure it never happens to another girl in this place.”

Esteban looks away first. In lying to the police to cover for him, Muriel is now an accomplice. Just simply knowing about it is one thing, but this was an entirely different thing. 

“You should not have lied for me,” Esteban says.

Muriel takes a sip of coffee. “Probably not.”

“You understand what this makes you,” he says quietly.

Muriel snorts. “Old?”

“Complicit.”

Fuck off scammer

-chapter 4-

Content: disposal of a dead body.

Word count: 1.2k words

~~~~~~~~

By morning, three million people have watched Maddox Cane enter Suite 902, but no one has watched him leave.

The video is shaky, badly lit, and exactly the kind of thing the internet loves: a famous true crime TikToker whispering into his phone outside a forbidden hotel room, grin wide, eyes bright with the kind of arrogance that only exists in men who have never been truly afraid.

“Stay tuned,” he says.

Then the video ends.

By noon, the comments have become their own crime scene.

where’s the update???

this is fake right?

bro has not posted in 14 hours

did the tipton get him lmao

no but seriously has anyone checked on him?

By three o’clock, there are cameras outside the Tipton. Not security cameras, those have always been there. News cameras, phones, tripods. People pressing themselves against the velvet ropes outside the lobby, filming the gold doors as if the hotel itself might confess.

Esteban Ramírez stands behind the front desk in a black suit and speaks to the police with the patience of a man explaining the weather.

“Mr. Cane checked in yesterday afternoon,” he says. “He was warned several times about filming guests, harassing staff, and entering restricted areas. To our knowledge, he left the property sometime during the night.”

The detective glances up. “To your knowledge?”

Esteban smiles politely.

“We are a hotel, detective. Guests value discretion.”

Jasmine tells the police exactly what happened. Maddox stole a candy bar, Maddox flirted with her after she told him her age, Maddox shoved a phone in her face, Maddox was warned.

She does not tell them about Esteban driving her home or tell them about the way he said Maddox would not be a problem. Not because she is afraid of Esteban. But because, for the first time since Maddox walked into the lobby, she is not afraid of anything at all.

Muriel arrives at four with a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“You are getting sloppy,” she says.

Esteban does not look up from the incident report. “Good afternoon, Muriel.”

“Don’t good afternoon me. There are children outside making dances about a missing corpse.”

“There is no corpse. Not one that anybody has found, anyways.”

The night before, Esteban had been up until almost 5am cleaning up the bathtub and taking care of Maddox. He lugged Maddox’s body into a large plastic tote, dragged him down to the basement, and begun the process of dissolving his body in hydrochloric acid. After that, Esteban brought up a bottle of bleach, some rags, and a bottle of luminol and spent the remaining three hours cleaning every bit of trace evidence that Maddox Cane was stabbed to death in the bathtub. Esteban could barely keep his eyes open by the time he was done, so he slept in his office. 

Muriel sighs and take a drag from her cigarette. 

“I just hope you know what you’re doing.” 

At 11:59 p.m., Maddox Cane posts again, and the internet loses its mind in twelve seconds.

The video is not from Suite 902.

It is from earlier the previous day, filmed in the lobby, his face too close to the camera, voice lowered for drama.

“If I disappear,” Maddox says, grinning, “start with the manager.” He subtly points the camera to Esteban for two seconds before ending the video.  In his office, Esteban watches it once, then again.

Then, he decides to take a gander into the comment section. 

@ ghostgirlie92: wait why did he schedule this???

@ bostoncryptidwatch: He hasn’t posted since last night. This isn’t funny anymore.

@ room902truth: “If I disappear, start with the manager” BRO???

@ hauntedhotelsdaily: Did anyone else see the manager when he panned the camera???

@ estebansdefenseteam: okay but the manager is kinda 👀

@ missingmaddoxupdates: A MAN IS MISSING.

@ estebansdefenseteam: I can hold space for both truths.

@ truecrimewithtara: That manager looked way too calm.

@ booktokbanshee: I know this is serious but black suit + haunted hotel + possible body count is giving dark romance MMC and I fear I am seated.

@ ethicscommittee: PLEASE stop thirsting over a person of interest.

@ booktokbanshee: I said he was hot, not innocent.

@ do_not_disturb_902: He was warned.

That last comment really catches Esteban’s attention. He is not the one who wrote it. Muriel isn’t on TikTok, and Jasmine is too smart to leave a trail. Somebody knows. But who, though? 

Esteban had answered all the detective’s questions calmly, the cops and most of the paparazzi have been long gone for a while. He locks his phone and slips it inside his trousers pocket, sighing deeply. Today was a day. He is so ready to go home, pour himself a scotch, and pass the fuck out.

And he does exactly that. For the first time, Esteban regrets committing a murder. Not because Maddox Cane deserved mercy, but because he had an audience. And now that audience has turned their attention to the Tipton, to Esteban Ramírez. 

Once inside his house, he sits alone in the dark with a glass in one hand, eighteen years of regret breathing down his neck. 

He should have asked her if she was alright. He should have asked her if she was safe. He should have protected her better. 

And why did he have to murder a famous person? He should have just banned Maddox from the hotel for life and called it good. The scotch burns his throat. Why the hell couldn’t he protect Jasmine without turning Maddox Cane into a headline? 

He sleeps restlessly that night, tossing and turning and when he wakes up, it feels like he didn’t sleep a wink. But today is his day off. Good. He needs a day away from all the chaos. The Tipton will survive a day without him. 

The Tipton does not survive the day without him, not even trying to make it to noon. Esteban wakes to his phone vibrating against the nightstand, dragging itself slowly toward the edge with each angry buzz. For a moment, he considers letting it fall. Let it crack. Let the whole goddamn world crack with it. But then he sees Muriel’s name on the screen.

He answers. “What?”

“Good morning to you too,” Muriel says.

“It is my day off.”

“Yeah, well, the internet didn’t get the memo.”

Esteban sits up. The room is too bright. His head aches behind his eyes, scotch and sleeplessness pounding away at his skull.

“What happened?”

“You’re trending.”

His grip tightens around the phone.

Muriel sighs on the other end. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know what trending means exactly. Jasmine told me. She looked scared when she said it, so I figured it was bad.”

Esteban throws the blankets off.

“What are they saying?”

“That you killed him.”

Silence settles between them.

Then Muriel adds, “Also that you’re hot.”

Esteban closes his eyes. “Muriel.”

“What? I’m retired, not blind.”

By the time Esteban opens TikTok, there are already edits.

His face, pulled from Maddox’s scheduled video, slowed down beneath distorted music. His black suit, his stillness, his calmness, the brief turn of his head when Maddox pans the camera toward him.

The caption on the most popular one reads: the manager knows something.

Two million views and counting. Esteban watches it once. Then again. Not because he is vain, but because for the first time in eighteen years, someone has captured the monster in good lighting.

At 11:06 a.m., Detective Alvarez calls.

At 11:07, Esteban lets it ring.

At 11:08, she calls again.

This time, he answers.

“Mr. Ramírez,” she says. “I need you to come back to the hotel.”

“It is my day off.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m aware.”

There is a pause, and then she says, “We found something.”

-chapter 3-

Content: gore, graphic violence, a grown adult hitting on a minor (but she is a total badass about it), brief mention of an eating disorder.

Word count: 2.5k words

~~~~~~~~

-present day- 

“Enjoy your stay at the Tipton Hotel,” Esteban chirps as he hands a newlywed couple their keycards. They smile and thank him as they make their way merrily to the elevator. Esteban put them on the 15th floor, his “safe” floor. They’re a young couple, no older than twenty, travelling to Boston to celebrate their honeymoon. 

People love the Tipton but fear it at the same time. In 2026, disappearances at the Tipton have become local legend, catching the attention of popular true crime TikTokers, which has both increased the hotel’s traffic, due to the idea that the Tipton may be haunted. But at the same time, other people make it their mission to stay the hell away from there, going out of their way to stay at the St. Mark across the street.

Better for them, Esteban thinks. He isn’t super competitive over whether people stay at the St. Mark over the Tipton like Moseby was. Even Ms. Schicklgrubermeiger had given up years ago at trying to get under Esteban’s skin, simply because Esteban gave off the energy that he does not give half a fuck. His priorities are simply darker now. He gave up on rivalry long ago. 

She can take his patrons, but she cannot bring justice to those who are hurt in his Tipton. 

The day is bright and sunny, beams of light shine through the windows as he types away on his laptop. The lobby is bustling away with happy energy. A housekeeper pushes her cart along humming an Ariana Grande song. The candy counter girl, Jasmine, gives out free samples to children whose parents are checking in. She keeps a basket full of fun size candy bars at her counter and is great with the children. Bellhops happily load people’s luggage onto carts and escort them to their suites. 

Esteban arranges to have a bouquet of roses, a nice meal, and the finest bottle of champagne that the hotel has to offer up to the happy couples’ room. A gift for two people starting their lives together. But as the elevator doors close behind them, his mind betrays him. He thinks of locked doors, raised voices, hands that aren’t gentle. 

No. He must stop thinking about that. Esteban Ramírez has seen some shit in his time at the Tipton, and now every time he sees a man and a woman together, he can only think the worst. He loves being an advocate and a protector of women, but at the same time, he hates what it has done to him. 

The ninth floor remains entirely vacant now, nobody ever gets booked there except for those who deserve it. Esteban senses those types right away, but he is still very wary of every man who passes his vision. 

At 6:14 p.m., the revolving doors turn again. Esteban looks up from his laptop before the guest even reaches the front desk.

The man is young, maybe late twenties, with expensive sunglasses pushed into his hair and a phone already held out in front of him. He sweeps it slowly across the lobby, catching every detail of the lobby, the staff, the lighting. 

“Yo, guys,” he says to the screen, grinning. “We are officially inside the haunted Tipton Hotel.”

Jasmine’s smile fades behind the candy counter as Esteban closes his laptop. Jasmine knows all about the “true crime” craze of the Tipton, but she hadn’t actually seen somebody talk about it in person.

The man approaches the desk without lowering his phone. “Maddox,” he says flatly, his eyes glued to the little five-inch screen in his grubby hand.

“Welcome to the Tipton,” Esteban says, his voice warm, but his eyes anything but.

The man turns the camera toward him. “And this must be the famous manager.”

Esteban’s smile doesn’t move. “Recording is not permitted in the lobby without prior approval.”

Maddox laughs like rules don’t apply to him, since he is after all, a famous true crime influencer with millions of followers. “Relax, man. Free publicity.”

“At the Tipton,” Esteban says, “privacy is not publicity. No recording in my lobby.”

Maddox lowers the phone, but only a little.

Esteban types his name into the system. The reservation appears immediately. Three nights, single king, eighth floor. A normal, safe room.

Maddox finishes checking in, Esteban’s glare never leaving him as he disappears inside the elevator. But it isn’t the last that Esteban sees of him. About an hour later, Maddox appears in the lobby again, harassing Jasmine.

“You’re way too pretty to be working here,” Maddox says slyly, snagging a candy bar and opening it without paying. 

“I’m sixteen, you creep. And that’ll be three dollars.” Jasmine doesn’t cower at all, doesn’t let this man know that she fears him in any way. 

“Darling, I’m a celebrity. The amount of people who will be staying here because I posted about it will be worth thousands of these candy bars.” He takes a big bite of the king-sized Snickers bar in his hand, his eyes never leaving Jasmine’s.

“Bro, if you really wanted to seduce me with how you eat sweets, you’d eat a pudding cup with no spoon, not deep throat a Snickers.” She rolls her eyes. “Stealing candy and bothering a minor. Your parents must be so proud.” 

Maddox’s eyes go wide, and he quickly walks away. Jasmine flicks her long, straight black hair behind her shoulder and smiles triumphantly. 

Esteban is protective of all the women who work at the Tipton, but of Jasmine especially, since she is the only underage employee. Esteban, pushing fifty years old at this point, had never had children of his own. He thinks of Jasmine as the daughter he never had. So, Jasmine can mouth off to whoever she feels deserves it and Esteban lets her. He doesn’t scold her; he doesn’t tell her to be polite in fear of a bad Google Maps review. If ever any complaints come back to bite him in the ass, Esteban deals with it.

“I am not employing people pleasers; I am not employing suck ups. My employees will defend themselves, if need be, and I will very gladly stand right by their side every single time.”

Esteban, having just heard that whole exchange, tips his head at her approvingly. 

When Jasmine first came to the Tipton six months ago, she was shy, self-conscious, and had a huge fear of standing up for herself. She reminded Esteban of Millicent, the young lady who’d taken Maddie’s place when Maddie went to Antarctica. 

But Esteban wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. 

Not with what he knows now.

Jasmine considers Esteban her safe space, and Esteban makes sure that Jasmine knows that the Tipton would protect her no matter what. He smiles proudly, happy for Jasmine learning how to stand up for herself and knowing she would always have backup. 

At the end of Jasmine’s shift, Esteban personally drives her home himself, to ensure that she feels safe. He knows that Jasmine can handle herself, but he still feels the need to protect her. 

“Don’t worry about the candy bar,” he says as they pull up in front of her house. “I’m not worried about it. Hell, you could eat half the candy counter, and I wouldn’t be mad.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ramírez,” Jasmine laughs, “I’m not a bulimic though.”

Esteban chuckles. “You have a good night now, and feel free to call in tomorrow if you feel you need to. But I have a feeling that Maddox won’t be a problem otherwise, I can handle the candy counter.”

Esteban returns to the Tipton, happy that at least she will be protected. 

By sunset, Maddox has been warned three times.

Once for filming guests without permission, once for trying to enter the service hallway behind the bar, and once for trying to flirt with the underage candy counter girl. 

He rewatches the security footage from his office, one hand resting beneath his chin, the tiger on his forearm half-hidden by his sleeve.

On the screen, Jasmine laughs nervously. Maddox leans closer. Too close.

That very night, Maddox Cane decides to break into Suite 902. The caption reads, “Going where nobody has gone in a while.” At 11:46 p.m., Maddox posts one final video.

Behind him, the brass numbers on the door gleam softly in the dark.

Suite 902. Maddox holds his phone in front of him as he backs into the dark room, to show the audience that he is really entering the legendary suite that people enter but never leave from. 

“This is gonna be the tits,” he mutters to himself, smiling as he ends the video and immediately posts it to TikTok. Then he flicks on the light and turns around. He gasps sharply and his phone falls from his hand as he spots Esteban sitting in the armchair, his legs crossed, his hands clasped over one knee.

“You…” Maddox says.

Esteban stands slowly and begins walking toward him. 

“Don’t even think about opening that door,” Esteban says, “Nobody is on this floor. I’ve locked the elevator so it will not operate on this floor.”

Maddox backs up, cowering in a corner. 

Esteban picks the phone up from the carpet. Maddox freezes.

“No,” he says, voice cracking. “Don’t!”

Esteban glances at the screen, thumb brushing over the glass. “Still recording? No. Of course not.” He looks at Maddox then, almost disappointed. “You ended it too soon. Unlock it. Now.”

Esteban holds the phone out to Maddox, who unlocks it with a shaky hand. 

He taps the screen, and the red circle appears. Esteban turns the camera toward himself.

“Good evening,” he says warmly. “This is Esteban Julio Ricardo Montoya de la Rosa Ramírez, general manager of the world-famous Tipton Hotel, coming to you from Suite 902.”

Maddox stares at him from the floor, breathing hard. Esteban smiles into the lens.

“Tonight’s guest is Mr. Maddox Cane, a self-proclaimed true crime investigator who believes locked doors, grieving families, and hurt women make great entertainment.”

He turns the camera slowly, letting Maddox enter the frame.

“Say hello, Mr. Cane.”

“Please,” Maddox whispers.

Esteban smirks.

“Ah. So now he understands privacy.”

He turns the camera back to himself.

“For those of you just joining us, Mr. Cane has ignored hotel policy, harassed my staff, filmed guests without permission, and broken into a room that has been closed for many reasons.”

His eyes flick toward Maddox.

“Most importantly, he was warned.”

Maddox shakes his head. “I didn’t know…”

“You did,” Esteban says, still looking into the camera. “That is what makes this educational.”

He steps closer.

“At the Tipton, we value our guests. We value discretion. We value comfort, safety, and respect.”

His voice lowers.

“But some guests confuse privacy with permission.”

Esteban lowers the phone as he opens the door to the suite and quickly snatches off the little white card that dangles from the doorknob. He shuts the door with a loud BANG right after. 

DO NOT DISTURB.

“When you see this sign,” he says, “you are meant to walk away.”

The camera rises again. Esteban’s face fills the screen, calm and elegant and empty.

“Mr. Cane did not.”

For a long moment, the only sound is Maddox’s breathing.

Then Esteban smiles.

“So,” he says softly, “stay tuned.”

Esteban ends the video and tosses the phone to the floor. “I am not posting that,” he says, “I just wanted you to get a feel of what it’s like to feel uncomfortable while being recorded against your will. Mr. Cane, my hotel is not a place for you to make entertainment. It is not a place for you to be made famous; I don’t care about how popular the Tipton is. I care about safety, privacy.”

“Please, I’ll delete the video, just please, don’t hurt me,” Maddox begs, cowering into the corner as Esteban steps closer to him. 

“Many celebrities have stayed here at the Tipton. And I don’t mean influencers who make their fortune on invading peoples’ privacy, acting like a scumbag in public, flirting with children because you think they look good. You’re only famous because you have a cell phone with a camera and a pretty face. I’ve had award winning actors and musicians stay in my hotel before who had more respect than you do.”

I… I’m sorry,” Maddox stammers and Esteban stands up straight.

“We are way past sorry.”

“I promise, I- I’ll never do it again, please,” Maddox blubbers, burying his face in his hands.

Esteban feels no pity for him. He grabs Maddox by the shirt collar, and Maddox moves his legs to follow Esteban into the large, pristine bathroom. Esteban shoves him into the bathtub.

“I’ve had a long day,” he says, reaching into his coat pocket, “I don’t want to clean up a huge mess.”

Maddox’s eyes grow wide, and he trembles more as Esteban produces a large knife. 

For one second, Maddox only stares at the knife, and then Esteban moves. The blade sinks in beneath Maddox’s ribs, cutting through like butter, and the sound that leaves him is not a scream at first. It is a stunned, breathless little gasp, like his body has not caught up with what is happening. 

And then the pain arrives.

Maddox folds forward with a choke, his hands flying to Esteban’s wrist, fingers slipping uselessly against the sleeve of his black coat. Blood spills over his knuckles in hot, dark ribbons, dripping into the white porcelain tub with soft taps.

Esteban doesn’t flinch. He pulls the knife free. Only then does a scream escape from Maddox’s throat.

It tears through the bathroom, bouncing off tile and marble and the spotless mirror above the sink. He tries to crawl backward, but there is nowhere to go. His back hits the wall. His heel slips against the bottom of the tub. The shower curtain tears loose from three rings as he grabs for anything that might save him, but nothing does.

Esteban grabs him by the hair and forces his head back.

“You wanted the story,” he says.

Maddox sobs, shaking his head, red bubbling at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his trembling lip.

Esteban’s face is calm, almost bored.

“This is the part that no one will ever see.”

The knife comes down again, again, and again.

By the third time, Maddox is no longer begging. By the fifth, the tub has gone slick beneath him, white porcelain disappearing under spreading red. By the seventh, his body has become a twitching, ruined thing, silent choking and broken sound.

Esteban stops only when the room finally goes quiet.

For a while, he stands over Maddox’s body with the knife hanging loose at his side, blood dripping from the blade onto the bathroom floor one drop at a time.

Then he exhales. Never with relief, only silence.

The same silence that the Tipton has always been so good at keeping.

By the morning, the TikTok had three million views. But Maddox Cane has not been seen since.