villain!hollis x fem!reader
about: for over a year, the city has lived in fear of a killer known only as SAINT. he leaves his name written in blood at every crime scene. nobody knows who he is. nobody knows what he looks like. all anyone knows is that saint only kills people with secrets. cheaters. liars. people who betray the ones they claim to love. so why is he leaving notes for you? after all, you're engaged. and saint kills cheaters, doesn't he?
♪ - once upon a dream - lana del rey ( trust me, put this song on repeat and the story will hit ten times harder. )
the rain had been falling for so long that you couldn't remember when it started. it crawled down the windows in endless streams, turning the city below into a watercolor painting of headlights and neon signs. from the twentythird floor, everything felt far away. quiet. small.
you sat curled up on one side of the couch, a blanket draped over your legs and a mug of tea resting between your hands. the television flickered softly in the dim apartment. beside you sat your fiancé. or at least that's what he was called. fiancé.
the word felt heavier than the ring on your finger these days. most evenings looked like this. him scrolling through his phone. you pretending not to notice. the television filling the silence neither of you seemed interested in breaking.
the anchor's voice cut through the room. both of you looked up. a photograph appeared on screen. a known senator. you recognized him immediately. wealthy. powerful. always smiling for cameras. the image changed to police tape and flashing lights.
"the senator was found dead late last night inside his residence. authorities have not released an official statement regarding the circumstances surrounding his death."
you frowned slightly. your fiancé lowered his phone. for the first time all evening, he seemed interested in something. the report continued. allegations of corruption. misused funds. private investigations. rumors of affairs stretching back years. mistresses. hotel records. secret apartments. a carefully crafted public image beginning to crumble.
then the crime scene photograph appeared. blurred. but not enough. painted across the hardwood floor beside the body was a single word.
written in blood. your stomach twisted. the room suddenly felt colder. everybody knew that name. for almost a year, the city had belonged to him. another victim. another headline. another body. always someone with secrets. always someone who had hurt people. always someone who had something to hide. and always:
"jesus christ." your fiancé shook his head. "this is insane." you took a sip of your tea. it had already gone lukewarm. "i mean..." you shrugged. his eyes shifted toward you. "what?" - "if you're gonna cheat on your wife with half the city for twenty years, maybe don't be surprised when karma eventually catches up." he stared at you. "karma?" you laughed. "not saint." you pointed toward the television. "obviously."
another image flashed across the screen. crime scene tape. reporters. blood. "it's horrible." and it was. nobody deserved that. nobody deserved to die.
still, there was something unsettling about the conversations surrounding saint. people whispered. argued. debated. some called him a monster. others acted like he was some kind of vigilante. like the victims somehow deserved what happened to them.
your fiancé scoffed. "people online are actually defending him." - "people online defend anything." - "he murdered someone." - "i know." he shook his head again. "this city's losing its mind."
the news segment continued. you watched the rain race down the glass. for a moment neither of you spoke. the silence settled between you. familiar. you glanced toward him. toward the face you'd spent years loving. or at least trying to. sometimes you couldn't tell anymore.
the white gold engagement ring caught the light whenever you moved your hand. beautiful. expensive. you remembered how excited you'd been when he proposed. how your chest had ached from happiness. how you'd called everyone you knew. how you'd stared at the ring for hours afterward. now you barely noticed it.
you swallowed. "we should probably be careful." he didn't look away from the television. "what?" - "you know." you smiled weakly. "lock our doors. don't get murdered." a small joke. a bad one. but still. he gave a distracted hum. "yeah." that was all. not we'll be okay. not i'll protect you. not even a smile. just a word. your chest tightened unexpectedly.
the anchor kept talking. the rain kept falling. and somehow the apartment felt lonelier than being alone. you stood up first. "i'm gonna head to bed." your fiancé nodded. his eyes remained fixed on the television. "okay." you waited. for a second. two. nothing. then finally: "sleep well." still looking at the screen. you forced a smile. "you too."
the bedroom was dark except for the city lights bleeding through the curtains. you changed into an oversized shirt and slipped beneath the blankets. the mattress shifted slightly as you got comfortable. but the other side remained untouched. cold. empty. you stared at the ceiling. listening to the rain. listening to the faint murmur of the television still playing in the living room. he'd stay up for another hour. maybe two. you already knew.
the same way you knew he probably wouldn't come to bed and wrap his arm around you. the same way you knew neither of you would talk about the growing distance between you tomorrow. or the day after that. or the week after that. because pretending was easier.
you turned onto your side. the ring pressed lightly against your skin. once, it had felt like a promise. now it felt more like proof. proof that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. and somehow still wishing you were somewhere else.
outside, lightning flashed beyond the windows. for a brief second, the city glowed white. and somewhere out there, hidden among millions of people, saint was still walking free.
you closed your eyes. but for some reason, sleep didn't come. only that familiar emptiness. quiet. persistent. growing a little larger every day.
you woke to the sound of rain. again. for a few seconds, you stayed exactly where you were, staring at the ceiling as gray morning light filtered through the curtains. the apartment felt quiet. you reached across the mattress instinctively. empty. of course.
your fiancé had already left for work. a small part of you wasn't even surprised. there wasn't a note. just an empty side of the bed and the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the room. you sat up slowly.
the day moved exactly as expected. coffee. shower. makeup. clothes. the familiar routine you could practically perform with your eyes closed. outside, the city looked washed out beneath low hanging clouds. rainwater gathered along the sidewalks. umbrellas drifted through the streets like dark flowers. by the time you left the apartment building, the sky looked no brighter than it had at midnight.
your office was only a twenty minute walk away. normally you enjoyed it. today felt different. maybe it was because of the news. maybe because you'd fallen asleep thinking about saint. or maybe because the city itself felt strange lately.
everyone seemed more cautious. more aware. as if people had collectively started looking over their shoulders. you adjusted your coat and continued down the sidewalk. cars hissed through puddles. pedestrians hurried past beneath umbrellas. everything felt normal. until it didn't.
a movement. somewhere behind you. your head turned automatically. nothing. just people. just traffic. you exhaled. get a grip. you almost laughed at yourself. saint wasn't some ghost lurking around every corner. and besides, you hadn't done anything wrong. every victim had. that's what the news always said. cheaters. abusers. corrupt politicians. people with ugly secrets.
you were a graphic designer who spent most of her days choosing fonts and arguing with clients about color palettes. you weren't exactly saint's type. the thought should have reassured you. instead it lingered uncomfortably in the back of your mind. you quickened your pace. the feeling disappeared shortly after. or at least you convinced yourself it had.
work was boring. painfully boring. the kind of boring that made hours feel twice as long. you spent most of the day staring at a monitor. adjusting layouts. answering emails. sitting through meetings that could have been messages. occasionally laughing at jokes that weren't particularly funny. your coworkers talked about deadlines. weekend plans. office gossip. life moved forward exactly as it always had. normal. safe. predictable.
sometimes you wondered if this was what adulthood was supposed to feel like. a series of carefully scheduled obligations stretched across decades. at six thirty, you finally packed your things. the rain hadn't stopped. of course it hadn't.
darkness had already settled over the city by the time you left the building. streetlights reflected across wet pavement. cars moved like glowing streaks through the night. you slipped your headphones on. music low enough to hear your surroundings. just in case.
the streets were quieter now. most people already home. most office buildings dark. your footsteps echoed softly against the sidewalk. and then, that feeling again. you couldn't explain it. couldn't prove it. but suddenly it felt like somebody was there. watching. not close enough to see. not close enough to hear. just... present.
your shoulders stiffened. you glanced over your shoulder. nothing. the street behind you was nearly empty. rain. cars. shadows. you looked forward again. kept walking. your pulse a little faster now. you're imagining things. you had to be. you turned down a narrower street. a shortcut. one you used all the time. the buildings rose higher here. blocking most of the light. rainwater dripped from fire escapes. somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.
your footsteps echoed. one after another. steady. steady. steady. then suddenly: darkness. every streetlight went out at once. your breath caught. the entire street disappeared. one second there was light. the next there was nothing. only darkness and rain. your heart slammed painfully against your ribs. for a moment you couldn't move. couldn't breathe. couldn't think. then, the lights flickered back on.
one by one. buzzing overhead. the street returned. exactly as it had been. empty. silent. normal. you stood frozen for another second. your skin prickled. goosebumps climbing both arms. what the fuck. you laughed nervously. mostly because the alternative was admitting how scared you'd just been. old wiring. storm damage. something logical. it had to be.
you continued walking. a little faster this time. the feeling never fully disappeared. that strange awareness. that certainty that someone was there. just beyond your field of vision. just out of sight. watching. waiting.
by the time you reached your apartment building, your pulse had finally started settling. the lobby lights felt warmer than usual. safer. you rode the elevator to the twentythird floor. unlocked the door. stepped inside. home.
your fiancé was sitting exactly where you'd left him the night before. on the couch. television on. phone in hand. he glanced up briefly. "hey." - "hey." that was it. you considered telling him. about the streetlights. about the strange feeling. but the thought disappeared almost immediately. he'd tell you it was nothing. that you were overthinking. that the news had gotten into your head. and maybe he would be right.
so instead you slipped off your coat. hung it by the door. and kept the feeling to yourself. outside, rain continued tapping against the windows. and somewhere beneath the glow of the city lights, someone was still watching
the next day came and went without anything happening. which somehow felt disappointing. you woke before your alarm. the rain was still there. still tapping softly against the windows. still turning the city into shades of gray.
for a moment, you lay perfectly still. trying to remember the dream you'd just had. pieces of it lingered stubbornly in your mind. dark streets. rain. a figure standing at the end of a corridor. watching you. waiting. you never saw his face. never once. just a silhouette. tall. motionless. impossibly still. every time you tried to get closer, you woke up. you rubbed your eyes.
apparently saint had found his way into your subconscious now. just what you needed. the other side of the bed was already empty. again. you didn't even check your phone this time. you already knew there wouldn't be a message.
work felt exactly the same as yesterday. and the day before that. and the week before that. emails. meetings. layouts. revisions. clients changing their minds every twenty minutes. you spent half your afternoon adjusting a logo by two pixels because somebody in management thought it looked "more balanced."
by five o'clock, you were already exhausted. not physically. just... mentally. like somebody had slowly drained all the color from your day.
when you finally left the office, the sky was already dark. people hurried home. umbrellas bumped against each other. life continued. ordinary. predictable. safe. you should have felt grateful for that. instead you felt bored. which immediately made you feel guilty. because somewhere out there people were dying. and here you were wishing your life felt less repetitive.
that evening looked exactly like every other evening. the couch. the television. your fiancé beside you. physically present. emotionally somewhere else. you weren't even sure what he was scrolling through anymore. sometimes you wondered if he actually noticed when you left the room.
both of you looked up automatically. the anchor appeared. serious expression. familiar tone. your stomach sank before she even spoke. another one. you somehow knew.
"authorities have confirmed another victim connected to the individual known publicly as saint."
your fiancé muttered something under his breath. the screen changed. another face. another name. another life reduced to a headline. this time it was a real estate developer. married. father of three. currently under investigation for multiple affairs involving employees. the details sounded familiar. they always did. the report continued. police tape. reporters. crime scene photographs. and there it was. again. painted in red.
your eyes lingered on the screen. longer than they should have. you knew it was disturbing. you knew it was wrong. but lately... you couldn't stop wondering. who was he? what did he actually look like? how did somebody become something like that?
the city had spent almost a year talking about him. speculating. arguing. obsessing. and somehow nobody knew anything. no photographs. no confirmed sightings. nothing. just a name. a trail of bodies. and a growing mythology.
your fiancé shook his head. "they need to catch this guy." you hummed absentmindedly. still watching the screen. the reporter was describing the crime scene. neighbors. witnesses. possible timelines. your eyes followed every detail. trying to piece together a face from absolutely nothing.
"you've been paying a lot of attention to this lately." his voice pulled you back. you glanced at him. "what?" - "saint." you shrugged. "everyone's paying attention." which was true. the entire city was. there were podcasts now. reddit threads. conspiracy theories. people analyzing crime scene photos like they were solving a puzzle.
your fiancé scoffed. "i don't get the fascination." you looked back toward the television. toward the blurred crime scene. toward the blood. toward the name.
neither did you. not really. and yet something about it pulled at you. maybe because it was terrifying. maybe because it was mysterious. or maybe because it was the only unpredictable thing left in a life that felt increasingly scripted.
you looked around the apartment. the same couch. the same television. the same conversations. the same silence. every day felt identical. and somewhere in the middle of that realization, a thought slipped into your mind. quiet. dangerous.
what kind of person becomes a monster?
you stared at the screen. and for the first time, you found yourself wondering something else. not who saint killed. not what he did. but who he was when nobody was looking. outside, rain continued sliding down the glass. and somewhere beneath the city's endless lights, a pair of red eyes lingered on the twentythird floor.
the following day felt normal. you woke up. went to work. answered emails. sat through meetings. stared at the clock. the hours crawled by.
outside, the rain still hadn't stopped. the city felt trapped beneath it. gray skies. gray streets. gray people rushing from one place to another. everything looked washed out. lifeless.
by the time you left the office, darkness had already settled over the city. your umbrella rattled softly beneath the rain. cars moved through puddles. their headlights smeared across wet pavement. you took the same route home as always. the same streets. the same shortcuts. the same routine. and yet, that feeling returned. immediately.
you felt it before you even reached the second block. that strange awareness. that certainty that somebody was there. watching. except this time it felt different. closer. your stomach tightened. you glanced behind you. nothing. just strangers.
you kept walking. faster now. the feeling remained. like eyes pressed against the back of your neck. you hated it. hated how aware it made you of every shadow. every alley. every darkened storefront.
you were letting the news get to you. that was all. you turned down a side street. another shortcut. one you had used dozens of times before. the buildings towered overhead. the alley dimly lit by flickering streetlights. rainwater dripped from rusted fire escapes. your footsteps echoed softly.
"hey." you froze. a voice. male. slurred. you turned. a man stood near the mouth of the alley. middle aged. soaked from the rain. a bottle hanging loosely from one hand. even from a distance, you could tell he was drunk. very drunk. his eyes locked onto you. and immediately something felt wrong. your pulse quickened.
"where you going, sweetheart?" you looked away. kept walking. don't engage. don't stop. don't answer. he laughed. loud. ugly. the sound bounced off the walls around you.
"aw, come on." you heard footsteps. your stomach dropped. he was following you. "i'm talking to you." you walked faster. your grip tightened around your umbrella. "fucking bitch." the insult echoed through the alley. your heartbeat climbed higher. higher. higher. "too good to answer me?" you didn't look back. didn't stop. didn't say anything. the footsteps behind you grew faster. closer.
"hey!" panic surged through your chest. you started walking faster. then faster. then, running. the rain hit your face. your shoes splashed through puddles. your lungs burned almost immediately. behind you, you heard him shouting. heard footsteps.
you didn't know how long you ran. thirty seconds. a minute. maybe longer. all you knew was that your heart felt like it might explode. finally you stopped. breathless. exhausted. your chest heaving.
you spun around. ready to see him. ready to run again. but... nothing. the street stood empty. completely empty. rain. streetlights. silence. the man was gone. your breathing slowed. confusion replacing panic. where the hell had he gone?
you stared for another few moments. waiting. nothing. eventually you convinced yourself he'd simply given up. turned around. wandered off. that was the logical explanation. the normal explanation. so you went home. and tried not to think about it.
four hours later, you sat on the couch. a blanket over your lap. the television glowing softly against the darkness. your fiancé sat beside you. phone in hand. as always.
your stomach sank. the anchor appeared. serious. professional. you immediately knew.
another victim. the screen changed. a photograph appeared. and your entire body went cold. because you recognized him. the man from the alley. the drunk. the bottle. the face. it was him.
you sat upright instantly. "oh my god." your fiancé finally looked up. "what?" the report continued.
"the victim was discovered approximately two hours ago by local authorities."
crime scene photos flashed onto the screen. blurred. but not enough. and there, written across the pavement beside the body:
your hands suddenly felt numb. "that's him." your fiancé frowned. "what?" - "that's him." you pointed at the screen. your pulse roaring in your ears. "that's the guy from earlier." now he looked confused. "what guy?" and for the first time, you told him. about the alley. about the way the man had followed you. about running. about being scared. about turning around and finding nobody there. the entire story.
when you finished, silence followed. for a moment you thought maybe he'd finally understand why you were shaking. instead he sighed. leaned back against the couch. "that's crazy." you stared at him. waiting. "but still." your stomach dropped. "what?" he shrugged. "he didn't actually do anything to you." you blinked. "what?" - "i'm just saying." his eyes drifted back toward the television. "he was drunk."
you couldn't believe what you were hearing. "he chased me." - "you don't know that." your chest tightened. "are you serious?" he shrugged again. completely detached. completely calm. "i'm just saying that doesn't mean he deserved to die." the words hung in the room. heavy. cold. you looked at him. and suddenly realized he wasn't even paying attention anymore. he was already scrolling through his phone again. conversation over. like it didn't matter. like you didn't matter.
that night, you went to bed early. alone. again. but sleep felt impossible. every time you closed your eyes, you saw the man's face. the alley. the footsteps. the photograph on the news.
written in blood. your stomach twisted. because beneath the fear, beneath the horror, beneath everything... another feeling lingered. impossible to explain. the strange certainty that someone had been there. not the drunk man. someone else. someone hidden in the darkness. watching. and for some reason the thought wouldn't leave you alone.
you woke up to sunlight. actual sunlight. the first thing you'd seen besides rain in almost a week. the second thing you noticed was the time. your stomach dropped. "shit." you shot upright so quickly that the blankets tangled around your legs. 9:12am. you were supposed to be at work in eighteen minutes. "shit. shit. shit." you practically threw yourself out of bed.
your fiancé was already gone. of course he was. the apartment stood silent around you as you rushed through your morning routine. teeth. hair. makeup. clothes. coffee forgotten on the kitchen counter.
by the time you left the apartment, you were already late. the elevator felt too slow. the lobby felt too slow. the entire city felt too slow. you spent the next fifteen minutes half jogging through crowded sidewalks, weaving between strangers and apologizing every few seconds. your lungs burned. your shoes slapped against wet pavement. and somehow you still arrived late.
the day itself was a blur. emails. meetings. apologies. work. more work. you barely had time to think. which was probably a good thing. because every time your mind slowed down, it drifted back to the alley. to the drunk man. to the news report. to the blood. to the word.
you buried yourself in work until the office finally emptied. until the sky outside turned dark. until it was finally time to go home. you packed your bag. stood. and froze. your hand shot to your finger. nothing. your heart stopped. you checked again. the ring wasn't there. your engagement ring. gone. "no."
you immediately checked your desk. your bag. your pockets. nothing. panic flooded your chest. you retraced your entire day mentally. the office. the café. the street. the apartment. anywhere. everywhere. nowhere.
"fuck." your eyes stung unexpectedly. not because of the ring itself. at least not entirely. because as you stood there staring at your empty finger, another thought appeared.
quiet. uncomfortable. honest. would i even be this upset if nobody expected me to be? you looked down at your hand. the pale indentation where the ring usually sat. and hated yourself for even thinking it.
the walk home felt longer than usual. the city seemed darker. colder. every reflection in every window made you glance twice. every shadow made your pulse quicken. by the time you finally unlocked the apartment door, you felt exhausted.
"hey." your fiancé called from the living room. you barely answered. your mind still trapped on the missing ring. you slipped off your coat. hung it by the door. and froze.
the kitchen table. something sat on it. small. white. waiting. your stomach dropped. slowly, you approached. your heart beating harder with every step. a piece of folded paper. and beside it, your ring.
you stopped breathing. the white gold band gleamed beneath the overhead light. perfect. untouched. exactly where it should have been. except it shouldn't have been there. because you'd lost it. hours ago. your fingers trembled as you picked it up. then unfolded the note. one sentence. five words.
everything inside you went cold. because it wasn't the message. it wasn't even the ring. it was the handwriting. you knew that handwriting. every person in the city knew that handwriting.
you'd seen it a hundred times on television. on crime scene photographs. on newspaper covers. on blurred images shown during breaking news segments. sharp. messy. unmistakable. the same handwriting used to write one word over and over again.
your mouth went dry. he had been here. inside your apartment. inside your home. inside the place where you slept. where you showered. where you lived. your knees suddenly felt weak.
"what's that?" your fiancé's voice nearly made you jump. you spun around. the note immediately disappearing into your fist. "nothing." he glanced toward the table. toward the ring. he shrugged. already looking away again. already done with the conversation. you looked down at the note hidden in your hand. and decided instantly. you weren't telling him. not about the note. not about the handwriting. not about saint.
that night sleep felt impossible. every creak of the apartment made your pulse jump. every shadow seemed wrong. every sound felt too loud. you stared at the ceiling. wide awake. the note hidden inside your nightstand. the ring back on your finger. you hated how aware you were of both.
eventually you sat up. the living room television still glowed faintly beneath the door. your fiancé was still awake. of course he was. you walked out quietly. he looked up. surprised. "everything okay?" you hesitated. then shook your head. "can you come to bed?" his eyebrows lifted immediately. and you instantly regretted asking. because you recognized that look. that assumption. that expectation. your stomach twisted.
"i'm tired." the words came out quickly. before he could say anything. "i just..." you looked away. "don't really want to sleep alone tonight." something shifted in his expression. disappointment. annoyance. gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "okay." he muted the television. followed you back toward the bedroom.
the mattress dipped beneath his weight a few minutes later. his arm settled around your waist. warm. familiar. you closed your eyes. telling yourself this was enough. telling yourself you weren't alone. telling yourself you were safe. but as sleep slowly pulled at you, all you could think about was a single question. written in familiar handwriting. hidden inside your nightstand.
the days that followed blurred together. at first, you convinced yourself nothing had changed. you went to work. came home. sat on the couch. slept. woke up. repeated.
the city continued moving around you. people rushed through train stations. cars filled the streets. the rain finally stopped. life went on. but something felt different. because now you knew. someone had been inside your apartment. someone had touched your ring. someone had left a note. and somehow that knowledge followed you everywhere.
you arrived at work ten minutes early. the office was mostly empty. a few coworkers sat scattered throughout the room. the familiar sound of keyboards filled the air. you dropped your bag beside your desk. and froze. something was lying on your chair. a newspaper. folded neatly. waiting. your stomach tightened instantly.
slowly, you picked it up. there wasn't a note. there wasn't a name. just a newspaper opened to a familiar article. another victim. another headline. another story connected to saint. your pulse quickened. you looked around. nobody seemed interested. nobody seemed to be watching.
finally, you looked back down. at first, nothing seemed unusual. then you noticed the red marker. several words had been highlighted. random words. or at least they appeared random. your brows furrowed. you read the article again. then your eyes followed the markings. one word. then another. then another. and suddenly your blood ran cold.
Police investigators continue searching for answers after another victim linked to Saint was discovered. Witnesses reported seeing suspicious activity shortly before the incident. Authorities remind the public that you should remain vigilant while the investigation continues. The name SAINT was once again written at the scene.
for a moment, the entire office disappeared. the conversations. the phones. the clicking keyboards. gone. all you could see were those four words staring back at you from the page. your hands began trembling. because there was no mistaking it. no misunderstanding it. no explaining it away. he had been here. again. somehow. somewhere. close enough to leave a message on your desk. close enough to know exactly where you sat every morning.
you swallowed hard. your eyes darted around the office. every face suddenly looked unfamiliar. every shadow felt wrong. every corner seemed darker than it should have. who had placed it there? when? how long had it been waiting? and most importantly: how long had he been watching?
your gaze dropped back to the article. to the red markings. to the message.
the words should have terrified you. and they did. they absolutely did. so why couldn't you stop staring at them?
a week later, you were talking to one of your coworkers during lunch. nothing important. just complaining. about life. about work. about your relationship. "i don't know." you sighed. stirring your drink. "sometimes it feels like we're already married for forty years." your coworker laughed. "that's depressing." - "i know."
that evening another note appeared. folded neatly beside your apartment door. three words.
you didn't sleep that night.
after that, you started noticing shadows. everywhere. reflections in store windows. someone standing across the street. a figure disappearing around corners. always gone before you could get a proper look. always too far away. always just out of reach. sometimes you wondered if you were imagining it. other times you were certain you weren't.
you thought about him more than you should have. much more. you started reading articles. then interviews. then forums. then discussion boards. people talked about saint constantly. theories. sightings. rumors. conspiracies.
you told yourself it was curiosity. nothing more. but every night somehow turned into two in the morning. and every search bar somehow ended with the same name.
you learned things. not facts. there weren't many facts. but stories. patterns. some victims were exactly what the headlines claimed. abusers. predators. people who hurt others. others were harder to understand. more complicated. more human. and that bothered you. because monsters were supposed to be simple. saint wasn't.
and then came the day everything changed. not because of saint. not at first. but because for the first time in a very long time, you finally asked a question you weren't sure you wanted answered.
by the time you finally stepped through your apartment door that evening, your head was pounding. you didn't even bother turning on the lights. you just dropped your bag beside the couch and closed your eyes. for a moment. just one moment. silence.
"rough day?" your fiancé's voice came from the living room. you nodded. "yeah." he hummed. that was all. you weren't even sure why it bothered you anymore. it always went like this. you wanted comfort. he offered practicality. you wanted connection. he offered solutions. you wanted him. he offered nothing at all.
you slipped off your shoes. walked toward the kitchen. the apartment felt strangely cold. too big. too quiet. "you've been weird lately." you stopped. slowly turning toward him. he was sitting exactly where he always sat. phone in hand. television glowing against his face.
"what?" he shrugged. "i don't know." his eyes remained fixed on the screen. "you've just been..." he gestured vaguely. "distant." the laugh that escaped you sounded almost bitter. "distant?" finally, he looked up. "what's that supposed to mean?"
you stared at him. and suddenly everything felt exhausting. every ignored conversation. every lonely night. every moment spent sitting beside someone who felt miles away. "do you still love me?" the question slipped out before you could stop it.
the television continued murmuring softly in the background. for the first time all evening, he looked genuinely surprised. "what kind of question is that?" you swallowed. "a simple one." he looked away first. that hurt more than any answer could have. "of course i do."
but it sounded rehearsed. automatic. something people said because they were supposed to. not because they meant it. your chest tightened.
"then why does it feel like you don't?" another silence. longer this time. he sighed. rubbing a hand across his face. "i don't know what you want me to say." something cracked inside you. small. quiet. final. because neither did you. you didn't know what answer you'd been hoping for. only that this wasn't it. "forget it." you turned away. "seriously?" he sounded irritated now. "we're doing this again?" you froze.
again. as if your feelings were a recurring inconvenience. as if loving him had become something annoying. something repetitive. you felt your eyes burning. "goodnight." and before he could answer, you disappeared into the bedroom.
you cried quietly. facing the wall. feeling stupid. pathetic. embarrassed. the apartment felt too silent.
outside, rain tapped softly against the windows once again. you reached for your phone. more out of habit than anything. the screen illuminated the darkness. and immediately your breath caught. the notes app was open. you hadn't opened it. you knew you hadn't.
a new note sat at the top. created seven minutes ago. your hands began trembling. slowly, you tapped it. three words.
your stomach dropped. the room suddenly felt smaller. he knew. somehow, impossibly, he knew. the question. the silence. all of it. you stared at the screen. then read it again.
and the worst part? the absolute worst part? was that he was right. you had known. for months. maybe longer. you had just been too afraid to admit it.
twenty minutes later, you were pulling on a coat. your heart racing. your thoughts spinning. you couldn't breathe. couldn't think. couldn't stay here. you needed air. needed space. anything.
your fiancé glanced up when you entered the living room. "where are you going?" - "for a walk." he frowned. "it's raining." - "i know." you grabbed your keys. "i just need some air." he looked like he wanted to say something. instead he simply nodded. "okay." and that hurt too. because he didn't ask you to stay. didn't ask if you were okay. didn't follow you.
the city was almost empty. rain fell steadily from the black sky. cold droplets soaking through your hair. your clothes. your skin. you barely noticed. your feet carried you through familiar streets. past familiar buildings. toward somewhere you hadn't admitted you were going. until suddenly... you were standing there.
the alley. the same darkness. the same flickering streetlights. the same place you'd felt him before. your breathing felt uneven. your pulse loud. the rain continued falling. nothing moved. nothing happened. you almost laughed at yourself. what were you doing? what did you expect?
you were standing alone in the middle of the night searching for a serial killer. you sounded insane. and yet, that feeling. it returned immediately. that certainty. that presence. he was here. somewhere. watching.
your hands clenched into fists. "stop it." the words echoed softly through the alley. nothing answered. rain. silence. darkness. your throat tightened.
"i know you're there." still nothing. you felt tears burning behind your eyes. frustration. fear. anger. loneliness. all of it spilling together. "i know i'm not imagining this." your voice cracked. "so either leave me alone..." the rain grew heavier. "...or show yourself."
at the far end of the alley. your breath stopped. a silhouette stepped from the shadows. tall. far taller than you'd imagined. broad shoulders. dark clothing. and somehow... somehow you knew.
every instinct in your body screamed the same name. before you'd even seen his face. before he'd taken another step. before the lightning illuminated the alley.
he moved slowly. deliberately. rain cascading from long wavy hair. dark blond. almost brown beneath the darkness. his face remained partially hidden. until lightning split the sky.
and suddenly you saw him.
black makeup surrounded his eyes. smeared by rainwater. running down pale skin. his gaze locked onto yours instantly. bright. unnatural. red. impossibly red.
every news report. every article. every headline. every fear. standing right in front of you.
for a moment neither of you spoke. he continued walking. slowly. steadily. until your entire body screamed at you to run. but you couldn't move. couldn't breathe. couldn't look away. because he was terrifying. and beautiful. and somehow that felt even worse.
danger given a human face.
he stopped only a few feet away. close enough now. close enough that you could see rain sliding down his throat. across bare skin. close enough to realize just how large he was. how easily he could hurt you. his expression remained unreadable. almost calm. like this meeting had been inevitable. like he'd known it would happen all along.
his gaze drifted across your face. studying. observing. memorizing. then lower. your lips. back to your eyes. your pulse thundered inside your ears. neither of you spoke. the rain filled the silence instead. steady. endless. cold.
he took another step forward. and another. until there was barely any space left between you. your entire body screamed at you to run. you didn't. his presence felt overwhelming up close. not because of his size. not because of the murders. because he seemed completely unafraid. completely certain. as if the entire city could be hunting him and he still wouldn't feel the need to look over his shoulder. as if he belonged exactly where he was.
his eyes never left yours. not once. you opened your mouth. closed it again. every question suddenly felt stupid. who are you? why me? how long have you been watching? you already knew he wouldn't answer.
the corner of his mouth twitched. barely noticeable. almost amused. almost. slowly, one gloved hand lifted. black lace. rain clinging to the fabric. long dark nails extending from the fingertips. beautiful. unnatural. you should have stepped back. instead you stood perfectly still.
his fingers brushed beneath your chin. lightly. so lightly it almost wasn't a touch at all. tilting your face upward. forcing your gaze back to his. cold. that was the first thing you noticed. cold despite the warmth of his skin beneath the glove. your breath caught. because suddenly all you could think about was the fact that these were the same hands.
the same fingers. the same nails. that had left messages written in blood across the city. the same hands people saw in nightmares. the same hands that had ended lives. and yet his touch was impossibly gentle. careful. as if you were something fragile.
his gaze drifted downward. your lips. lingering there for a second too long. then back to your eyes. your stomach twisted. fear. it had to be fear. nothing else made sense. lightning flashed somewhere above. illuminating the alley. the black makeup running down his face. the rain dripping from his hair. the impossible red of his eyes. for one terrible second he looked less like a man and more like something dragged out of a nightmare. something beautiful enough to follow. something dangerous enough to ruin you.
then his hand fell away. the loss of contact felt immediate. noticeable. wrong. he stepped back. the distance slowly returning between you. "wait." the word escaped before you could stop it.
he paused. rainwater dripping from his hair. his shoulders. but he never spoke. never smiled. never gave you an answer. he only looked at you. one final time. and somehow that was worse. because there was something in his expression. something knowing. like he had been waiting for this. like he knew exactly what would happen next. before you did.
then he turned and disappeared into the darkness. without a single word. leaving you alone beneath the rain. shaking. breathless. and more afraid of him than ever. because monsters weren't supposed to be beautiful. and they definitely weren't supposed to be gentle.
you didn't sleep. not really. every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. the rain dripping from wavy hair. the black makeup running down his face. the impossible red of his eyes. the feeling of cold lace brushing against your skin.
you could still feel it. his hand beneath your chin. gentle. careful. the same hand that had written messages in blood across the city. the thought should have terrified you. instead it kept you awake until sunrise.
work was a disaster. you read the same email three times. forgot meetings. made mistakes you normally never made. your coworkers noticed. you blamed it on lack of sleep. which wasn't technically a lie. but it wasn't the truth either. because every time your thoughts drifted, they drifted back to him.
that evening, you walked home through the alley. slowly. almost hopefully. nothing. just rainwater. darkness. empty streets. you stood there for almost five minutes before finally leaving. feeling ridiculous.
the next day was worse. because now you were looking for him. every shadow. every rooftop. every reflection in every shop window. your eyes searched automatically. constantly. obsessively. nothing. no notes. no messages. no saint.
your fiancé noticed. of course he did. you barely listened when he spoke. barely touched your food. barely slept. and every time he asked what was wrong, you told him you were tired. which was easier than explaining the truth. because what truth was there to explain? that a serial killer had looked at you once and now you couldn't stop thinking about him?
three days passed. then four. then five. nothing. until that evening.
your stomach dropped instantly. the television screen illuminated the room. another victim. another body. another crime scene. and there it was. again.
written in blood. the reporter continued talking. describing the location. the timeline. the discovery. your heart stopped. because you knew that street. you knew it well. it was less than five minutes from your apartment. the alley beside your building. the alley you walked past almost every day. your breath caught.
for a second, you couldn't hear anything else. just the blood rushing in your ears. he was close. closer than ever. and somehow... somehow it felt intentional.
the next morning, a newspaper waited on your kitchen table. your fiancé had already left for work. the apartment stood silent. you stared at it. then slowly picked it up. the article covered the murder. the photographs. the investigation. the endless speculation. and beneath the headline, written in familiar handwriting, six words.
YOU SHOULD BE AFRAID OF ME
you stared at the words. unable to look away. because for the first time since all of this had started, it felt less like a warning. and more like a challenge. a quiet laugh escaped you. "i'm not afraid of you."
"really?" the voice came from somewhere behind you. your entire body locked up. every muscle. every breath. every thought. gone. because the voice didn't sound the way you'd imagined. it wasn't loud. it wasn't threatening. it wasn't angry. it was calm. low. smooth.
the kind of voice that didn't need to raise itself to be heard. the kind that settled somewhere deep beneath your ribs. and somehow that terrified you more. goosebumps erupted across your skin.
slowly, far too slowly, you turned around. and there he was. standing inside your apartment. as if he belonged there. as if locked doors meant nothing. as if fear meant nothing.
your stomach dropped. for a second you forgot how to breathe. he looked different in daylight. worse. more real. long dark blond hair fell damp around his shoulders. black clothing. black gloves. black makeup smeared around red eyes. every headline. every nightmare. every warning. standing six feet away from you. watching.
your hand shot toward the knife block before you could stop yourself. metal scraped against wood. the knife barely reached your fingers before a dark laugh left him. the sound rolled through the room. soft. amused. dangerous. your pulse stumbled.
"there she is." his voice again. god. you hated the effect it had on you. every word felt deliberate. careful. like he chose them long before speaking them.
"stay away from me." the command sounded weak. breathless. he glanced toward the knife. then back at you. something flickered across his expression. amusement. "i thought you weren't afraid."
slowly, he stepped forward. once. twice. you stepped backward automatically. until your lower back collided with the kitchen counter. nowhere left to go. he kept coming. not fast. he moved like someone who had never once doubted the outcome. your heart pounded harder. harder. harder.
his eyes never left yours. not once. you hated that. you hated how seen it made you feel. his hand closed gently around your wrist. firm. effortless. the knife suddenly felt childish. useless. carefully, he removed it from your grip. as if taking something fragile from a child. then set it behind him. out of reach.
his gaze drifted across your face. slowly. your throat tightened. "you've been looking for me." not a question. a fact. you swallowed. "how would you know that?" the corner of his mouth twitched. barely. then his eyes flicked briefly toward the kitchen window. toward the alley outside. toward every night you'd spent searching shadows.
when his gaze returned to yours, the answer was obvious. he'd seen. all of it. every time.
his gloved hands settled against the counter on either side of you. not touching. not trapping. and yet you couldn't move. couldn't look away. couldn't stop staring.
"what do you want from me?" the words came out quieter than intended. for a moment, he simply looked at you. those red eyes drifting slowly across your face. then lower. to your hand. to the ring. his gaze lingered there. something unreadable flickering behind his expression. when he finally looked back up, the corner of his mouth twitched again.
"what do you still want from him?" your breath caught. the question hit harder than it should have. because you knew exactly who he meant. and because you didn't have an answer. he noticed. of course he did. slowly, his hand lifted. black lace. long nails. his fingers wrapped gently around your wrist. then lower. finding your hand. finding the ring.
the cold metal caught the kitchen light. your engagement ring. his thumb brushed across it.
your entire body tensed. the touch was innocent. almost. and somehow that made it worse. your gaze dropped to his hand over yours. to the contrast between black lace and white gold. between promise and temptation. between safety and ruin. you should have pulled away. you didn't.
for the first time, something shifted in his expression. barely visible. not amusement. not satisfaction. something warmer. something dangerous. his eyes lifted back to yours. and suddenly there wasn't enough air in the room. your heart stumbled. then stumbled again. because he was looking at you differently now.
not like a stranger. not like a target. like someone who had finally stepped close enough to touch a dream. the realization sent a shiver down your spine. his gaze dropped briefly to your lips. lingered. returned to your eyes. and for one impossible second, neither of you moved. the city disappeared. the apartment disappeared. everything disappeared. except him. except the feeling of his hand around yours.
his hand slipped from yours. the sudden absence felt wrong. you stared at him. completely unable to think. unable to speak. finally, you managed: "you didn´t answer my question." his gaze held yours. steady. knowing. the ghost of that almost-smile appearing once more. then, quietly: "actions tell the truth long before words do."
your pulse jumped. and before you could answer he stepped back. the distance returning. the spell breaking. "wait!" but he was already moving. already disappearing. the same way he always did. like a shadow slipping through your fingers. seconds later he was gone. leaving behind nothing but silence.
the scent lingered long after he was gone. dark. clean. impossible to place. you stood frozen in the kitchen. staring at the space he'd occupied only seconds ago. your heart still refusing to slow down. your hand still resting against the counter where his had been. what the hell was wrong with you?
the question followed you all day. to work. to lunch. to every meeting. to every email. every time you caught yourself drifting back to him. back to the kitchen. back to the way he'd looked at you. you hated it. hated how easily he'd gotten under your skin. hated how often you found yourself glancing toward windows. toward reflections. toward shadows. as if expecting him to be there.
you hated that part of you wanted him to be. because none of this was normal. none of this was okay. he was a murderer. a serial killer. a man whose name appeared beside bodies on the evening news. and somehow you'd stood in your kitchen staring at him instead of running. instead of screaming. instead of calling the police.
the worst part was that you couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd touched your hand. the way he'd looked at you. the way his voice had settled somewhere deep inside your chest and refused to leave. it felt unfair. to your fiancé. to yourself. to everything you'd spent years building. and yet every time you looked down at your engagement ring, you found yourself thinking about black lace gloves wrapped around your wrist. you hated that too.
the day crawled by. slowly. painfully. by the time you finally stepped through the apartment door, your head was pounding. your fiancé was already home. standing in the kitchen.
"hey." - "hey." he glanced at you briefly. "long day?" you nodded. "dumb client." - "that sucks." you hummed. conversation over. just like that. the silence settled between you again. familiar. comfortable. empty.
later that evening the two of you sat on opposite ends of the couch. the television filled the room with noise neither of you were paying attention to. your fiancé suddenly sat forward.
"oh." you glanced up. "what?" - "forgot to tell you." he rubbed the back of his neck. "i'm gone tomorrow night." your stomach tightened unexpectedly. "what?" - "business trip." he shrugged. like it wasn't important. like he'd remembered it thirty seconds ago. "just one night."
you stared at him. waiting. for something. an apology. a smile. a kiss. anything. none came. he simply reached for the remote. changed the channel. and that was that. business trip. one night. like you were discussing weather. not a relationship.
that night felt strangely quiet. you lay awake beside him. watching shadows move across the ceiling. listening to the distant hum of traffic below. his back was turned toward you. your eyes drifted toward the nightstand. toward your ring. toward the darkness beyond the bedroom window. and despite every logical thought in your head, despite every warning, despite every reason you should have known better, another thought slipped in. impossible to ignore. tomorrow night... you would be alone. and for some reason your pulse quickened at the thought.
the day passed in a blur. you barely remembered any of it. emails. meetings. conversations. none of them stayed. every thought eventually circled back to him. you kept wondering if he'd known. about the business trip. about your fiancé being gone. the thought made your stomach twist. because he probably had. or maybe he hadn't.
maybe you were just looking for him everywhere now. finding him in coincidences. finding him in shadows. finding him in places he didn't exist. you weren't sure which possibility frightened you more.
night arrived. quiet. still. for the first time in years, the apartment belonged entirely to you. no television. no scrolling. no distant sounds from the living room. just silence. you had almost convinced yourself you were imagining things. almost.
then came the knock. three slow taps against the door. your entire body froze. the apartment suddenly felt too quiet. too small. another knock. your pulse stumbled. you already knew. before you even stood up. before you crossed the room. before your hand reached the handle. you knew.
slowly, you opened the door. and there he was. standing beneath the hallway light. looking down at you. for a moment neither of you spoke. your breath caught. god. he was unfair to look at. those dangerous red eyes fixed entirely on you. and suddenly every promise you'd made to yourself disappeared. all the reasons. all the warnings. all the logic. gone. because he was here.
his gaze moved across your face. lingering. almost as if he was making sure you were real too. you should have closed the door. you didn't. you should have told him to leave. you didn't. you should have been afraid. you weren't.
something flickered across his expression. like he could hear every thought inside your head. then he stepped forward. crossing the threshold. and suddenly there was no distance left between you. your eyes closed. just for a second. and he took it as permission.
suddenly, his hands found you. there was nothing hesitant about it. nothing uncertain. his gloved fingers closed around your jaw, the sharp tips of his nails pressing lightly against your skin. not enough to hurt. just enough to remind you who he was.
and before another thought could form, he pulled you toward him. like there had never been another possible outcome. like this moment had belonged to him long before it belonged to you. you should have stopped him. instead, you let yourself fall.
his lips met yours and the world seemed to disappear all at once. he kissed you like a man who had never doubted himself a single day in his life. like a man convinced the universe would eventually hand him everything he wanted. and somehow, standing there beneath his hands, you almost believed it too. your knees felt weak. your pulse thundered. and with every second, it became harder to remember where fear ended and something far more dangerous began.
when reality finally crashed back into you, it hit hard. violent. suffocating. your breath caught. you stepped back suddenly. staring at him. your hands trembling. "wait." the word came out broken. panic flashed through you. sharp. real.
he watched you silently. unmoving. "you kill people." your voice shook. "people like me." the words hung between you. your chest rising and falling too quickly. "cheaters."
those red eyes never left yours. "so what is this?" you whispered. "what am i?" for the first time, something shifted in his expression. something darker. almost offended. almost amused. like the answer should have been obvious. his head tilted slightly. and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. certain. absolute.
the word hit harder than it should have. your stomach dropped. and somehow you couldn't look away. his thumb brushed softly across your cheek. almost affectionate. which somehow felt more dangerous than any threat.
"i'm not going to hurt you." the words weren't reassuring. they sounded like a promise. the kind only someone completely convinced of his own righteousness could make. the kind of promise a man with a god complex would believe with his entire soul. something dangerous flickered across his expression. "unless you ask me to."
the space between you seemed to disappear entirely. his gaze remained fixed on yours. patient. certain. as if he already knew exactly how this would end.
every warning screamed at you to run. every crime scene. every terrible thing you'd ever heard about him. and somehow none of it mattered. because he was here. because he was looking at you. because for the first time in a very long time, you felt seen. truly seen.
as though the decision had already been made. his hands found you again. and suddenly the distance between you disappeared completely. one second you were standing. the next, the ground was gone beneath your feet. a surprised breath escaped you as he lifted you effortlessly. your arms instinctively finding his shoulders. your legs wrapping around him.
he set you down on the kitchen counter. hard enough to steal another breath from your lungs. immediately his mouth found yours again. deeper this time. more certain. like he'd grown tired of pretending there was any point resisting what had been building between you.
every kiss felt dangerous. every second felt wrong. and somehow that only made it harder to pull away. his hands wandered slowly. deliberately. as if committing every detail to memory.
your fingers found his shoulders. the hard lines of muscle beneath black fabric. the reality of him. because somehow he still felt impossible. like something dragged from a dream. or a nightmare. maybe both.
the world narrowed. rain against the windows. shared breaths. soft moans. the feeling of being looked at as though you were the only thing that existed. eventually he pulled back just enough to look at you. really look at you. his red eyes searching your face.
"tell me to stop." his voice was low. completely convinced you wouldn't. your heart hammered against your ribs. every warning screamed inside your head. every consequence. every terrible decision waiting on the other side of this moment. and still you couldn't look away. couldn't step back. couldn't make yourself want him gone.
something shifted in his expression then. small. knowing. like he'd already understood the answer long before asking. and when he finally lifted you into his arms again, you didn't protest. your forehead resting briefly against his shoulder. your pulse refusing to slow.
he carried you through the dark apartment. past the living room. past every opportunity to turn back. toward the bedroom. your bedroom. the one you shared with your fiancé. somehow that realization hurt. somehow it made everything worse. and still, neither of you stopped. because somewhere along the way, the line had already been crossed.
the next morning felt unreal. for a few seconds, you forgot where you were. forgot what you'd done. forgot why your heart was already racing before your eyes had fully opened. then you turned your head. and found an empty pillow beside you. cold. untouched. saint was gone. of course he was.
the room stood perfectly still around you. no trace of him. no note. no message. no red eyes waiting in the shadows. just silence. for a moment you wondered if you'd imagined everything. then you stood up. and caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror.
faint black smudges stained your skin. along your neck. across your lips. low on your stomach. and scattered along your thighs. makeup. his makeup. proof. proof that he had been here. proof that last night had happened. proof that you'd crossed a line you could never uncross.
"oh my god." the words left you in a whisper. panic immediately followed. your fiancé. your engagement ring. your apartment. your life. what the hell had you done?
you scrubbed at the marks far harder than necessary. but even after they disappeared, the feeling remained. like he'd left fingerprints somewhere deeper. somewhere you couldn't wash clean.
work was impossible. again. you answered emails. sat through meetings. nodded during conversations. but your mind stayed somewhere else entirely. back in your apartment. back with him. the worst part wasn't what had happened. the worst part was how easily your mind kept returning to it. little things.
the way he'd looked at you. the way he'd noticed things nobody else did. the way he made you feel like the only person in the room. the only person in the city. the only person in the world. it was ridiculous. dangerous. stupid. and somehow you couldn't stop.
that evening your fiancé was already home. the television glowed softly in the darkness. some reality show played in the background. something neither of you were actually watching. you sat beside him. close enough to touch. somehow miles apart.
"you look tired." you glanced toward him. he wasn't even looking at you. just staring at the screen. "long day." - "yeah." he nodded. conversation over.
your chest tightened unexpectedly. because suddenly another memory surfaced. saint looking directly at you. noticing every reaction. every hesitation. every thought. as though missing something wasn't even possible for him. you hated yourself for making the comparison. and yet you couldn't stop.
the words cut through the room. both of you looked up automatically. your stomach sank instantly. another victim. another crime scene. another headline. another body.
the reporter began speaking. you barely listened. until a photograph appeared on the screen. and suddenly the world stopped. your breath caught.
your stomach dropped. because you knew that face. you knew him. a friend. not your closest friend. but someone you'd known for years. someone you'd laughed with. someone who'd been at birthdays. at dinners. at random nights out. someone real. someone you cared about.
your hand flew to your mouth. "oh my god." the room blurred. the reporter kept talking. investigation. crime scene. timeline. none of it mattered. because then the photograph changed. and there it was. written in blood.
your vision swam. for the first time since this had begun, it wasn't a politician. it wasn't a stranger. it wasn't somebody from the news.
it was someone you knew. someone whose number still existed in your phone. someone whose voice you could still remember. your eyes burned. beside you, your fiancé immediately sat forward. "wait." his voice sounded distant. confused. shocked. "you knew him." you nodded. unable to speak.
the television continued talking. you weren't listening anymore. because suddenly all you could think was: why? why him? what secret could possibly justify this? what could he have done?
for the first time since meeting saint you didn't feel fascinated. you didn't feel curious. you didn't feel seen. you felt heartbroken.
later that night, you sat on the edge of the bed. staring at nothing. your fiancé appeared in the doorway. hesitating. for once. actually hesitating. "hey." you looked up. his expression softened slightly. "you okay?" you shook your head. honestly. "no." he nodded slowly. and to your surprise, crossed the room.
sitting beside you. not saying anything. not trying to fix it. not trying to explain it away. just sitting there. quietly. you stared at the floor. and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
the silence felt different tonight. sadder. heavier. human. eventually his shoulder brushed yours. and somehow that almost made you cry. because all day you'd been thinking about saint. and now all you could think about was the fact that someone was dead. and for the first time since this began you weren't sure what kind of story you were living in anymore.
the next day felt wrong. everything felt wrong. you sat at your desk staring at a screen you hadn't actually read in twenty minutes. your friend was dead. dead. and every time you closed your eyes, you saw the photograph from the news. the crime scene. the blood. his name.
your stomach twisted. because for the first time, the victim hadn't been a headline. he'd been real. he'd had a laugh. a favorite drink. inside jokes. a life. and saint had taken it.
the same saint whose hands had touched you. whose voice still lingered somewhere in your head. whose makeup had stained your skin. the realization made you sick. what the hell had you done?
that evening it rained again. of course it did. you barely remembered leaving your office. barely remembered walking. all you knew was that your feet eventually carried you toward the alley. the same alley.
your chest felt tight. anger sat heavy inside you. grief. confusion. guilt. everything at once. and then, that feeling. immediate. familiar. his presence.
you stopped walking. "don't." your voice echoed softly through the rain. the darkness remained silent. "don't come out." your throat tightened. "just leave me alone."
then movement. your heart sank instantly. because part of you had known he would come. he stepped from the shadows. rain dripping from long hair. black lace. red eyes. beautiful. horrible. your chest hurt just looking at him.
"you killed him." he didn't answer. didn't defend himself. didn't deny it. he simply looked at you. calm. as though he already knew every word you were about to say. "he was my friend." your voice cracked. "do you understand that?"
nothing. rain tapped softly against concrete. "he was my friend." you hated how desperate you sounded. how hurt. how broken.
"why?" for a second something shifted in his expression. barely. then: "because he wasn't yours." the words hit like a slap. you stared at him. "what?" his gaze never wavered. "you knew him." calm. "you didn't know what he was." your stomach twisted. "no." you shook your head immediately. "don't." because you already knew where this was going. "don't do that."
he stepped closer. slowly. like approaching a frightened animal. "he lied to them." your breath caught. "saint-" - "not just one." his voice remained calm. terrifyingly calm. "seven." you froze. he took another step. rain dripping from long hair.
"seven women." another. "all at the same time." your stomach twisted. "you're lying." his expression didn't change. not even slightly. "one was nineteen." your breath caught. "another thought he was going to marry her." another step. "another paid his rent for almost a year." another. "he told every one of them they were special." your eyes burned. "stop."
"he laughed about them." his voice lowered. quieter now. somehow worse. "called them stupid." another step. "called them easy." another. "kept photographs." your stomach dropped. "saint..." - "he liked collecting them."
"that's what your friend was." his gaze locked onto yours. cold. certain. absolute. "a collector." you didn't want to believe it. didn't want him turning your friend into another justification. another victim. another secret. another body.
"look at me." quiet. firm. your heart stumbled. because you did. of course you did. those red eyes locked onto yours. unmoving. patient. waiting. like they always were. "would you forgive that?" you opened your mouth. nothing came out. "would you want them to stay?"
"would you want them to spend the rest of their lives being loved like that?" your throat tightened. because suddenly he wasn't talking about your friend anymore. and both of you knew it.
"stop." your voice sounded small. he ignored it. "you cried because he died." another step. "but you never cried because of what he did." your chest tightened. "stop." - "why?" he was close now. too close. "because it makes you uncomfortable?" your eyes burned. "because you know i'm right?"
and somehow that was the worst part. because a tiny part of you hated how convincing he sounded. hated how easily he could twist grief into doubt. doubt into sympathy. sympathy into guilt. until suddenly you didn't know what you were feeling anymore.
"come here." the words were quiet. not a command. not quite. but your body moved before your brain could object. one step. then another. until his arms wrapped around you. warm. solid. immediate. your forehead pressed against his chest. rain soaking both of you. his hand slid into your hair. holding you there. not letting go. and for a horrible moment it felt safe.
"i know." his voice rumbled above you. soft. dangerously soft. "i know." your eyes closed. you hated yourself for it. hated how good it felt not to be alone. hated how easy it was.
"you're safe with me." your stomach twisted. because those words should have sounded insane. coming from him. they should have terrified you. instead they felt like relief.
after a long silence, his hand found your face. gentle. almost impossibly gentle. his thumb brushed away a raindrop that had settled on your cheek. or maybe it wasn't rain. you weren't sure anymore. his eyes never left yours.
"tell me something." his voice was quieter now. softer. dangerously soft. your pulse slowed against his chest. somehow you felt warm despite the rain. despite everything.
"what?" he studied you for a moment. like he already knew the answer. like he simply wanted to hear you say it. "where do you feel safer?" your breath caught. the question sounded innocent. it wasn't. you both knew it wasn't.
your eyes dropped briefly. to the space between you. to his black gloves resting against your waist. to the rain dripping from his hair. slowly, your gaze returned to his. you didn't answer. because you knew. and because saying it out loud felt wrong.
he noticed. he always noticed. his thumb brushed your cheek again. patient. waiting. "with him?" your chest tightened. images flashed through your head. empty dinners. half-finished conversations. cold sheets. silence. always silence.
then saint. the notes. the alley. his arms around you. the way he'd looked at you. the way he'd listened. the way he'd seen you. your throat tightened.
"no." the answer barely rose above a whisper. something shifted behind his eyes. satisfaction. not because you'd answered correctly. because he'd known you would.
"do you think he'd protect you?" you swallowed. "no." - "would he notice when you're hurting?" another silence. "no." - "would he spend the rest of his life making sure you're loved?"
your heart stumbled. because nobody had ever asked you things like that. nobody had ever spoken to you like you were something precious. something worth keeping. your eyes burned.
he stepped closer. if that was even possible. "nothing would happen to you." his voice was calm. certain. absolute. the same certainty he carried into everything. the certainty of a man who believed he was always right. "not while i'm here." your stomach twisted. because those words should have terrified you. instead they felt like comfort.
"i'd see you." quiet. "every day." his forehead brushed yours. "i'd listen." your eyes closed. against your own will. "i'd choose you." the words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. finding every lonely place. every broken place. every place your fiancé had stopped reaching years ago.
"could you imagine that?" his voice was barely above a whisper now. "what?" - "us."
your heart stopped. for a moment neither of you moved. rain fell around you. the city disappeared. everything disappeared. except him. except the question. except the terrifying realization that you'd already imagined it. more than once.
his gaze searched yours. waiting. patient. certain. like he already knew the answer. and maybe he did. because he could feel the hesitation. the last pieces of resistance still clinging to you. the part of you trying desperately to remember why this was wrong. why he was wrong.
his hand slid gently into your hair. tilting your face toward him. your pulse stumbled. "could you?"
the entire city seemed miles away. there was only him. only those red eyes. only the feeling of being seen. truly seen. for the first time in years.
you opened your mouth. nothing came out. his gaze softened. just slightly. dangerously. his thumb brushed your cheek. and then he kissed you. slow. gentle. nothing like the first time. there was no urgency in it. no hunger. no desperation. just certainty.
the kind that made your chest ache. the kind that felt less like temptation and more like permission. permission to stop fighting. permission to stop pretending. permission to want what you wanted.
when he finally pulled away, his forehead lingered briefly against yours. your eyes remained closed. your breathing uneven. your heart hopelessly lost. "could you?" he asked again. so quietly you almost missed it. this time the answer came immediately. before doubt. before logic. before guilt.
silence. for a moment he simply looked at you. and there it was. that expression. small. satisfied. victorious. not because he'd won an argument. because he'd gotten exactly what he'd come for. a confession.
the walk home felt strangely quiet. the rain had finally stopped. but saint's words remained. echoing somewhere deep inside your chest. you barely remembered unlocking the apartment door. barely remembered stepping inside. until a familiar smell stopped you.
you froze. food. real food. not takeout. not leftovers. food. your brows furrowed. slowly, you walked toward the kitchen. and stopped.
your fiancé stood by the stove. a wooden spoon in one hand. looking vaguely confused by whatever he was trying to cook. for a second, neither of you spoke.
"oh." he glanced up. "hey." you stared. "what are you doing?" he looked down at the pan. then back at you. "cooking." you couldn't help it. a small laugh escaped you. "i can see that." - "rude." for the first time in what felt like forever, a faint smile appeared on his face. small. awkward. it hurt. for some reason, it hurt.
later the two of you sat together at the kitchen table. he'd somehow managed not to burn anything. which honestly felt impressive. you barely ate. your appetite had disappeared hours ago. but he didn't comment on it. didn't push. didn't ask questions. he just kept quietly moving food onto your plate whenever it became empty. like he thought you wouldn't notice. you did.
after a while he finally spoke. "he was a good guy." your chest tightened. immediately. you stared down at your plate. unable to answer. "i know you guys were close." you swallowed. hard. "yeah." silence. then: "i'm sorry." simple. honest. nothing else. and somehow that almost made it worse.
that night the apartment felt quieter than usual. softer somehow. less lonely. you were brushing your teeth when you noticed movement behind you in the bathroom mirror. your fiancé. leaning against the doorframe. watching you. you raised an eyebrow. mouth still full of toothpaste. "what?" he shrugged. "nothing." - "creepy." a small laugh left him. "fair."
when you finally climbed into bed, he was already there. reading something on his phone. for once, he put it down. immediately. without you asking. without you saying anything. you switched off the lamp.
darkness settled around the room. for a moment neither of you spoke. then his hand found yours beneath the blanket. simple. warm. familiar. your breath caught. because it had been so long since he'd done that. so long.
"hey." his voice was quiet. sleepy. you turned your head slightly. "yeah?" there was a pause. a small one. like he was deciding whether to say it. "i know i haven't been great lately." your heart sank. immediately. "you don't have to-" - "let me finish." his thumb brushed across your knuckles. a nervous habit he'd always had. "i know things have been weird."
"and i know i probably don't say it enough." your throat tightened. "but..." another pause. longer this time. "i'm really glad i get to come home to you." the room suddenly felt too small. too warm. too quiet. you stared at the ceiling. unable to speak. because he sounded honest. completely honest.
after a moment, he squeezed your hand gently. "goodnight." you swallowed. hard. "goodnight." his breathing eventually slowed. steady. peaceful. sleep found him quickly. you remained awake. staring into the darkness. his hand still loosely wrapped around yours. and for the first time in days guilt hurt more than fear ever had.
the next morning felt strange. not good. not bad. just... strange.
for the first time in days, you woke up before your alarm. the apartment was quiet. sunlight spilled weakly through the curtains. and for a moment, everything felt almost normal. almost.
your fiancé had already left. but a folded note waited beside the coffee machine. your heart tightened instantly. you unfolded it.
don't forget to eat today.
a small smile found your lips. beneath it, scribbled in familiar handwriting:
you stared at the note for longer than necessary. then folded it carefully and slipped it into your bag.
work felt easier somehow. not easy. just lighter. your thoughts still drifted. still wandered toward impossible red eyes and black lace gloves and rain-soaked alleyways. but every time they did, another memory appeared. your fiancé cooking. your fiancé holding your hand. your fiancé saying:
i'm really glad i get to come home to you.
your stomach twisted. guilt. warm and ugly.
when you reached your desk, something immediately felt wrong. a folded piece of paper waited beside your keyboard. your pulse stumbled. you already knew. of course you did. slowly, you unfolded it. three words. written in familiar handwriting.
your breath caught. beneath it:
your stomach dropped. because he'd said that before. saint. in your kitchen. and somehow it felt different now. less romantic. less charming. more like a warning.
the rest of the day passed in a blur. meetings. emails. phone calls. none of it stayed. you kept touching the folded note in your pocket. your fiancé's note. then thinking about saint's. back and forth. back and forth. until your head hurt.
when you finally arrived home, something unexpected happened. you smiled. just a little. without meaning to. because for the first time in weeks, you wanted to see him. your fiancé. you wanted to tell him about work. about the note. about nothing. about everything. the realization felt strange. but good. good enough that you almost laughed at yourself.
the apartment was empty. you frowned. "hello?" nothing. silence. you checked your phone. no messages. probably running late. you shrugged. it happened.
eventually you started making dinner. the television played quietly in the background. filling the apartment with noise. keeping the loneliness away. the smell of food slowly filled the kitchen. everything felt oddly peaceful. ordinary. safe.
your hand froze. the knife slipped from your fingers and hit the counter. something about the reporter's voice made your stomach turn instantly. slowly, you looked up. and the entire world stopped.
your fiancé's photograph filled the screen. smiling. alive. a photograph taken before today. before tonight. before... your knees gave out. the room tilted violently. you grabbed the counter to stay standing. "no." the word barely left your lips. "no."
the reporter kept talking. you couldn't breathe. couldn't think. couldn't hear. because all you could see was him.
"...found deceased earlier this evening..." - "no."
"...authorities are currently investigating..." - "no."
the screen blurred. your eyes burned. your chest felt like it was collapsing. this wasn't happening. this wasn't happening. this wasn't happening.
and then, through the panic, through the grief, through the ringing in your ears, you heard something else.
"...investigators report that no reference to saint was found at the scene."
your breath caught. for one impossible second: relief. horrible. disgusting. relief. not saint.
the reporter continued: "however..." your stomach dropped. "...a message was discovered at the scene."
the camera changed. crime scene photographs. police tape. flashing lights. and there, behind where the body had been found, written across the wall in dark red handwriting, the same handwriting you knew better than your own, were three words.
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