I love Anime 💜

You had your forehead in your hands as you read the assignment requirements. You couldn't understand a thing and that stressed the life out of you. You turn your head to the side when Yves sets a bowl of crunchy, seedless grapes. They're all cleanly peeled.

Yves stood by you, resting a hand on your shoulder. His thumb is massaging small circles on your flesh, which does calm you down considerably.

You began stuffing your mouth with the grapes out of stress.

Yves lingered for a while as you reread the paragraph the fifth time, trying to make sense of it all.

"Would you like my help, dear?" He asked. You nodded furiously, you needed all the help you could possibly glean.

Yves smiled. He lets you go so he can retrieve a spare chair nearby. He sat next to you and adjusted his reading glasses, as if he predicted you needed his aid.

A hand of his was occupied with smoothing your hair as he explained your assignment in words that you understand. He was soft-spoken, patient and sympathetic, unlike your previous teachers who only knew how to yell and brag about themselves.

From what you understood from your boyfriend, you had to write a 2000-word essay, including some statistics and other maths-y things. Luckily for you, that is up his alley.

He laid it out in simple terms on what you have to do, as it turns out, it was very easy.

You thanked him and went straight to work, opening up a document to type in the cover page and other necessary details.

"(Name), it's late. It would be wiser to start tomorrow." Yves reminded.

You checked the time. It's ten in the evening.

You told Yves that you pulled all-nighters before, this should be nothing since you know what to do.

Yves shook his head at you disapprovingly, his emerald eyes never leaving your tired ones.

You ignored him and tried to proceed with your work. Your boyfriend watched you in silence with his cheek propped up on the back of his hand. You didn't notice how his focus switched between your face and the clock on your laptop.

In the end, you caved in and said that he was right. You couldn't concentrate on the task at hand, all you wanted to do now is either to sleep or scroll through the web.

Yves rose from his seat to help you to your wheelchair, so you could get ready for bed.

__

You asked Yves to sleep with you. Which he gladly complied, so now you're tucked into bed with him being the big spoon. You're tired, but you can't fall asleep; thinking about how your life now is completely different from what it was a month ago. Now you're cuddling with a crazily wealthy man who is the definition of the perfect lover, it seems too good to be true.

Should you tell anyone about what's happening? Your friends back home haven't received an update from you in ages, but you didn't want to come off as braggy. You don't even want to think about how your parents would react.

Why is Yves so nice to you? What could you possibly bring to the table? You're scared that Yves is going to leave you high and dry once he has his fun with you.

"(Name). You're catastrophizing again."

You whipped your head to face Yves in the warm, dim light. How did he know that?

His eyes are closed. "You were clenching your jaw and tensing your neck."

You were about to ask how could he see that, but then you realized he was resting his lips on the top of your head. He probably felt the slight shift in muscles there.

"Close your eyes." He murmured. You did as you were told.

"Breathe." You let out a breath that you didn't know that you were holding. Your body relaxed as your breathing normalized.

The room is quiet once again. It didn't take long until those valid questions and worries returned once more as there was nothing to distract you from them. You were conscious about those small twitches and contractions, not wanting to wake Yves anymore.

You thought about how Yves is now feeding you and housing you from his own pocket. The guilt was there, he didn't have to do that. But then again, he is rich. Filthy rich. So taking care of you this way is as cheap as buying you a candy bar once in a while. However, he isn't hiring anyone to cook your meals, clean you up or even to be your doctor. It was all his doing.

Does he see you as some sort of a project? A... lab rat?

Your train of thought was interrupted by Yves's melodious voice singing softly behind you. The song isn't in English, that's for sure. It was heaven to your ears though and drowned out all the other thoughts that were keeping you up. Allowing you to gradually slip into slumber.

You were so focused on his singing that you didn't notice the beeping of his pager on the other side of the room.

Once he confirms that you're asleep, he ends his song and gives you a kiss on the temple. His shoulders visibly heaved up and down as he sighed in exasperation. Yves would rather accompany you for the rest of the night, but him receiving a page means it's severely urgent.

He hates the biting cold whenever Yves is forced to part from you. No matter how slowly he tries to tear away from your body heat.

There was a horrid scowl on his face as he marched up to the device. He swiped it off the desk and swiftly left your room, soundlessly closing the door behind him.

Yves booted up his system in the office, connected to a nearly incomprehensible online chat server. At least, it's incomprehensible to the average person, it's as legible as modern day texting applications to Yves and his associates. The only reason it's this way, is because this is the safest mode of communication through the interweb without getting caught by the authorities.

Yves did wish that they chose a less atrocious font and colour when building this programme, though.

Yves had a straight face when a low-res picture of Evangeline with her genitals and chest mutilated popped up on his screen. She appeared to be unconscious, covered in blood, urine and other bodily fluids. Her prison uniform was tattered and chunks of her healthy, golden hair were torn out of her scalp.

Her leg was bent at an awkward angle and something was stuffed into her mouth, it appears like her jaw was dislocated too.

The photo had the shadow of the photographer cast over her body, the wet tiles beneath her allowed Yves to deduce that she was brutalized in the showers.

He ran a few checks over the image, making sure it was genuine and not doctored. Once he deems it to be a true copy, he deleted it off his computer and turned his computer off.

Yves pulled a drawer from his Mahogany desk to retrieve a pair of latex gloves. He puts them on before walking away from his seat.

It's like a routine to him at this point. He isn't really using his conscious brain, he was running purely on muscle memory. The security measures that he has to bypass, the passcodes and locks, he's doing it while he isn't present mentally.

Once he reached his first destination, he had to walk for a further five minutes, past the shelves housing binders upon binders of research regarding your habits, health reports relationships, likes and dislikes.

He crouched down to twist the knob on a medium sized safe. Yves opened it to reveal stacks upon stacks of cash, none of which are counterfeit. They're real, yet have an uneasy miasma around it. They're not earned through honest and kind means, the notes held an air of depravity to them. But Yves is immune to such degeneracy, he nonchalantly took a couple banded piles and slipped it into the unmarked envelope.

Once he has handled his business, Yves puts everything back into place and goes back up to his office, not desiring to waste another second without you in his arms.

__

There is a schedule that you have to follow. Wake up at eight in the morning, freshen up, eat breakfast at 8:20am, Lunch at 12:30pm, afternoon tea at 3pm, dinner at 6:30pm, a bowl of fruit at 7:30pm and finally, lights out at 11pm. While it may seem like you're eating less than what you would when you binged on junk, you felt full and satisfied.

While there will always be fruit an hour after dinner, there may or may not be any during the day. The only pattern you could discern from his behavior is that whenever you're visibly stressed, you will receive some of nature's healthy desserts.

Whatever Yves is doing, it's doing wonders to your mental health. You're way more productive than ever, finishing your assignments on time without feeling the world was crashing down on you. Catching up with the lectures were a piece of cake with Yves's explanation and reward methods.

He has made exercise fun. Something that you didn't think was possible, but he would give you low intensity exercises in his home gym to do. It wasn't agonizing or horrible despite your cast. Yves would join you, praising you for completing another successful session.

You felt great about yourself, you didn't give a damn that you haven't stepped foot outside for another half a month now... nor did he ever teach you how to use your crutches. Speaking of which, where are your crutches?

It was as if you were solely relying on Yves to wheel you around. You don't think you have ever tried moving on your own aside from his daily exercise programme. He always comes in at the exact time where you wanted to go somewhere, be it either the bathroom or otherwise.

You submitted your last assignment and realized: oh god. You haven't stepped foot in your university once for more than a month in total.

Oh god. You were so dependent on Yves that he saw you completely naked; he was the one who would wipe you down from head to toe every day. You couldn't take showers due to your cast. Yet, you have no idea what lies beneath that turtleneck.

Oh god. You were supposed to ask him for advice regarding your next home.

Oh god.

Oh god.

What the fuck have you been doing? What in the hell is going on?

You stared at your healing leg. How were you so comfortable in him cleaning you up like that? You remembered not feeling embarrassed at all, it felt so natural for him to just... take care of you like that. He felt like a close family member that saw every aspect of your life. This is someone who you only knew for around three months.

Isn't he supposed to be in the library? How is he staying at home 24/7 now? You have never once seen him go out to do his errands, not even for a grocery run.

Something doesn't feel right. With a cast on one leg while the other is perfectly fine, you shouldn't be on a wheelchair at all times. Where are your crutches?

You looked around, now your goal is to look for them. But... where? You don't remember coming here with them.

Just when you're about to stand up from your office chair that feels a bit too warm now, a knock on the door could be heard before Yves comes in. He looked a bit distraught and his sleeves are unusually rolled back to reveal his scarred forearms.

You stared at him as he sauntered over with a portable fan in his hand. He set it next to you, allowing the air to cool you down.

You were enjoying the wind, ignoring that Yves was holding a folded stepladder in his arm. He walked up to the air conditioning duct, setting his ladder beneath it and began climbing it effortlessly despite wearing heels.

He spent the next minute working to remove the filter media from the air grille. Yves appeared annoyed when he saw that it was free of debris, hair or dust. Of course it is clean, he washed it right before you got discharged from the hospital.

You asked him what was going on as he placed everything back to its original spot.

"There must be a leak somewhere in the ductwork... or it could be the dampers." He sighs, rubbing his forehead. Yves began to step down from his ladder. "Whatever it may be, I have to call in the professionals."

He was fast, you didn't realize that he scooped you up in his arms until you felt your feet dangling. Yves took large strides out of your room and into the living room, where it was much colder and pleasant to be in.

Yves sets you down on the sofas.

"You will have to remain here until the air conditioning in your room is fixed."

You asked how long it would take.

"It will be corrected by tonight. However, there will be contractors entering and leaving through the main door." You craned your neck to try and imagine the scenery. You think that it would be quite chaotic with no privacy.

You could ask to go upstairs, where you could hide in Yves's room. You know that there's a bathroom there too, so you wouldn't need to face the strangers downstairs.

However, it means you would need to rely on Yves a lot more for mobility. You're already unsure how you feel about being hyper dependent on your boyfriend who probably has better things to do.

It's just for a day anyway. Not like any of them would bother you with Yves around.

You took a second to think about what to say next.

Another instance of Chrollo's appreciation for eccentric shit is found in this panel

The man canonically reads (and evidently enjoys) Bo-Bobo. Which (from what the Internet tells me) is a surreal action comedy manga, known for its absurd and chaotic humor. It seems like a riot, tbh. Might have to check it out for myself hah

I love that Chrollo isn't some literature snob, but will happily read things like this in his downtime and not just books in the veins of, idk, King James Bible, Nietzsche's collected writings or Crime and Punishment. It adds to his appeal :) ♡ a sense of humor (in addition to not being a highbrow prick) is one of the most attractive traits a person can have, after all.

Speaking of sense of humor, Chrollo appreciates a good karmic joke, as seen here when he realizes that Hisoka's ass is now at the receiving end of it

He laughs even in the face of his own shitty situation. Which I think is quite telling of Chrollo's character. Chrollo is not the stonefaced 24/7 brooding edgelord he's sometimes accused of being.

I mean we've got a panel like this to show the exact opposite of a humorless (or emotionless for that matter) man

Crucially, Chrollo is completely alone here. He's not playing a part, or putting up a façade. He's authentically silly (and channeling his younger self a bit).

I headcanon that this is the type of guy Chrollo would have grown up to be had trauma and his giving his soul and self to the Spider not happened. He'd be openly expressive, not ashamed to be goofy or overall emotional. An endearing, friendly and approachable guy.

(We also have this scene of a playful Chrollo from the '99 anime. It's technically not canon but I'm including it anyway because it's cute... in a fucked up/manipulative way)

Anyway, back to canon timeline and a moment that can be interpreted as playful in a creepy way.

It's hard to tell though, but to me Chrollo's demeanor in his meeting with 'Assassin A' is indicative of him feeling some (dark) amusement and playfulness, or at least of being in the mood for some "fun".

In addition to being silly/weird on occassion, Chrollo can be a cocky/cheeky lil shit to his elders

(That fucking smirk. I love it)

Chrollo also seems to enjoy messing with and annoying his friends on occasion.

Like in this scene, where he provokes an already riled up Nobunaga

(Nobunaga also says in an earlier chapter that Chrollo has tricked him more than once. Likely it's often been for tactical reasons – such as when he secretly sends Paku and Phinks to tail Nobu and Machi – but since Chrollo does have a mischievous streak, it wouldn’t surprise me if he's done it for some shits and giggles as well on occasion, similar to in the above).

The topic of Chrollo liking to provoke others does inevitably lead ones thoughts to the infamous car scene with Kurapika, where Chrollo takes rage-baiting to some truly sick and messed up levels. It's impossible to say whether all of it was just pure cold calculated manipulation tactics by Chrollo, or if he actually got some additional cruel enjoyment out of taunting and riling the young man up. He does smirk and smile an awful lot throughout, but then he's a consummate actor, so idk if it was from genuine amusement/satisfaction or not. I'm personally leaning towards Chrollo getting some entertainment out of it like the sick fuck he can be. (Additionally Kurapika did just (no matter how justifiably) kill one of Chrollo's loved ones, so it's not far fetched that the latter would hold some resentment toward the Kurta and consequently feel at least a level of satisfaction at getting back at him this way.) Regardless, I'm including it as an instance of cruel and sadistic (if tactical) mischief.

I also personally believe the "I didn't think the chain dude would be a woman" moment was Chrollo being sarcastic rather than actually serious. As in, I think he called Kurapika's bluff.

Idk it just doesn’t fit Chrollo's known character to be surprised that the chain user would be a woman. Like why would he be? He's got women in his Troupe (one of whom can canonically beat his ass in arm wrestling), he knows they're capable and strong, and he also knows that women as well as men can be driven to kill for vengeance (Paku and Machi are right there). God knows the man's got massive moral failings, but he's just too smart for misogyny (and racism, or any prejudice really) to be among them. Or that's my feeling djdhd.

And lastly, to wrap up the post, I have to include this little scene of disrespect and 0 fucks so blatantly given by Chrollo. It's genuinely one of the funniest moments in the manga imo

He just does not care at alllll (T＿T) lmao

All the man wants is to infodump abilities and then get this over with so he can go rob some royals.

While he is dedicated and feels a strong obligation to his duties, he has his own desires. And it’s clear that he will go after what he wants. With or without the approval of his family. To an extent, anyway.

I believe Illumi is most attracted to acquisitions of power. And from the perspective of sexual attraction, he definitely has an expectation (both within himself and his family) to marry someone that will further the legacy of the Zoldyck family.

That means someone who isn’t completely weak.

However, I think Illumi with a civilian darling makes perfect sense.

He's out of a mission when he meets you. I use the word 'meets' lightly, because he doesn't speak to you at all. Just watches from his booth in the back corner.

The initial curiosity is because of your aura. He's on a mission, surrounded by civilians who have no idea what nen is. Among them, you stand out. And he observes to determine if you could be a hunter or some kind of threat.

When you leave, he follows you home. It becomes clear that you're harmless. That you don't even realize how much aura you're leaking.

He won't rush into introducing himself. He sticks to stalking for a long while. It isn't difficult for him to go unnoticed; He's been stalking targets for years. It almost becomes a hobby for him. Anytime he's passing the area or just bored, he knows where to go.

There's something so comical about watching you. How have you gone so long without learning your own power? How has no one taken interest in your obvious aura flow?

The first person he shares this hobby with is Hisoka. Of course, it's met with obvious interest. And Illumi is quick to shut that down. You are his to observe and eventually you will become his to teach.

But, again, he won't rush into anything. He's patient. To Illumi, you have the potential to be someone great. Someone powerful. And he not only wants to help you become that, but he wants to make sure you become his. If he is going to create a weapon, it will be his to wield.

That is where his obsession will begin.

Chapter 2 - Hello Again

            “You no answer before. Miss me?” Feitan sneers at you. Moonlight and the ever-bright streetlamp light trickles in from your single shabby window. Feitan’s features look ghostly, pale with harsh shadows. He looks excited like he is a cat playing with you, a mouse. You feel tears swell up in your eyes. His hand is so tight on your neck it’s hard to swallow. Your ears echo with the sound of your blood pumping through your head. You manage to nod once more.

            Feitan releases his grasp on your neck. It does little to help calm your breathing as you see him reach into his pocket. He pulls out a short knife and waves it in the air, drawing your attention from his face to his hand. You try to reach out and grab the knife, but Feitan, in one quick motion, pushes your hands away like they were nothing and you feel the frigid cold blade under your chin. You latch your hands back onto his wrist, pushing with all your might to be free of the blade. But once again, as if you were pushing on a wall, Feitan seems unbothered by your actions. “No screaming. No wake neighbors or I kill them.” He says pushing the blade in enough to feel your skin pinch. You blink your eyes furiously, tears bubbling over and onto your cheeks, in hopes to convey your agreement as you are too afraid to move your head in fear of slicing your skin on his knife.

            The hand over your mouth moves to the side of your head, resting on your mattress by your ear. You gasp, gulping in air. Your eyes drift around you. Your room is untouched, not a single item out of place. Your water bottle on your nightstand, your dresser items still arranged the same way, your curtains perfectly positioned open on each side of the window, and your ceiling fan spinning as if there is no man straddling you down on your bed. Heat blooms in your gut. You never had any guy in your apartment. In your room. In your bed on top of you. Your eyes drag back over to Feitan’s. You swear you can feel your pupils dilate in hopes to take more of him in. Your staggered breath hitches. The realization of your thoughts and your body’s reaction causes self-deprecating disgust to rip through you. I need help, something is wrong with me. Truly. Feitan’s eyes widen slightly and you see his brows knit together. You feel your face burn. The sharp pressure on your throat lightens. Despite the clear confusion on his face, you see the pink hue that has haunted your thoughts for a week. Feitan’s blush.

            “Stop that!” Feitan angrily hisses at you while a cold, empty look overtakes his face. You jerk your head back further into your pillow. Feitan doesn’t give you the inch, pushing the knife harder and higher on your neck as he looms over you. “Always stare. Why?” Despite his stoney expression, Feitan’s eyes look pitch black compared to the graphite-colored eyes you saw before. His eyes are darker when he is angry. They are terrifying and beautiful.

            “I-I didn’t mean too.” Your voice, barely above a whisper.

            “No lies.” You didn’t even feel the cut, just a burning sensation. Your hands grip his wrist area tighter, nails digging into his skin.

            You can’t even think what to say. What do you say? You feel nauseated from the number of emotions raging through you. You want to cry. You want to close your eyes and wake up to this being a horrible dream. You want to scream. You want to laugh from the absurdity of your current state, mentally and physically. You want to brush the dark curtain of shaggy bangs from Feitan’s eyes. You want to run away.

            You send a silent plea to the universe to not be killed. You opt for the truth. “I just saw you and liked you.” The room stills. The hum of your ceiling fan and your shallow breath fill the air. Feitan’s blade doesn’t move, still pressed firm against you. His face is expressionless as before. Time seems to stretch. You search his face for any kind of clue to his thoughts. In the distance, the faint sound of a dog barking and a car alarm going off drifts through the room. More moments, or minutes, pass.

            Finally, Feitan pulls the knife away from your neck completely and leans back, no longer looming over you. You feel his body weight shift from your stomach to your hips, still securely pinning you beneath him. Your hands fly to hold your neck, and you feel warm liquid spread across your palms. Tears stream down your face like a dam broke. Panic fills your head. Hiccupping gasps ring throughout the room. Through your tears, you see Feitan’s placid face. Darkness creeps along the edges of your blurred vision. Even with warm blood on your hands, your fingers suddenly feel like ice.

            The sound of your name pulls you from the slowly circling darkness. Your full name. You swallow and sniffle while the non-blooded back of your hand furiously wipes away tears. Feitan says your name again in his choppy accent. Your vision clears enough to see his face, composed with a slight forwarded brow. His hands completely empty, knife nowhere in sight, and arms crossed over his chest.

            “How…” You push the tight feeling in your throat down with a large swallow. “How do you know my name?” You moan weakly. Feitan reaches into his pocket, and you flinch slightly in fear he is grabbing his knife again. But instead, he pulls something else out. Your wallet. Realization dawns on you, he stole your wallet. You didn’t hallucinate him that day in the café.

            “You know my name, I know yours. Only fair.” Feitan tosses your wallet onto your bed, landing perfectly next to your phone and your favorite plushie you keep on your bed. You catch Feitan glaring at it. You feel tears well up again.

            “Tsk. Useless.” Feitan says, though you don’t hear any malice in his voice. If anything, it sounded softer. “I barely hurt you. Small cut, no scar. You will be fine.” He crosses arms back over his chest as he flicks his eyes between you and your plushie. With a huff, he turns his head and toward your bedroom door. “I help clean wound. Stop crying. It weak and pathetic.” In a swift motion, he lands on the side of your bed and walks to the doorway. Confused, you reach to untangle yourself from your blankets but stop mid action. You slowly turn your hand over, palms facing your line of sight. There wasn’t that much blood on your hands actually. It was about the same as if you scraped your knee badly, but still a simple scraped knee. You feel disoriented. You felt so much blood. You look down on your nighttime attire and see only a single drop of blood.

            Feitan walks back into the room with your cheap medical kit you bought on clearance a year ago. You push the chilling thought of how he knew where to find it out of your mind. Feitan places the kit onto your bed and digs through it. Grabbing a few items, he moves closer to you. You feel like prey frozen in front of a predator. You don’t even flinch when Feitan grabs your hands, wiping them roughly with a small, wet, white pad. His hands are rough and oddly big for someone of his stature. They feel hot against your cold, clammy skin. Feitan tosses the bloodied pad toward the medical kit and opens another. His touch wasn’t gentle, but not harsh. Clinical and efficient. Feitan releases your hands and stands silently next to you. You glance down; your hands are clean.

            “Thank you?” You meekly question. You aren’t sure if that was the right thing to say as Feitan just stares at you. Dread fills your body at the thought of making him angry again. Feitan lets out a grunt. Feitan moves closer toward you, one of his hands reaching out to grab your chin pushing your head backward exposing your neck. You try to relax as much as possible, attempting to calm your erratic breath. The cold, burning sting of the alcohol pad touching your cut neck makes you hiss. Feitan’s hand dips down closer to your collar bone and breast, making your heartbeat pick up, as he drags the wet pad along the edges of your clothes.

            Feitan’s hand holding your chin up slides down to the base of your neck as you feel the damp pad leave your skin. His grip isn’t suffocating, but tight enough to make a whimper escape your mouth and your cut to burn again. “Hmmm, pretty bruise for pretty girl, yes?” His tone was similar to when you first felt him on you. Mocking and condescending. Feitan yanks you closer to him, your face touching the side of his. “You still like me now?” Feitan whispers in your ear. A tight knot coils in your abdomen.

            What is the appropriate response to that given that the person asking is clearly dangerous? That the person asking cut your neck then cleaned your wounds? Exhaustion hits you. The whiplash of emotions, his and yours, seeping in. You feel as if you are walking on glass, one step away from a knife to your throat again. You long to be back to sleep. Feitan did not like your half-truth from earlier, he was clear about that. What to say but the truth?

            “I never stopped.” You reply in a whisper. You felt like a criminal confessing to a crime. Because how could you still? The knot in your abdomen sinks lower and pulls tighter. How could you still want his attention? A familiar feel of disgust washes over you. You are sick. You sneer at yourself internally. Who would want this?

            Feitan’s breath hitches. You feel his hand flinch, momentarily flexing then relaxing to the same tight grip. You close your eyes, as much as his grip hurts, you enjoy being so close to him. He smells like nothing, not sweat or soap. Like his hands, Feitan body feels hot. You lean your head closer, fully pressing it against his. You feel the disgust raging within you quiet at the touch.

            In a second, you land on your back. A dull pain in your chest. Your eyes snap to Feitan standing in front of you, arm outstretched straight from pushing you. A look of confusion and anger mar his face. He turns sharply on his heel and walks toward your bedroom door. You scramble off the bed, tripping over your weak legs. You stumble upward toward the bedroom doorway. Feitan already made it to your apartment door.

            “Are--” You cough, throat burning from use. “Are you- are you coming back?” You call fearfully.

            Feitan’s hand hovers over the doorknob momentarily. Without looking back, Feitan pulls open the door and walks out. You scramble over to the open door. You peak your head out through the doorway. The hallway is empty. You turn your head back and forth, absolutely no one. Feitan was just… gone.

--

            You set your water bottle and bag down behind the check-out counter. Another day, another dollar. The midday sun is bright, giving the last bit of melting snow a warm glow through the glass of the convenience store. Your shoes squeak as you turn to face the register.

            “It’s been slow today. Leon is here, but he is doing inventory in the back.” Jurica sighs, tossing her purse over her shoulder. “So, don’t think he will help you with customers, he hasn’t come out of there all day. I am pretty sure his ass is sleeping or playing Heavens Area clips on his phone.”

            You let out a little laugh. Jurica is one of the few part-timers the store has. You and Leon are the only full-time employees and Jurica is one of the more scheduled part-timers, so the three of you tend to work together more often than not.

            “Thanks for the heads up. Enjoy your evening!” You smile. Jurica says goodbye and strolls out the door.

            You don’t see Leon till a few hours into your shift. “How’s inventory?” You question as you see him walk up the counter covered in dust.

            “Not going fast enough.” Leon groans, leaning across the counter. “Every time I think I’m done, I somehow find another stack of boxes. I never realized how much gum we sell. I don- oh hey, your neck! No more shitty scarfs!” Your hand immediately goes to your neck. Heat rushes across your cheeks to the top of your ears. “It’s been like three weeks of that shit; you must be excited. I still can’t believe you got mugged. That shit is crazy.”

            The morning after your night with Feitan, you realized how badly he had hurt you. Your neck was already turning dark purple at that point. No amount of makeup hid the hand shaped bruising. You wore scarves and turtlenecks, but eventually your boss and others noticed. It was not a good day. The only reasonable excuse you could think of was spinning a story of how you were mugged. You felt terrible for lying after seeing how concerned everyone was, Leon even offered to start walking home with you on days you both closed. But what else were you supposed to say? Tell everyone about Feitan? That was not happening.

            “Yeah… me too.” You respond with a  tight smile. A few days ago, you were finally able to stop covering your neck. It took a full three and half weeks for the bruising to fully heal. The cut from Feitan’s knife went away within the first week, it was the bruising that really caused you problems. Thankfully, it did snow most of the time it took to clear up so you weren’t bruised and dying from overheating.

            The worst part, the secret part you have no one to tell, is that you kind of miss them. They reminded you of him, no matter how twisted it was. You aren’t even sure if you miss the bruises cause they remind you how dangerous he is or cause they remind you how wonderful his hands felt. You haven’t even seen a glimpse of Feitan since that night. The first few nights, you thought he might come back, but he never did. You still aren’t sure if you want him to or not. Dread circles your thoughts for each scenario. You feel so confused; you feel so ambivalent. After a week, you gave up completely. The last two weeks, you've been actively trying to not think about him. Feitan was not, and is not, normal. He is extremely dangerous.

            Your boss forced you to go get checked out, claiming that even though you weren’t on the clock since you were walking home from your shift when it happened he felt responsible to make sure you were ok, which made guilt eat at you for days on end. The doctor concluded whoever did this was extremely dangerous as they somehow knew exactly how much pressure to exert without severely damaging your throat. You were lucky to be alive. You remind yourself often of that nowadays.

            “Well, I’m glad you are better. Sucks they never caught the dude.” Leon said while drumming on the counter. Leon has always been the most nonchalant person you ever met, which you have grown to greatly appreciate over time especially after these past few weeks. “Go take your lunch, by the way. I am only here for another hour and half.” Leon continued casually, still drumming lightly along the counter.

            You nod, quickly grabbing your items. You decide to go to a local bistro for a little pick-me-up. It wasn’t your favorite spot, but it was much closer. Melting, gray snow filled the sideways in patches. The snow did little to dissuade pedestrians to be out and about. The sidewalks are filled with people rushing about on a midafternoon Tuesday. You turn a corner and see the shop.

            Getting through the line was quick. Lunch in hand, you pull out a chair at one of the few outdoor tables and set out your bagged food. You watch as people go about their day and traffic buzzing along the street. A couple, hand in hand, walk past you. A tight pain flutters through your chest. The woman looks kind of like you and the man with her has black hair. He looks nothing like Feitan, but the sight hurts. I need to let it go. He hurt you. Badly. He is clearly insane. You glance down at your drink, forcing your eyes to drop from the disappearing couple. You take a sip of your beverage and look out into the crowd again. Your eyes skim over cars and people.

            As if you conjured him from your thoughts, you see him across the street. Same outfit, same expressionless stare. Feitan is tucked under the shadow of an awning. Your heart lurches in your chest. For a second, you think he isn’t real, but you notice people weaving around him. He is here; he is right there.

Chapter 3 - Flowers

            You haven’t talked to him since that night in your apartment almost three months ago. It’s been a few weeks since you last really saw him, when you saw him on your lunch break. Feitan hasn’t approached you again. Ever since, you think you have caught sight of him out of the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t trust yourself to know if what you saw was real or not.

            You have often thought about getting a therapist in the past few weeks. You don’t think your reaction is normal. Well… you know it’s not normal. You just can’t help it. It’s like you are drawn to him and you don’t even know why. He wasn’t the ideal man, and you still feel leery around knives because of him. You wish you could talk to him. Maybe the more you get to know him, the less you would like him. Maybe you will find out you hate how he eats or that he hates animals. Because being homicidal isn’t a turn off apparently. You let out an exaggerated sigh. Jurica shoots you a look in-between helping a customer. Jurica has bright red hair, light brown eyes, and a slim face. She has her hair high in her signature ponytail with her makeup and nails looking perfect as always. Maybe she could help.

            “Have something to share?” Jurica remarks, turning toward you motioning with her hand for you to continue.

            “So, I have this friend who – “ The door of the store opens and closes in rapid succession as the customer leaves. “ – is having difficulties talking to a guy she likes. I am not sure how to… help her? Have, um, you ever experienced that?”

            Jurica blankly stares at you. “A friend? You have a friend outside work? Get so for real. Are you asking me for relationship advice?” Jurica chokes out, disbelief plainly visible on her face.

            Heat coils in your gut. “Yeah.” You say dumbly.

            “Are you, like, okay?” Jurica questions with a sharp look.

            “Um.. yes? Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me to ask that. If that was a weird thing to as – What are you doing?” You stutter, seeing Jurica whip out her phone from her pocket and start furiously typing away.

            “Bitch, this is soooo not a work convo. I don’t want one of these mouth breathers to interrupt us on this important conversation.” Jurica nods her head toward the door. You see a small group of teens walking toward the twin glass doors of the convenience store. “I’m trying to see if someone can come and cover the rest of shift so we can go home, get out of these stupid uniforms, and meet up at a place to chat over food. Preferably with alcohol as well. In the two years we have worked together, you have never ever asked a question like this.”

            Jurica was right, you never did. You heard a lot about her life – her annoying exes, how her family was doing, her swearing never to drink again after her twenty-first birthday ending with her in jail, and current roommate drama – but you never had much to offer her back. You weren’t trying to be rude. She knew that. Your life consisted of work and going home, nothing more. Your only real hobby was reading, and you learned quickly that Jurica did not share that interest with you. You didn’t have friends outside of work. Ironically, her and Leon were the two people you were closest to at this point in your life and they both were more coworkers than actually friends.  

            The group of teen boys filters into the store. Glancing behind them, you see the golden, afternoon sky peak above the mismatched wall of buildings. “I don’t know about all that.” You laugh weakly.

            “No no no, you asked me for extremely personal relationship advice. You are not getting out of this now.” Jurica looks up and winks at you. “Non-work clothes and we meet at a bar. Food and drinks.” Jurica darts away toward the break room, phone in hand typing away, as the group of boys make their way up to the counter. You chuckle under your breath as you ring up the mass amounts of candy. After a few more customers come and go, Jurica finally saunters over toward you. “I am amazing, just so you know.” Jurica flips her hair over her shoulder. “We leave in an hour.”

–

            Anxiety creeps in your brain as you stare at your closet. What is pub attire? What do you wear when you want advice on trying to get your maybe stalker to talk to you? You decide on your go-to outfit for running errands, the familiarity comforting you.

            You turn to your dresser, reaching for your body spray off the top. You pause. It’s gone. Another thing gone. You let out a frustrated moan and walk toward the bathroom to see if it is in there. Recently, you keep misplacing things. Your favorite mug, a sock, a bra, somehow your toothbrush, the paperback you usually keep in your nightstand drawer, a pair of favorite underwear, and now possibly your body spray. It crossed your mind that maybe your items were getting stolen, but it didn’t make sense why someone would take such mundane items and not the little bit of jewelry you had. What would someone want with a sock or a toothbrush? When you first noticed all the misplaced items, you checked every lock you had in your apartment. Everything was locked. The morning after Feitan’s visit, you had seen a tiny crack in your living room you did not notice that night. You must have left a window open and Feitan had somehow got in. Ever since, you refused to open any windows again and took extra precautions to lock your front door.

            Glancing around your bathroom countertop, you don’t see it there either. You open the bottom cabinet doors under your bathroom sink. Your body spray is nowhere to be seen in the mess of stashed products down there. Where am I misplacing all this stuff? You huff, closing the cabinet doors. You double check the counter - soap, hairbrush, toothpaste and new toothbrush, makeup bag, lotion. No body spray tonight, I guess.

            You hear your phone go off in your room. Grabbing it, you see it’s Jurica. She texted you that she grabbed a booth at a bar a few streets away. You pocket your phone and start quickly running through your new lock checking routine.

--

            The pub is busy. Not crowded to the point of feeling packed in, but you see no tables empty. The bar is very traditional with a dark blue and wood theme. Music plays faintly over the buzz of conversations. A hand shoots up from a corner booth, flagging you down.

            “I had gotten here just in time, six o’clock rush is going on.” Jurica hums as you slide into the dark navy booth.

            “I guess we are technically part of that after work crowd.” You jest.

            “Hell yeah! It’s even better since we should still be working.” Jurica winks at you with a smirk.

            The both of you look over the menu. Jurica and you exchange small talk while waiting on the server to come. The anxiety within causes your heart to pound a little harder. Part of you regrets mentioning anything to Jurica, to anyone. A server comes over. Jurica orders a beer with a  burger and fries. Feeling too nervous to really eat or drink, you opt for water and the lightest meal you could find on the menu. Writing the two orders down, the server grabs the menus off the table and walks away. Silence fills the air. You look around the bar. Couples, groups, singles, and staff fill the room. Despite the variety of people, your eyes linger on everyone with black hair. Like the locked windows, you developed another new habit since meeting Feitan. You search out in every crowd, in every space you visit, for him. You close your eyes, attempting to cut off the thoughts of Feitan beginning to form in your head.

            “Seriously, what is up?” Jurica leans closer, elbows on the table. “You don’t ever talk to me about your life. So, clearly you are struggling if you want my advice.”

            “ I don’t even know why I attempted to ask you anything. I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like that.” You exhale loudly, sinking into your side of the booth. The server comes and drops off the drinks and quickly leaves, jumping to another table. “I – I am not even sure what to say.”

            “First off, don’t feel bad. If I didn’t want to be here or help you, I would have given you a bullshit answer. I am here for my own reasons.” A sharklike smile appears on Jurica’s pretty face. “I live for drama. I am hundred percent that kind of bitch, sorry not sorry. Miss Recluse, who has no life, is in desperate need of relationship advice? How could I not say yes? Besides, boy issues, personal or others, are always a good excuse to go out and have a drink.” Jurica takes a few drinks of her beer.

            Anyone else probably would be offended by what Jurica is saying, but you can’t help but give her a small smile. It’s not like she is wrong about you.

“You mentioned a guy. I didn’t think you were seeing anyone.” Jurica continues with a grin.

            “I’m not. We aren’t dating… we don’t even talk. I haven’t seen him in a long time. I just can’t stop thinking about him.”

            “You don’t have his number?”

            “Uh… no.” You chuckle sheepishly. You reach for your water, taking a few sips.

            “Was this like a one-night stand?” Jurica responds with a longing sigh. “If so, I know that feeling. Best dude I ever met was at this bougie party like three years ago. Blonde hair, brown eyes, and a politician’s smile. Don’t ask me on how it happened, it just did.”

            “Not exactly. We didn’t do that.” Heat blossoms across your cheeks. “It was – we had –“ You stuttered. What do you say? How do you explain anything without looking totally mental for not calling the police? Thankfully, you see the server walking out of the kitchen and toward the table. “Oh, I think that is ours!” You shine a bright, forced smile at Jurica.

            The server sets the food down on the table and leaves to get refills. You immediately look down and start picking at your food. Silence once again fills the air. The table behind you laughs loudly. You hear the upbeat song playing from the speakers above. In a few moments, the server is back with refills for the table. You utter a small thank you before they leave.

            Jurica grabs her new beer and takes a swig. “So, what did you do? You have to give me something here, girl. I won’t judge; I have dated some weirdos before. I had an ex who was fully convinced that the Hunter Association was secretly running the world via controlling information from the public despite just being an NGO.”

            You take a sip of your water. “We got into an argument? It was a chance meeting that didn’t go the best. Our second meeting was even worse.” The phantom feeling of a cold, sharp blade across your neck makes you freeze. Your chest feels tight and your mouth goes dry. “Way, way worse.” You feel as if you are swallowing a golf ball.

            “How are you meeting this guy?” Jurica grabs a few of her fires.

“We kinda just… run into either other.” He might stalk you? You think you see him, but you don’t know if that is real or not? “The first time was on the way home. I saw him and his friend, and they thought I was staring and I wasn’t! It was just the three of us on the street, I mean don’t you look at those around you? It was a normal amount of looking! I think I embarrassed him somehow. He mentioned on our second meeting he didn’t like my staring.” Which he said while he was staring at me with a knife to my throat. “He reacted badly,“ He cut my neck and choked me. “but he apologized afterward.” He helped clean the wounds he caused. “Then, I guess I pushed him too far by trying to continue our conversation?” I snuggled him after he nearly killed me. “He kinda just left after. I haven’t talked to him since.”

            Jurica grabs and twirls her beer in her hand, closes her eyes, and taps her finger on the table. “Okay…okay.” Jurica takes a sip and sets her drink down on the table. “Have you at least seen him at all since then?”

            “Well, once. I waved, but he didn’t walk over to say anything and didn’t do it back.” You pick up your fork and stab around at your food.

            Jurica takes a bite of her burger. “So, you showed interest and he got upset. Do you think he likes you?” Jurica says, putting down her burger.

            How do you answer that? Well, after he called me pathetic and mangled my neck, he pulled me close and me I was pretty, though he was comparing me to the “pretty” bruises he was leaving. And I still want to see him despite all of that. So, Jurica, what do you think? Guilt and shame take root in your stomach.

            “Well, he blushed around me. I kinda told him I liked him as well.” You mutter in shame. You finally take a bite of your food. You barely taste it.

            Jurica laughs loudly, exclaiming your name. “I never ever would have pegged you for making all the first moves. You sly bitch.” A wide, wolfish grin engulfs Jurica’s face.

            You drop your fork onto your plate. Flames consume your face. “It’s not like that at all! I didn’t make any kind of moves!” You halfway screech. The people in the booth in front of you whips their heads around, looking right at you. Your body feels as if you have been set on fire. You quickly grab your drink and take a sip, attempting in some way to hide yourself, as you look down at your lap.

            “Chill! Chill! So, you made no moves. Got it.”

            You peek a glance up, the people turned back toward each other. A smile dances across Jurica’s face still.

            “I have never seen you like this.” Jurica comments thoughtfully. “You really like this mystery man.”

            “I don’t.” You do. Shame and guilt ripple through you. You really do. Am I a bad person? The thought leaves you feeling cold. It dances on the tip of your tongue. You bite your cheek to hold it in. If you ask Jurica that, you know what the answer will be. She would reassure you that you aren’t, you are just the quiet bookworm who never misses a day of work like a goodie two shoes. She doesn’t know you want to cuddle the man who left your neck a wreck for three and half weeks. She doesn’t know you lay awake at night trying your hardest not to touch yourself over remembering how his hands felt, how lovely it felt to be so close, even though he was fully capable of and possibly willing to kill you.

            “So let me get this time line straight. You ran into him on the street.” Jurica holds out her pointer finger. You nod in agreement.

            “When did he blush and when did you tell him you liked him?”

            “He blushed both times I talked with him, but not the time I waved.” You reply with a heavy sigh. “And I just offhandedly mentioned it on the second meeting; it wasn’t a grand confession.”

            “Okay, first meeting. You ran into him and his friend; you got accused of staring and he blushed. Second meeting, “ Jurica lifts another finger. “You two had a bad argument but apologized, he blushed, and you told him you like him offhandedly.”

            “Well, technically, we met again. He blushed, got angry, then apologized.” You push the food around on your plate. You feel horrible for the half lie you give Jurica. “I mention liking him after all that.”

            Jurica shakes her head with a sad sounding laugh. Shame gnaws at your core. “Second meeting is you saw him, he blushed, he got angry, he apologized, and then you told him you like him. Third, and final meeting,” Jurica holds up a third finer. “You waved and he ignored you. That about it?”

            “Yes.” No, not even close.

            Jurica takes the final bite of her burger. “In my humble opinion, the dude doesn’t like you.”

            Your heart drops. What? Should I mention the pretty comment? You feel sick.

            “He could have walked over to you when you waved and asked for your number. Hell, he could have asked it at any point. He didn’t say he liked you back either.”

            You stare at Jurica. You don’t feel any malice in her words. Is she right?

            “Don’t give me that look.” Jurica huffs. “You are a sweet gal. I like you, clearly, or I wouldn’t have taken you out. I am not trying to be mean. I am just giving my opinion and I couldn’t be wrong. But you know who does want to talk to you? Talk to us? The two hotties at the bar.” Jurica motions for you to turn around.

            Confused, you glance behind you. At the long, crowded bar top you see a pair of guys staring at Jurica and you. You whip back around. Jurica winks and waves in the direction of the men behind you. “Are you kidding me right now?” You choke out, your tongue heavy with disbelief.

            “Not in the slightest. Your mystery man is not here, girlfriend. You said it’s been a while since you saw him, but you still can’t stop thinking about him. So, let's make you stop by finding a new one.”

            “I-I don’t want a new one!” You stutter in bewilderment.

            “Well, get ready cause here they come.” Jurica laughs, pushing her empty plate aside.

            “Jurica!” You hiss. “No, this is not wha -“

            “Hello, Ladies, how are you two doing tonight?” One of the two men says as they approach the booth. You look over to them. They were both holding half full glasses and wore suits. “We thought you two could use some company.” The same man continues, slightly slurring his words. He has short chestnut brown hair, black eyes, and a blue tie.

            “We really could. My friend here just broke up with her boyfriend.” Jurica replies, projecting a fake sadness, pointing a finger toward you.

            You feel angry tears swell in your eyes. You hear the two men introduce themselves and Jurica giggling. The three of them continue talking, but you barely hear them over the sound of your heart beating wildly in your chest. You clutch your nearly empty glass of water. The side of your booth dips. You quietly glimpse at the man sliding in next to you. He has a sharp nose, shaggy bleach blonde hair, and a purple dress shirt.

            “So what do you say?” Blue tie questions loudly with a cocky grin.

            “Sounds good to me!” Jurica exclaims cheerfully, extending her hand toward the man. The brown-haired man sets down his drink and grabs Jurica’s hand, pulling her snug against him. The pair laugh. The cold feeling of panic blankets you.

            “Wait! Where are –“

            “Have fun! Let loose a little, forget about him!” Jurica sings, cutting you off as she walks away.

            You close your eyes, willing the tears to fade. This is not how you pictured your night. The man next to you smells of beer and smoke. Peaking a look at him through your eyelashes, you see him staring over where Jurica and his friend went. You want to go home. You want out of this bar. You want out of this booth with this stranger.

            The blonde catches your gaze, looking slightly startled. “So, a break up huh? That’s rough.” His speech has no hint of slurring like his friend. He throws his arm across the back of the booth, his hand landing on your shoulder. You flinch at his touch. His hand was sweaty and heavy. He has three bulky silver rings – one on his ring finger, pointer finger, and thumb.

            “I have a boyfriend. Stop touching me.“ You snap.

            “Oh… I thought… your friend –“ The man next to fumbles.

            “She lied. We are perfectly happy together. His name is Feitan and we didn’t break up.”

            “Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me. I am okay wi –“

            “I need to use the bathroom.” You blurt out.

            “Oh… yeah, sure.” The man slides out of the booth clumsily. You grab your purse and quickly stand up. You look around for Jurica, finding her dancing in the back of the bar with the blue-tied man. You grip your purse strap tightly and turn toward the front door.

–

            Your bag swings slightly as you make your way down the sidewalk of your apartment. Pedestrians meander up and down beside you. It is late on Wednesday night, so there aren't many people out. You stomp up the stairs of your apartment building. Tears fall freely down your face. Fuck tonight. Fuck Jurica.

            You hear the sound of your phone going off. You dig your phone out of your bag, your screen lights up with a notification of one unread message from Jurica. Fuck you, Jurica. You angrily toss your phone back in your bag, fishing out your keys instead, and ignore the message. Sniffling back your tears, you rapidly unlock your door, walk in, and lock it back. You toss your bag on your couch and trudge to your room. Exhaustion overcomes you at the sight of your bed. You quickly shed your clothes and crawl in, too tired to care to do anything else.

            You open your eyes hazily. Your head hurts and your feet are cold. Sliding your arm around on your bed, you try to feel for your phone. Where is it? Moonlight peaks through your windows. What time is it? You remember coming home and throwing yourself into bed. You untangle yourself from your blankets, groggily walking toward the living room. You wander up to your couch finding your bag exactly where you left it. Pulling out your phone, you see three unread messages from Jurica and three a.m. in big font on your lock screen. You groan. You have work in less than 6 hours.

            You notice a weird shape out of the corner of your eye. You turn toward your kitchen countertop. There is a shadowy blob standing upright on the counter. You don’t remember getting food or a package on the way home.

            “What is that?” You mumble aloud. A bizarre smell hits you as you walk toward the light switch. You couldn’t tell what it was, a cross between iron and a garden. Flicking on the light, you see flowers.

            You stare at the bouquet of flowers sitting on your counter. The bouquet is beautiful; the arrangement is in all different shades of your favorite color. It looks picturesque in your apartment so perfectly placed within its glass vase. Dumbfounded, you move closer. So many flowers. It is massive.

            Your phone clatters to the ground. Your heart drops down to the bottom of your stomach. Your feet and hands go numb. You blink rapidly, trying to comprehend what you see. At the base of the ornate vase were hands. Human hands. They lay in a pool of dark red blood. You struggle to breathe as you take in the sight before you. Horror rips through you like lightning as realization hits you. The flowers are not in water; they are in blood. You can taste the blood in the air. You feel acid climbing up your esophagus. Gasping sobs bubble up from your chest. You know those hands. On one is three rings - one on the ring finger, pointer finger, and thumb. Clipped to the vase is a white card with choppy, uneven handwriting.