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YANDERE DOTTORE (SOULMATE AU) Early stages of obsession.

Warnings: This story explores darker themes, including obsessive attachment, psychological control, and societal rejection of individuals without soulmate.

In the world of Teyvat, love is not chosen, it is revealed. At fifteen, every person receives a soulmate mark, a sign of perfect belonging. Those without one are not envied. They are avoided. Unmarked individuals are believed to bring misfortune, instability, and quiet ruin to those around them. Society does not need to punish them. It simply stops acknowledging them. At twenty-one, you are still unmarked. And in a place where absence is treated like a disease, even survival becomes something conditional.

People talk like it’s something soft.

Like it’s something kind.

You sit behind your friend, Emma, fingers already moving before you really think about it—parting, smoothing, dividing her hair into three even strands. It’s easier when your hands are busy. Easier not to think.

“I didn’t even see his face at first,” Emma says, hugging her knees, smiling into nothing. “I just felt it. Like—like something clicked.”

“Same,” Anastasia, your other friend laughs quietly. “It was warm. Not scary at all.”

Warm.

Your fingers tighten slightly as you cross one strand over the other.

Left over middle. Right over middle.

“He knew my name,” Emma adds, softer now. “I never told him, but he said it like he’d been saying it forever.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to be, right?” Anastasia says. “Like you already belong to each other.”

Belong.

You pull the braid tighter.

Emma shifts. “Hey, gentler.”

“Sorry,” you say, but your hands don’t really listen.

They keep talking.

They always do.

About small things—how their hands brushed, how their marks appeared, how everything suddenly made sense. Their voices blur together after a while, soft and glowing and distant, like you’re listening from underwater.

You focus on the strands instead.

They don’t change. They don’t leave. They don’t fail to appear.

“You’re still… nothing?” Anastasia asks eventually.

You don’t look up.

"What do you think?” you answer, flat, continuing the braid.

A pause follows. Not long—but long enough.

“Maybe it’s just late,” Emma offers quickly. “It happens sometimes, right?”

“Yeah,” Anastasia agrees. “Some people just take longer.”

Take longer.

Right.

Twenty-one years.

Your fingers slow for just a second, then continue, more precise now. Tighter. Controlled.

“Or maybe—” Emma starts, then stops.Silence presses in.

“Maybe nothing,” she corrects quickly, laughing it off. “Forget I said anything.”

You tie off the braid.

Too tight.

Emma winces, reaching up instinctively. “Ow—”

“Sorry,” you repeat.

This time, you let go immediately.

You watch the braid settle against her back, neat and perfect and finished.

Unlike you.

Everything means something.

Especially what you don’t have.

You’ve learned that the hard way.

At eighteen, your parents stopped pretending not to notice. No shouting. No arguments worth remembering. Just a quiet decision made behind closed doors, followed by a bag left by the entrance and a door that didn’t open again for you after that.

No soulmate meant misfortune.

And misfortune spreads.That’s what people believe here.

You just learned to live inside it.

The Snezhnayan market is already awake when you arrive.

Steam rises from food stalls, voices overlap in practiced rhythm, and wrists—always wrists—are visible without effort. Marks curl across skin in different shapes, some faint and delicate, others dark and intricate, like signatures written directly into the body.

No one hides them.

There’s no reason to.

You keep yours covered anyway.

It doesn’t matter.

People notice.

They just don’t always show it.

A glance that lingers too long. A pause in conversation. A small, careful adjustment in distance as you pass.

Not cruelty.

Not openly.

Just correction.

Like you’re something slightly out of place in a system that otherwise works perfectly.

You stop at a bread stall.

The vendor greets the person before you easily, smiles, exchanges words, hands over food without hesitation. His sleeve shifts as he moves, revealing a mark around his wrist—clean, matched, certain.

When it’s your turn, the change is subtle but immediate.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“Bread,” you say.

Simple. Normal.

His eyes flick down—not to your face, but to your hands.

You don’t move.

The silence stretches just long enough to feel wrong.

“…your wrist,” he says after a moment.

Not demanding. Just expected.

You hesitate, then pull your sleeve back slightly.

Blank skin.

No mark.

No shape.

No answer.

The air shifts.

It’s almost unnoticeable unless you’re the one standing inside it.

“I can’t sell it to you,” he says.

You frown. “Why not?” He doesn’t look uncomfortable.

Just final.

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“Risk of what?”

He stops for a second, as if he doesn't want to be the one to say it.

“…misfortune,” he answers, like the word has already been decided for him long before you asked.

Around you, the market continues—but not around you, exactly. Around everything else. You can feel it in the spacing of people, the way movement avoids your position without ever directly acknowledging it.

You exhale slowly. “It’s just bread.”

“That’s not how it works.”

And that’s the end of it. He won’t look at you again.

You leave without buying anything. There’s no argument that changes a system people believe in.

Your chest feels tight as you stand there—not pain exactly, but something unfamiliar threading under your skin, faint but persistent, like pressure without direction.

You press your fingers briefly against your wrist.

Nothing. Still nothing. But the feeling sharpens anyway. Not randomly. Not scattered. Directed.

"You’re being corrected faster than expected.” The voice comes from beside you.

Close enough that you don’t need to turn to recognize it.

He doesn’t look at the people around you.He doesn’t need to.

They already know he’s there.

The change is immediate.

Movement slows. Conversations break off mid-sentence. Someone lowers their gaze too quickly. Another takes a step back without meaning to.

Fear doesn’t spread.

It just exists.

Already complete.

"I wasn’t aware she was—” the vendor starts from behind you, voice tight.

Dottore doesn’t look at him yet.

He tilts his head slightly. “You were aware enough to refuse service.”

Silence follows. Not empty. Pressurized.

“I… didn’t think—” the vendor tries again.

“Ah,” Dottore interrupts calmly.

“That explains it.”

The words are light. Almost polite. But something in them closes the conversation entirely.

He finally glances at the stalll.

Just briefly.

Not interested. Just confirming.

“Give it to her.”

The instruction is quiet. Unremarkable in tone. But it lands like something undeniable.

The vendor moves immediately. Too quickly.

Hands shaking slightly as bread is wrapped and pushed forward, eyes never meeting yours.

No one argues.

No one even breathes too loudly.

You take it slowly.

Nothing stops you this time.

The pressure in your chest eases the moment you hold it.

Not gone.

Just… reduced.

Enough that your breath steadies without permission. You notice it immediately. So does he.

“Interesting,” Dottore murmurs, almost to himself.

His gaze shifts to you properly now—not sharp, not soft, just precise. Like you’re a result that continues to confirm itself.

“Social rejection is consistent,” he says. “As expected.”

Then.

“However, proximity alters response efficiency.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t tell what would even be correct to say.

He steps slightly closer, and the relief returns again, subtle but undeniable, threading through the tightness in your chest like it belongs there more than the discomfort does.

You hate that your body reacts before your thoughts do.

He notices anyway.

Of course he does.

“Dependency is forming,” he says simple.

You tighten your grip on the bread.

Around you, the market continues carefully, like nothing important is happening, but nothing approaches either. Space bends around him without effort. People exist just far enough away to avoid becoming part of this moment.

You feel it clearly now.

Not just rejection anymore.

Separation.

And something that counters it.

He starts walking again.

You follow without deciding to.

And he doesn’t look back to check.

Because he already knows you will.

Requests are open! Please feel free to send some!

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gorjee-art

DOGS' DINNER - SCHEDULED MAINTENANCE

I've had this in the back pocket for some time now, and I figured I'll do some tiny touch-ups and post it for the sake of satiating my troubled conscience, knowing that I'm not leaving this a wip. While I'm not all too proud of this comic, it's nice to see that I can finally show off the weird Bio-IMP doo-dads that are a part of Elysium. I think they're fun. ...Horror romantic tension as well, that too.

ozzgin

You're transported into the fictional setting of a romance plot, except you're (Y/N)'s friend instead of (Y/N) themselves. Life is surprisingly chill, albeit a tad peculiar.

You stepped into an empty office, with only a handful of coworkers sitting around and chitchatting. What's going on, you asked, as one of the managers handed you a cup of coffee. (Y/N) got kidnapped again, he stated casually, it's the third time this month. Ah, so the billionaire CEO must've been away to save them. Less work for you.

Indeed, being a secondary character to (Y/N)'s dark romance comes with surprising benefits. You eye your fridge, stuffed to the brim with leftovers from your town's most exquisite restaurants. (Y/N) can never decide on what to eat, so your mysterious boss just orders everything on the menu and has you dealing with the rest.

Yet, something's off. Lately, you've begun to notice that your existence is interfering with the natural order of the universe. The love rival who's been fighting for (Y/N)'s affections suddenly gawks at you in utter disbelief; were you always there? How comes he never realized it until now? The shy underling who'd been secretly crushing on (Y/N) for the longest time hesitantly sits next to you, throwing you quick glances. The flirty manager who won't stop teasing (Y/N) abruptly stops by your desk.

It's as if the cast is only now becoming aware of your presence.

yunevan-n

Time Travel PART 03

Part 01, Part 02, Part 03

OKAY OKAY, now that we’re at this point, I can tell more of the story. As you guessed, this is Curly going back in time after his ass got frozen in the cryopod. Problem is, after having spent months unable to be alive, he's struggling to jump back in the grind (he kinda forgot how to fonction as a human)

Second complication in the mess of his life is : he's not the only lucky guy who got a second chance (?)

-----

I'm back, yeahhh🧌🫡

I'm sorry for all this waiting, I'm indeed continuing this little project, it's not done (I would say so if I were to discontinue it don't worry) For the people still here, well thank you all for all your kind words regarding my work and have fun reading that one! I progressed a lot since I started this so it took me quite some time to be satisfied with this part🫡

arivsart

“Who are you?”

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segamascott

kossstolom

redrawing this ↓

voughtwifeannie

Zoom In, Don’t Glaze Over: How to Describe Appearance Without Losing the Plot

You’ve met her before. The girl with “flowing ebony hair,” “emerald eyes,” and “lips like rose petals.” Or him, with “chiseled jawlines,” “stormy gray eyes,” and “shoulders like a Greek statue.”

We don’t know them.

We’ve just met their tropes.

Describing physical appearance is one of the trickiest — and most overdone — parts of character writing. It’s tempting to reach for shorthand: hair color, eye color, maybe a quick body scan. But if we want a reader to see someone — to feel the charge in the air when they enter a room — we need to stop writing mannequins and start writing people.

So let’s get granular. Here’s how to write physical appearance in a way that’s textured, meaningful, and deeply character-driven.

1. Hair: It’s About Story, Texture, and Care

Hair says a lot — not just about genetics, but about choices. Does your character tame it? Let it run wild? Is it dyed, greying, braided, buzzed, or piled on top of her head in a hurry?

Good hair description considers:

Texture (fine, coiled, wiry, limp, soft)

Context (windblown, sweat-damp, scorched by bleach)

Emotion (does she twist it when nervous? Is he ashamed of losing it?)

Flat: “Her long brown hair framed her face.”

Better: “Her ponytail was too tight, the kind that whispered of control issues and caffeine-fueled 4 a.m. library shifts.”

You don’t need to romanticise it. You need to make it feel real.

2. Eyes: Less Color, More Connection

We get it: her eyes are violet. Cool. But that doesn’t tell us much.

Instead of focusing solely on eye color, think about:

What the eyes do (do they dart, linger, harden?)

What others feel under them (seen, judged, safe?)

The surrounding features (dark circles, crow’s feet, smudged mascara)

Flat: “His piercing blue eyes locked on hers.”

Better: “His gaze was the kind that looked through you — like it had already weighed your worth and moved on.”

You’re not describing a passport photo. You’re describing what it feels like to be seen by them.

3. Facial Features: Use Contrast and Texture

Faces are not symmetrical ovals with random features. They’re full of tension, softness, age, emotion, and life.

Things to look for:

Asymmetry and character (a crooked nose, a scar)

Expression patterns (smiling without the eyes, habitual frowns)

Evidence of lifestyle (laugh lines, sun spots, stress acne)

Flat: “She had a delicate face.”

Better: “There was something unfinished about her face — as if her cheekbones hadn’t quite agreed on where to settle, and her mouth always seemed on the verge of disagreement.”

Let the face be a map of experience.

4. Bodies: Movement > Measurement

Forget dress sizes and six packs. Think about how bodies occupy space. How do they move? What are they hiding or showing? How do they wear their clothes — or how do the clothes wear them?

Ask:

What do others notice first? (a presence, a posture, a sound?)

How does their body express emotion? (do they go rigid, fold inwards, puff up?)

Flat: “He was tall and muscular.”

Better: “He had the kind of height that made ceilings nervous — but he moved like he was trying not to take up too much space.”

Describing someone’s body isn’t about cataloguing. It’s about showing how they exist in the world.

5. Let Emotion Tint the Lens

Who’s doing the describing? A lover? An enemy? A tired narrator? The emotional lens will shape what’s noticed and how it’s described.

In love: The chipped tooth becomes charming.

In rivalry: The smirk becomes smug.

In mourning: The face becomes blurred with memory.

Same person. Different lens. Different description.

6. Specificity is Your Superpower

Generic description = generic character. One well-chosen detail creates intimacy. Let us feel the scratch of their scarf, the clink of her earrings, the smudge of ink on their fingertips.

Examples:

“He had a habit of adjusting his collar when he lied — always clockwise, always twice.”

“Her nail polish was always chipped, but never accidentally.”

Make the reader feel like they’re the only one close enough to notice.

Describing appearance isn’t just about what your character looks like. It’s about what their appearance says — about how they move through the world, how others see them, and how they see themselves.

Zoom in on the details that matter. Skip the clichés. Let each description carry weight, story, and emotion. Because you’re not building paper dolls. You’re building people.

a-mint-bear

Comfort Object

Male Yandere x Reader

You see a really weird "job" post online, and the money seems too good to be true. But you aren't really in a position where you can turn it down...

You hope it doesn't get weird.

bigandlong

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

jae-felidae

Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.

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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

yandere-sins

Hey! I loved your yandere!konig and ghost when their darling runs away. But how would they react if they're darling broke out. But couldn't bring themselves to go farther than 10 - 20 feet away. Cause if their anxiety of leaving the cabin?

Ah, the sweet, sweet betrayal of the own mind, I like that :D Thanks for requesting!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

"Come on... Come on! Yes!"

With a sharp click, the front door unlocked. The wooden cabin creaked as if warning you to stay, but you were up and outside before you could even think to listen. For weeks, you had worked towards this moment, and as the taste of freedom—earthy like the forest that surrounded the lonesome cabin—caressed your senses, a big smile curled the corners of your mouth upwards.

Day after day, you had swallowed your pride, nodded, and agreed. Laid still next to your captor in bed at night and listened to his footsteps whenever he returned, hoping they'd pass by your bedroom. The first few weeks had been the worst, with you still shackled and panicked, the masked man telling you to behave at every outburst of yours. But how could you?

It took a lot of time until he trusted you enough to let you freely walk around the secluded cabin. It wasn't without punishments as you tried to escape so many times before, until your feet were bloody from his knife and your wrists sore from the restraints he put you back in, but you learned your lessons. Listened to him. Obeyed him. Waited like a good little spouse a few steps away from the entrance whenever he returned. Enough so that he started trusting you.

Enough so that he grew careless.

Ghost, he called himself. It wasn't the most accurate description as he was tall and burly, not exactly haggard. His skeleton mask could be frightening; that much was true. As was his strength and the ruthless use of force to cause you pain and torture you. It was hard to get to this point of him letting his guard down, and you figured pretty quickly that he wasn't just some random man; all his senses were sharp, and his actions were skilled as if he was trained for this. Ghost was lines of muscles and scars all over his body. He was a human predator as far as you could see, but it made his weakness glaringly obvious;

You.

Because the moment you cuddled up to him, his tense posture grew slack, his arms gentle around you, his hands massaging you as if you were a fragile being. When you asked for something, he'd simply say, "We'll see," but would return with it after his next grocery run without needing a reminder. Meals were always cooked the way you wanted, and the heater was always set to the temperature you decided on. Even if he insisted on sleeping next to you, he let you have his blanket if you stole it at night. You'd constantly wake up to him gently rubbing your back whenever you accidentally laid on top of him at night.

It was a gamble to try and make him careless. You couldn't be sure it would work. However, you still worked towards your goal every day, pretending to get along with him, slowly falling into a routine he could get used to without letting him find out you were merely playing him. And now, finally, it had paid off.

Mud and grass had never felt better beneath the soles of your shoes as you stepped down the porch and onto the forest ground. Freeing and inviting—alive. Compared to the outside, the air inside the cabin had been terribly stale, and the building made of wood weighed down on your mood. Here, you finally felt in control of your life and closer than ever to escaping the nightmare!

There was barely anything around besides the dense treeline in front of you. A stump with an axe rested on the right corner of the cabin, but there was no path, no signs of a car or any way out, meaning what Ghost had told you about the cabin being far away from any other living soul must have been true.

Your heart sunk a little at the realization. You had seen the forest through the windows, but the ones showing the front had always been boarded shut. It gave you hope that there was something you weren't supposed to see or know, but you realized now that it was to keep uninvited eyes out should anyone stumble across the cabin instead.

So where were you supposed to go? There were trees on the left and trees on the right. Undoubtedly, more forest awaited you behind the cabin, so your only chance was to go forward. Looking at the ground, you tried to find Ghost's footsteps, any indication that this was the right way, but despite his hefty stature, you found none that could lead you.

You were on your own.

"Nothing wrong with that," you muttered to yourself, curling your hands into fists before saying a quick pep-talk. Surely, you'd find back to civilization once you fought your way through the forest. You were well-fed and clothed, had slept a full ten hours last night, and were young enough to take one or two days trekking through the thicket easily. The thought made you nervous regardless, but everything would be fine. You just had to get going so as to not get caught by the man who was trying to ruin your life with his fantasies.

Frankly, any fate awaiting you outside was better than staying at the cabin with him.

Taking your first steps, you felt your pulse quicken, your nostrils expanding to let more air into your lungs. You knew you couldn't afford to overthink things. There simply wasn't enough time. Ghost stayed away for two hours whenever he went out, and you had struggled to open the high-security lock on the front door that stood out like a sore spot against the wood. It took you months to find out what you needed to do and prepare everything for this moment—you couldn't afford to waste your efforts now.

Months, huh? It had been so long since you'd been under people. This forest wasn't familiar to you in the slightest, but you've been to forests before. This was just another one that would surely end in a town or at least a street. Hopefully, someone would believe you when you were found and help you. You didn't even have anything to verify yourself with.

But it didn't matter, surely your family had reported you as missing! It had been too long since you last spoke, even if you weren't in contact regularly. They would have noticed you being gone!

Right?

You felt your throat constrict as you swallowed down the doubt. "It's all his fault," you cursed through shallow breaths, wrapping your arm around yourself in an effort to calm down. Ghost had been putting all these thoughts inside your head, and you were merely reaping the fruits of his manipulation now. It was unfair, but you were stronger than this! You'd not allow him to continue to hold you hostage, his ill-willed comments meaningless since he clearly wasn't sane.

"There are dangerous animals out there. Big ones."

You remembered thinking, 'Where the fuck did he take me?' when you first heard him tell you about the outside of the cabin. You obviously weren't in your hometown anymore, where the biggest animal was a freaking squirrel.

"He's just messing with you," you bit out, banishing your own thoughts. Even now, that psycho held way too much power over you, his words and warnings repeating over and over as your doubts and anxiety grew. If only you made it to the tree line, you'd probably be able to convince yourself that there was nothing more dangerous than Ghost out there. Moving forward, your knees wobbled when you were barely two steps away from the edge of the clearing.

But what if it was him coming for you again?

darkbluekies

P.O.V 2025 ver

Yandere!mafia boss x reader x mafia!boss enemy

Summary: To get Silas to keep his end of an agreement, a hostage is taken, someone known to be very dear to him.

Warnings: kidnapping, blood, nsfw mentions, torture, blowing people up, murder, guns, gore, blackmailing, darling breaking, self guilt, angst, humiliation, and probably more along those lines!

Word count: 5.6k

“Let me go!” you scream as you struggle, for nothing, against the rugged men pulling you left and right.

“Be silent”, one of them replies in a sharp, rude tone, “or I'll cut your tongue.”

You're pushed down on your knees on a polished, wood floor that seem to be out of place. You run your eyes around the room, scanning anything and everything. The room is dim, with a big desk, armchairs and a decorative carpet. Your heart hammers in your chest, to the point of nausea. Just an hour ago you were in the backseat of Silas’s ar, waiting for him to be done with a mission. You had been left alone with two trusted drivers. They had been shot, quick and easy, as if someone had rehearsed it. And you had been snatched by the two men holding you.

yunevan-n

TIME TRAVEL PART 2

Part 01, Part 02

I have a script for how this, I can't waittt to post the next part!!

Jimmy is going to be fun(terrifying) to work with. Also, imagine having to try to talk after been stuck without lips, face, hearing and everything for months-

AND having to deal with the fact that you fucked up bad

Anyway I'll go back to drawing the next part, bye

yunevan-n

Time travel PART 1

Part 01, Part 02

Curly going back in time

He’s not the best guy (not a all) BUT DAMN HE HAS A LOT TO TAKE IN

(Daisuke just staying🧍is so funny to me)

ghostys1mp

Elevator Speech

Yandere! CEO x Employee! Reader

𖦹 TW: General yandere behavior, implied stalking, mentions of domestic violence (not done by male lead,) readers ex-husband gets his shit rocked

Your favorite part of the work day is riding the elevator to your floor.

Most of the company sees it as an inconvenience. Despite the constant flow of bustling employees, representatives from other companies, and the occasional delivery driver, there is only one elevator for the entire building. It's constantly packed, there’s barely any breathing room, and each poor individual is shoulder to shoulder together. Despite the plethora of people, no one ever says a word. The long ride to the top stays suffocatingly silent except from the occasional creak and shuffling of feet.

Well, at least when he’s there, anyway.

No one dares to look up at his towering figure, to make eye contact with the sharp gaze of the company’s CEO. While his striking appearance may cause occasional conversation, it’s quickly shut down with a hardened glare. Even for work conversations, if he’s not in his office, he won’t entertain them. He is notoriously short tempered, rumored to have fired employees solely over greeting him when he was in a bad mood. His presence is overpowering. Staring straight ahead at the doors doesn’t alleviate the tension, and any attempt at casual conversation is met with the feeling of being watched. It’s hard to pretend he’s not there. So everyone keeps their distance- or, tries to.

Except for you.

His sharp mannerisms have never bothered you before, as a matter of fact, you welcomed them. Despite his snippy comments, he’s never actually told you to be quiet before. You take this as an indication to keep talking despite the disapproval and worried glances of your peers. He is the reason that this elevator ride is what you look forward to most. The interactions you’ve had with your boss are short, but god, do you value them.

“Funny how we’re always here at the same time, boss!” You beam up at him, oblivious to the silence you seem to be interrupting.

Of course your paths collide. They always manage to. Whether you’re ten minutes late, or thirty minutes early, he’s somehow already in the elevator before you. Sometimes you wonder how you constantly missed him entering the doors. If it were anyone else, it might have been a little concerning. But the sheer thought of such a successful man taking time out of his day to stalk you is so absurd that the question dissipates from your mind. As you look up at him expectantly, the elevators begin to fill up, and the influx of people causes you to press your body into his. If there was elevator music, (there isn't, it wouldn’t be an awkward enough ride with music) the cab could be mistaken for some sort of strange corporate mosh pit.

“Yeah. Funny.” He coolly responds.

You take this as encouragement to keep going. “The team and I sketched some rough drafts for the next campaign. I really appreciate you trusting me with this.” You seem to be pressed into him more and more as the floors pass. When one person goes, two more enter. You’re packaged together like a can of sardines. “I mean, this is like, really important st-”

His breath hitches, you weren’t sure if it was because he wanted to speak, or due to the fact you’d just been pressed closer together. “That’s interesting.” He’s looking straight ahead, as a matter of fact, he’s looking anywhere BUT you. His face remains impassive, concentrated on something. Your chest lightly touches his arm, and he quickly looks away. His shoulders tense up and there’s a certain rigidity in his stature. “Just… make sure it’s done correctly.”

“Of course. You know, I just have a few questions…”

A loud sigh erupts from the elevator.

As the conversation continues, a majority of the occupants step off on the next floor. Whether it’s actually their stop or they’re simply getting off at some random floor from the sheer second-hand embarrassment they’re feeling is unknown. For everyone else, the tension is palpable. They can see that the boss is clearly annoyed and put off with you. If your social cues are so poor that you can’t see it, you deserve the unemployment that will undoubtedly come your way.

A couple of questions later, each responded to with a curt yes or no, the elevator dings. You look up and realize it’s your floor. A disappointed sigh escapes you and you look towards the opening doors. “Well, this is my stop.” You separate from him, fixing your somewhat disheveled clothes from the once-cramped space. Despite the now available room, neither of you had moved apart. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Boss! Same time?” You joke. He doesn’t respond. You continue looking at him, waiting for a goodbye, but it never comes. He just continues to stare, a stoic expression on his face. The tension in the air returns, but it’s different this time. As if he wants to say something, but can’t.

“Alright!” You don’t know what to say at this moment either, so you simply give him a thumbs up as the elevator doors close behind you, grasping for any kind of human engagement.

The next day, you’re late, which is slightly out of character for you. It’s not that you have perfect attendance, but you’ve always given a notice or called ahead. You would have, but you were just… preoccupied. You mindlessly fiddle with your wedding ring as you drive. It’s too tight, and you always preferred silver over gold. You pan towards your typically well-manicured nails that had been chewed down to the white. You’d… been under a lot of stress lately. When you saw your boss, you’d apologize. That is, if he cared about the excuse of one employee out of hundreds…

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of the elevator opening. You were so out of it, you hadn’t even noticed you’d gotten out of your car and walked to your building. Head held down, you stepped into the elevator and pressed the button to your floor.

“Our company has a strict policy on lateness.” He states, standoffish. “If a similar instance occurs, a reprimand will be issued.”

You jump, clutching your chest. You whip around to see your boss, arms crossed and leaning against the support rails. Holy shit, when had he gotten there? You didn’t notice him at all.

“How… How long have you been there?!” You stammer, heart thumping and blood rushing around in your ears.

He doesn’t respond, and you notice that the air around him seems colder than usual. For the first time, you feel a little nervous around him. A couple of seconds pass in which neither of you speak, and you start to panic. “Oh god, boss, I’m so sorry. I overslept and the alarm didn’t go off, and, and, and…” You stutter, hands flailing around in nervousness. “My phone didn’t charge last night. You know how easily those cables break-” You tug on your turtleneck, god, it’s way too hot to be wearing this stupid thing. You’re in such a state of frenzy you don’t even find it mildly concerning why your boss is on the first floor elevator at 10:39 in the morning.

“I’m not interested in your excuses.” He takes a step toward you. “A no-show is a fireable offense.” Before you can begin to explain, to plead, state how desperately you NEED this job, he puts a hand up to silence you. “But, I’m willing to overlook this. You’re a dedicated employee. Just don’t let this happen again,”

You breathe a sigh of relief, thankful for his lenience. He really did recognize you as an employee. Maybe he even enjoyed your time in the elevator as much as you did. “Thank you.” You give him a soft smile. “It won’t happen again.”

He nods. “If you’re interested in continuing to work for the company, it won’t.”

You return his nod, humming a pleasant tune as the elevator continues upwards.

You call ahead the second time you’re late, giving the excuse of a nasty traffic jam.

You’re wearing a skirt down to your ankles. It’s in company regulation, but quite a sudden change from your usual attire. When you step into the elevator, your boss meets you once again. Today, you don’t look forward to your meeting. You’re snappy, and for once, just want some alone time. Your change in wardrobe must have caught his attention, because he looks you up and down with an inquisitive look. It irritates you. It's not like you want to wear this. You just… you just had a recommendation to wear it. A persuasive one to start dressing more femininely. To hide more of your skin, so other men- other people in general wouldn’t see.

“We typically advise against skirts due to the environment of the company.” Your boss looks down at you. “A potential safety hazard-“

“It’s a good thing I don’t need your advice.” You snap.

The elevator goes silent, and your cheeks instantly flush deeper.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t, I’m sorry boss. I didn’t mean to take that tone with you. I really didn’t.”

His expression remains neutral. “It’s fine.”

Neither of you say anything, the weight of your mistake putting an abrupt halt to your usual chattery nature. You hurriedly rush out of the elevator, not looking back at him. You don’t know if it’s out of humiliation or shame.

The third (and last) time you’re late, you’re in your husband's car. It smells like cigarette smoke and some kind of cologne that makes your nose wrinkle up in displeasure. It wouldn’t matter if you tried to say anything about it anyway. He’d continue to wear it despite your obvious dislike of it. The music you usually listen to in the morning has been replaced with some sports radio that’s much too loud for 8 in the morning. You don’t say anything that would give the impression that you don’t like it, instead, you keep your head low and avoid looking your husband in the eye. You sit in the passenger seat and stay seated even as you park in the garage. The passenger door opens, and you don't look at your husband as he takes your hand. He pulls you out of your seat with a tug that’s too rough, and you wince in a mix of pain and displeasure.

You look up and your eyes widen with surprise when you see your boss waiting outside the elevator for once. You go to approach him, to make another excuse that’s so far from the truth, but your husband puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, uncomfortably tight, the fabric of your shirt pinching your skin.

“Brought ‘er here so she’s not late for once.”

Your boss doesn’t respond, but your husband’s one sentence is enough to make him furrow his eyebrows.

Your husband gives you a light push forward, and you stumble slightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you see your boss grit his teeth. Once you regain your balance, you slowly walk forward into the elevator, and your boss follows shortly.

As the elevator doors close, your boss’s gaze never leaves your husband’s.

You don’t talk for the rest of the elevator ride.

It’s a long ride, but you finally reach your stop. Before you can leave, your boss presses the button to close the door. You look up at him, lips parted in confusion. Your face has lost its lively glow, and you are almost a husk of your former self. Makeup is heavily powered on your face to hide your deepening eyebags and what you hope he doesn’t suspect is a bruise on your cheek. You feel so, so tired.

“Would you miss him?”

“What?” You respond.

“Your husband. Would you miss him?”

You meet his gaze. It’s no longer harsh, but filled with an unidentifiable emotion.

You don’t respond, walking out of the elevator with a sharp click of your heels. When you step out, you turn back to look at him. Unspoken words are exchanged through the moment of hesitation. As other employees enter the cab, neither of you break your gaze. The door shuts, and you’re left looking at the cold, metal doors.

Your boss isn’t there the next time you arrive at work with your husband. Not outside the elevator, nor inside. You feel a pang of disappointment, but it’s to be expected. The conversations (if you could call them that,) that you had once looked forward to had become tense and uncomfortable. You were snappy, and unresponsive to his typical short-answer responses. You knew it wasn’t his fault, you just had… your own problems to deal with. You tug at the edges of your sleeve, pulling them down just enough to cover your wrists, swollen with marks.The problems would be dealt with, you just… didn’t have the resources. No place to go, not enough money for the divorce proceedings.

As the elevator door opens, you step inside. But instead of pressing the button for your floor, you put your hands in your hair and begin to weep. Why has nobody noticed? Why has nobody come to save you? You didn’t need a prince charming or a knight in shining armor to whisk you away, you just needed support. But instead, you were stuck at your stupid dead-end job with a good for nothing husband, and you had just potentially ruined any semblance of a relationship with your boss by being a massive dick to him.

You rub at your red eyes, noticing the smudging mascara staining your palms. You must look like an absolute mess. You pat your pockets, trying to reach your phone so that you have something to see your reflection in, but you’re left disheartened when you realize you must have left it in your husband's car. It’s only been a minute, and you were sure you could catch him if you went out now. You hesitate for a second, thinking about the risk of running late again, but ultimately decide it’s better than having your coworkers speculate on why you’re constantly late and this time, crying.

You press the door to open the elevator.

You can’t register the sight at first. It’s just two people. Except one is on the ground. One of the people is on the ground.

There’s blood, a good observation to have. You don’t know who has more blood on them. Your husband, or your boss.

Your boss. He’s standing over your husband, rather, you think it's your husband, at least. His face is so bloody and crushed, beaten to such a pulp- nose clearly broken and face so puffy it’d looked like he had an allergic reaction. He's laying on his side, and a small red, puddle pools from his head. Your eyes subconsciously follow the pool as it spreads past his head down to his chest. There’s no movement. No breathing.

In horror, your gaze shoots up to your boss. For once, his cold exterior is gone, replaced by pure rage. You watch as his expression suddenly softens, and realize he’s spotted you out of the corner of his eye. His eyes widen as he takes in the shocked look on your face and realizes the gravity of the situation. He parts his lips, to explain or justify his actions. It’s no use though. You’ve already done the only thing your mind can think to do.

You press the button to your floor.

The door closes as he quickly begins to approach you. The rage isn’t aimed at you, it never was- and for a second, you see a flash of guilt in his eyes. However, you still don’t break eye contact with him. Your face doesn’t waver. As the doors shut, the silence that fills the elevator is a stark contrast to the scene you’ve seen. Dread overwhelms you. Your palms sweat and you notice a slight tremor in your hands. It's only when you feel a sudden coldness on your hand that you realize you’re crying. You softly touch your face as more begin to fall. A slow, creeping realization sets in, slower even than the pace at which the elevator passes through the floors. It wasn’t fear or sadness that you cried to. It never could have been.

It was relief. Pure relief. He was gone. The man who had oppressed, agonized, battered you for years of your life. Your husband. He was gone. He couldn’t hurt you now.

You were relieved. Over a murder. You should be ashamed, you should be mourning something, mourning the loss of your spouse, but you couldn’t stop the tears of relief from flowing down your cheeks. You try, hurriedly, to fix your face, to smooth out your clothing. It was a new day, with a new meaning. A new purpose.

And with that. You continue on with your work day. You don’t go to the police, you don’t file an anonymous tip and you don’t call for help. Papers are filed and notes and transcribed. You take the elevator down at 5:00 pm, and there’s no evidence of what you previously saw. You return home, take a shower, and head to bed.

It’s the best sleep of your life.

The next day, you drive yourself to work. You turn off the sports channel and play your music in the morning like nothing has happened. You walk to the elevator and press the button. Unlike the previous day, your boss returns to waiting on your floor. You step into the elevator, looking up at him. It’s as if nothing has changed.

“The weather is nice today.”

He looks down at you. “It’s fine.”

The elevator follows its usual routine. People get on, and people get off. People continue to avoid making eye contact with your boss

“The weather has been too cold lately.” You casually speak up. “Too cold for me. But now it’s warm again.”

He doesn’t respond, but maintains eye contact.

As the elevator continues upwards, you don’t get off at your regular stop. Instead, you continue to stand next to him. When you don’t move, he looks at you quizzically. When it’s just the two of you left, finally, you take his hand in yours.

He seems surprised, and takes a deep breath in. “This is against company policy.” He responds curtly, looking away from you. A faint red tints his ears, but he doesn’t push you away.

“Yeah, it is.” You smile.

The elevator reaches the top floor, your bosses office. It’s your last stop, and he’ll have to leave.

As the door opens, he steps out hesitantly. He looks back at you, as if the next time he looks away, you’ll disappear. “We can arrange the details of… your role at the company later. Over dinner.” He states matter-of-factly.

“That sounds good.” You nod pleasantly. That’s a date, right? He’s asking you out on a date? You feel like you should say something else, to address the tension in the room regarding the other… situation.

“Thank you,” You swallow hard, “For everything.”

As the elevator begins to close, he does something you’ve never seen him do before, not in all your time at this company.

He gives you a soft smile.

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