hi (~‾▿‾)~

The audio is wind puckering the microphone over the distant noises of traffic. You can also hear the ragged breathing of someone who knows what's coming.

Then a voice. A man, middle-aged, trying to sound much braver than he feels: “You don’t have to do this. We can talk. Whatever they're paying you—“

A sound like a tenderizer hitting a steak. The man stops talking.

You open the video.

The frame is steady. A parking garage. Concrete pillars, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The victim is kneeling, hands zip-tied behind his back.

Bullseye’s chosen weapon is almost comical, a large steel water bottle sprayed matte black. The uncolored bottom catches the dim overhead light for half a second before denting the man’s left temple in a perfect circle. You can see the skin sagging to fill in the sudden collapse of bone. The crater that killed. 

The man falls face-first onto the concrete and never moves again. The video ends.

task force victim no. 12 weapon water bottle parking garage—under grand concourse? will check time stamp 9:47pm

Your phone buzzes.

He cried. It’s hard to see on camera.

You stare at the screen.

Did you also see his hands shaking? 

You type back:

i saw He had a picture of his daughter in his wallet. I left it on his chest. Someone needs to see it before they bag him.

You don't know what to say to that, so you don’t type anything.

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You're quiet tonight. i’m watching it again rn You never rewatch them.

Your stomach clenches. He knows. He always knows.

then im thinking about it What are you thinking?

You think about the face hitting the concrete. You think about the picture of his daughter. You think about the teenager in the coma. The protester with the fractured skull. The sister pushed down the stairs.

You type:

you probably could have done a lot worse

A long pause. Longer than usual.

Then:

That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.

You don't respond.

☆☆☆☆☆

The next morning, you wake up to a different kind of text.

[IMG_2871]

You open it, squinting past the grogginess and against the brightness of your phone screen.

It's a cat.

Specifically, it’s a grayish tabby sprawled on its back across the kind of beige hallway carpet you’ve seen in dozens of buildings, including yours. Likely a man’s hand—pale skin, scarred over on the knuckles, with long, sturdy fingers— is scratching its stomach. The cat’s front paws are curled toward its chest. Its eyes are half-closed in contentment. One ear droops downward in a cute halved triangle. It wears a ridiculous blue flannel collar with a little bow tie on it.

There's no caption. No context. Just the image.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you type:

is that your cat

The response comes in under a minute.

This is Mr. Meowgi. He’s the neighbor's. He used to yell at me when I walked past his door. The cat, not the neighbor. The neighbor is nice. I started bringing Meowgi fried eggs in the morning before going out. Now he likes me.

You almost laugh. You catch it in your throat and press your palm against your mouth like you can shove it back down.

why are you sending me a cat I just thought you should see him. why

A pause. Then:

Because it's nice. You deserve something nice after all the bad stuff you’ve seen.

You lock your phone. You set it face-down on your kitchen counter. You make coffee. You drink it standing up, staring out your window at the gray morning light.

Your phone buzzes again.

You tell yourself you won't check it.

You check it.

Another photo. This time, a view from a rooftop. The sun is rising over the Manhattan skyline, bleeding orange and pink across the clouds. The angle is just slightly off—not as composed as a photographer’s work, or someone used to posting online.

I took this at sunrise. You should see one in person sometime. I know a good spot near where you live.

You don’t want to respond to that.

You save both photos to your camera roll.

[TF-013.mp4            ▼]

The video comes three days later, a lull in the usual system. Friday night. You're half-asleep in bed with your laptop. An old episode of Abbott Elementary is background noise as you watch Nate the Hoof Guy. 

Your laptop chimes.

There was a point where you hesitated, then a point where you didn’t. You’re circling back to pausing before you click anything.

You open it.

The frame is different this time. Brighter. A living room. Beige walls. Family photos on a shelf. A dog whines lamely somewhere off-camera.

The victim is a woman sitting on her own couch. She’s bleeding from a cut on her lip. She’s staring at the camera with something that looks like exhaustion.

“My kids are upstairs,” she says. Her voice is steady. “Please. Don’t do this here tonight.”

The camera doesn't move.

A letter opener—brass, tarnished, the kind you find at estate sales—spins like a fan blade before catching her in the throat.

She doesn’t fall right away. She slumps sideways. One hand twitches toward the wound and blood that looks black soaks into the couch cushions.

The golden retriever starts barking. The video ends mid-bark.

You close the player. You don’t take notes. You sit in the dark and you don’t move. You don’t think about the kids upstairs. 

You don’t believe you thought that a self-hiring assassin would care if there were children in his target’s house. Why would he? You’ve given him too much benefit of the doubt, and now you’re in too deep.

Your phone buzzes.

The kids were with their father. He picks them up every Friday. I checked.

You type back with numb fingers:

you checked I always check. Then I check again.

You lock your phone. You stare at the ceiling. Your phone buzzes again.

She was going to testify as a character witness against someone who was wrongfully convicted of being a vigilante. and why are you telling me this So you know she wasn't innocent. None of them are. you keep saying that You need me to say it.

[TF-014.mp4            ▼]

The videos keep coming. So do the photos.

After TF-014—a lieutenant killed with a dart, the kind you see in bars, buried in his carotid—he sends you a picture of the sunset from the same rooftop. Purple this time. Almost violet.

The clouds were moving really fast today.

After TF-015—an officer who'd been flagged for excessive force three times, killed with an American flag pin—he sends you a photo of a pigeon sitting on a fire escape.

There’s something cool about the iridescent feathers, don’t you think?

You start responding to the photos before you respond to the videos.

meowgi looks pissed today I didn’t give him his fried egg today. I need to buy some more for the both of us. give him two tomorrow to make up for today He’ll start demanding two every day. thats not a me problem

[TF.mp4            ▼]

This video is different.

You can’t tell for sure, barring the feeling in the air and the unnumbered file name.

You download it, because you’ve now been downloading them before playing them. You’re keeping them anyway, so the order doesn’t matter.

You run the audio. It’s complete silence. No wind. No traffic. No breathing.

Your stomach drops. Rolls over like a scared dog.

You open the video.

The frame is unsteady. Not shaky, exactly—but not locked down. He’s being casual.

You're looking at a street. An apartment unit. A string of lights decorates the fire escape, even though it’s March.

They’re the lights you bought for Christmas, and the same ones you still have up.

The camera holds for four seconds. Five. Six.

Then it pans up slightly. To your living room window. The one you're sitting behind right now, blinds half-drawn, because you thought that was private enough. A shadow moves, when you walked from the living room to the kitchen for water.

The video ends.

Don't panic. Like I’ve said, I’m not going to hurt you.

You type with shaking hands:

why are you here I wanted to see if you were okay. im fine im just working jesus fuck go home But the lights in your apartment were off for fourteen hours. Headache? Are you sick?

You want to laugh. You are sick. Just not in the way he’s asking. 

You stand up. You walk to the window and close the blinds completely, they clatter annoyingly against the frame. You press your palm against the wall and try to slow your breathing, but it doesn’t work. It never works. You’re not looking down from the edge of the cliff, you’ve been in freefall for weeks now.

fuck off go home I left that spot. I’m already home. I just wanted you to know that I always could, but I never do.  is that supposed to comfort me how else am i supposed to react to this shit I’m just being honest with you.

You slide down the wall. You sit on the floor with your back against the cold plaster. Your phone buzzes again.

A photo.

You open it.

The sunset. From the rooftop of some random building. The sky is a deep, bruised purple.

Your building.

I think about you when I watch the sun set. I like those outdoor lights on your fire escape.

You save the photo.

You don’t respond for a long time.

But you can’t ignore him.

they’re actually christmas lights i just keep forgetting to take them down Yeah, you’ve been really busy. You can get away with leaving them up. They don’t look seasonal. i guess Good night, Cronkite. goodnight

You set your phone on the floor beside you. You stare at the blinds. The afternoon light filters through the gaps, striping your floor in gold.

Your phone buzzes one more time.

Sweet dreams.

When you close your eyes, you don't see the videos.

You see a gray tabby cat sprawled on his back in a hallway, completely unafraid.

[TF-016.mp4            ▼]

You don't make a conscious decision about it. One day you just… stop opening Word documents after the videos. You stopped logging badge numbers and weapons and locations. You stopped pretending that any of that matters.

What would you even write? victim no. sixteen. another bad person. another creative death. 

The notes were always a performance anyway. They were they way you convinced yourself that you were still a journalist who studied at a university for this job, and not just—what? A murder accomplice? A bystander? A person who saves a serial killer’s cat photos and thinks about him at sunset?

You don't have a word for what you are anymore.

☆☆☆☆☆

The texts change.

Not in content, exactly. He still sends the videos. He still sends the photos. He still makes comments about the kills that land somewhere between clinical and gloating.

But something’s in the air. The thaw of winter leads to the rawness of spring, when animals come out to find mates.

The space between you sending him messages gets far shorter, and he always replies within seconds. The silences get heavier when you pull back before leaning in again. You find yourself checking your phone at stoplights, grocery store lines, in the bathroom at 3 AM when you can't sleep.

No new messages.

You tell yourself you’re just waiting for the next video, so you know when to go to the station and pick up a police report because you’re not watching his videos anymore. That’s your job. That’s what Adriana pays you for.

But you check your phone anyway.

No new messages.

You set the phone down face‑up on your kitchen counter so you’ll see the screen light up as you cook dinner.

It doesn’t.

You eat dinner at your little dining table with your personal laptop open. Another episode of Abbott Elementary you’ve already seen plays as your eyes are glued to the spot just beside your phone. You wash the plate. You check your phone after you’re done.

No new messages.

You’re opening your messenger app before you can think.

are you alive

The response comes within twelve seconds.

Why? Did you miss me? :)

You stare at the screen. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You could say no. You could say don’t flatter yourself. I was just wondering if you’ve been caught.

You type:

maybe

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

That’s not a no. I missed you too, Cronkite.

You want to rip your heart out of your chest and choke yourself to death on it. Before you can start digging, Bullseye sends you a photo. Not a sunset. Not a cat.

A cup of coffee. Paper takeout cup, the kind from the bodega on your corner. The lid is off. Someone’s added too much cream. The coffee is pale, veering into being coffee-flavored cream instead of just coffee-with-cream.

You blink at the photo. Scratch that. This isn’t a cup like the ones in your bodega. You recognize that chipped mint green Formica.

You were just there. Twenty minutes ago. You bought sugarfree gum and a pack of Diet Coke. Mateo, the usual cashier, behind the counter didn’t look up from his phone when you tapped your card. You didn’t look around. You never look around anymore because this is your neighborhood spot, where everyone knows everyone.

Where everyone should know everyone.

Your blood goes cold and hot at the same time.

are you at my bodega I was thirsty.

Chew your lip. Maybe you’ll draw blood.

you could've said something Like what? “Hi, I'm the guy who sends you the videos. Nice to meet you. Can I buy you a coffee?” just say hi

A long pause.

Do you really want me to?

You don’t answer that because the answer is yes, and the answer is no, and the answer is something in between that needs a therapist with every passing day you keep texting Bullseye.

Instead, you type:

how was the coffee Terrible. They put too much creamer in it. you know you can ask them to put less I know, I was just a little preoccupied with something. with what You walked right past me. You were looking at your phone.

You close your eyes. You try to remember the bodega. Mateo behind the counter. The fluorescent lights. The cold leaking out from the drink cooler when you opened it.

A man by the chips, looking at Fritos and Funyuns. Tall. Dark jacket, black or navy blue, maybe. A baseball cap snug over his head. Virtually unidentifiable, you can’t remember a face.

what did you buy Orbit. The green one. thats my gum Yes. why do you know that I told you, Cronkite. I pay attention.

You should be terrified. You are terrified. But underneath the terror, there’s something else. 

Someone’s finally looking at you.

You’ve spent your career watching other people. Watching politicians lie, cops brutalize, crime lords setting the city on fire while everyone pretended it was fine.

No one ever watched you back until now.

☆☆☆☆☆

You start leaving your Christmas lights on all night.

You tell yourself it's because you forget to turn them off. You tell yourself it's because the switch is hard to reach. You tell yourself a hundred lies that all circle back to the same truth:

You want him to see them when he’s near.

You want him to look up at your window and know that you’re inside, and maybe you’re awake. 

Awake thinking about him.

It’s sick. You know it’s sick. This is the plot of a horror movie where the main character’s stupid associate dies because they were too stupid to run when they had the chance. Instead of sprinting for the exit, they’re arming themselves with a candlestick and trapping themself in the bedroom with the killer.

But you leave the lights on anyway with your blinds half‑drawn. You leave a path of breadcrumbs you pretend aren't breadcrumbs. Allude to your dwindling groceries. Allude to when you’ve just come out of the shower. Allude to how you live alone. The ardency is humiliating when you read back what you type.

Your phone buzzes at 11:47 PM with a photo of your building from across the street, your window reflecting the yellow of those not-so-seasonal Christmas lights, you save it to your camera roll.

You have forty‑seven photos now. Sunsets and cats, mostly, but among them are a pigeon and some fried eggs. A shadow that might be a tall, dangerous man shadow, casting a smear of black across an orange-tinted rooftop at dusk.

You have forty‑seven pieces of Bullseye.

He has all of you.

☆☆☆☆☆

The eighteenth video comes at 6:32 AM. You’re still in bed. The sun isn’t fully up yet. The room is still cold from the night’s chill, and you haven’t moved in hours because moving means starting another day of being what you are.

You open the video on your phone, breaking the streak. You don’t get up. You don’t turn on the lights. You just lie there in the dark and watch another bad person die.

You don’t even try to make mental ones. When the video ends you put the phone on your chest by your shoulder, and stare at the ceiling.

Your phone buzzes, slightly warm and reverberating in your clavicle.

She had three commendations for bravery. None of them were for helping civilians. you’re up early I got home pretty late, so I haven’t slept yet. me neither but i’ve been home sinve work ended What do you usually think about when you don’t sleep?

You. The videos. The way his hands don't shake. The way you watched that woman with kids die and felt nothing except a vague sense of good.

You type:

whether i'm still a good person

The pause is longer than usual. Almost a full minute.

Do you want my honest answer? yeah You’re perfectly fine the way you are. You know what needs to be done, but you still feel remorse about others dying. There’s some part of you that still holds together despite everything you’ve seen. But I don't think you’re just asking if you’re good. I feel like you’re asking if you’re alone in your feelings, because it’s hard to deal with this alone.  and i am No. You have me.

You close your eyes. You put your hand over your phone, sandwiching it between your collarbone and palm. You can feel the vibration of his words in your bones.

You should be horrified that a serial killer is validating you. Delete everything. Call the FBI, beg for witness protection, disappear into the Canadian wilderness where no one has ever heard of Bullseye or the Task Force or the Daily Bugle.

But you don't.

Instead, you type:

can u give me a meowgi pic

Bullseye sends one in under thirty seconds. The gray tabby is sprawled across a windowsill this time. Sunlight is hitting his fur. His eyes are half‑closed. He looks peaceful in a way you haven't felt in months.

I’m catsitting. I think he missed me, or his owner. maybe he was just hungry Maybe. I hope it’s because he likes me, but it's hard to tell with cats. sounds familiar

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Are you saying you like me?

You stare at the screen. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You could deflect. You could make a joke. You could pretend you meant something else entirely. Make up an old friend who has a catlike personality, and turn it into a cute anecdote.

You type:

im saying it’s hard to tell That’s not a no. yeah it’s not

You set the phone down. You roll onto your side. You pull your knees toward your chest and press your forehead against the cool wall.

Your phone buzzes again. Twice in quick succession.

Have a good day at work, Cronkite. I'm glad you're still here. :)

☆☆☆☆☆

The twentieth video comes on a Sunday. You’re at your home desk, pretending to work on a piece about city council budget meetings. Adriana has been breathing down your neck for more variance, so the Task Force killings are on the back burner as you cover local news. It’s the change of pace people usually need after covering a heavy topic.

You open the file. The frame is different this time. Wider. A street corner you recognize from a dozen press conferences. The camera is steady, propped on something—a trash can, a mailbox, you can't tell.

You're different today. Quieter. i'm just thinking About what?

You think about how far you've fallen. And how you don't want to climb back up.

work and if i'd feel anything if i saw you in person if i'd feel anything

The pause stretches. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

And what did you decide? that idk

Offensively casual. Exactly the opposite of what your heart is hammering into your ribcage.

Do you want to find out?

Your heart stops. Then it starts again, too fast, too loud.

what do you mean You know what I mean. I'm not going to hurt you, Cronkite. I keep telling you that, and I mean it. We could meet you, if you wanted.

You read the message seven times. Your hands are steady. Your heart is not.

when You tell me when. how will i know when that is You’ll know. You have good instincts. okay

That's it. Four letters. No hesitation. No qualifiers. Just okay.

He then sends you a photo. Not a cat. Not a sunset. Not a coffee cup.

It’s a skyline. A more residential street stretches out below, brick apartments with their little windows and little people walking by. At the very edge of the frame, barely visible, is the edge of a building with a fire escape.

Your building.

I’ll see you sometime.

You save the photo. You close your laptop. You pull the blinds all the way up.

The Christmas lights glow white against the gray-brown evening. They look like a signal. A beacon. A message you're not ready to spell out loud.

He’ll read it anyway. He always does.

You’re not a good person anymore, despite what Bullseye says. You made peace with that sometime along the way.

But you’re not alone.

And right now, that's enough.

☆☆☆☆☆

You’re halfway down the third-floor landing when you see it—a blur of gray darting down the steps to the fourth floor, then curling up in the shadow at the base of the steps. You hear scritching noises from claws digging at the sad beige hallway carpet.

“Hey, baby,” you say softly as you come up, trying to seem nonthreatening. “Scared of something?” You shift your laptop bag to sit better on your shoulder as you get closer and—

You freeze mid-step.

That can’t be right. 

That can’t possibly be right. 

You’ve seen this cat a hundred times. He’s a gray tabby with a blue flannel collar. A little matching blue flannel bowtie puffs out from the back of the cat’s head. You have photos of this cat saved to your phone because someone sends them to you.

No.

And then you hear the footsteps.

They’re slow as they come down. The unhurried cadence of someone who knows exactly where they’re going and can take all the time in the world to get there. Your head snaps up the stairs before you can think to run, run, get the fuck out of here.

A man descends from the fourth-floor stairwell above you. Late thirties. Maybe early forties. You can’t quite see his face at first, just vague shape of broad shoulders, and a dark jacket with his hands shoved casually into the pockets.

Pockets that hold pencils and paperclips and a pack of playing cards. Items that shouldn’t be able to kill human beings, but do by some sick and twisted power put in the wrong hands.

The cat meows.

The man kneels down fluidly—too fluidly, like his joints are made of something more efficiently lubricated than bone and cartilage—and scoops Mr. Meowgi up with both hands. The cat doesn’t squirm at all. In fact, it seems to enjoy being in the man’s arms.

You watch him straighten up, cradling the cat against his chest like a baby. The stairwell’s harsh light catches his face.

He’s got a nice jaw. It’s clean-shaven. His blond hair leans more toward brown with his age, slightly tousled from possibly being outside. Brown eyes that look almost kind from this angle.

Your stomach drops anyway.

He opens his mouth, but another cuts him off before he speaks.

“Tony!” An elderly woman’s voice echoes down from the fourth floor. She’s coming down arthritically, with a determined shuffle. “You found my little łobuz!”

The man—Tony—smiles.

It’s a good smile. Warm, even. He tilts the cat toward the woman like a waiter presenting a particularly expensive dish. “He was trying to make a break for it. This little guy’s got a lot of ambition in him.”

The woman laughs, breathless and grateful, and takes the cat into her arms. She plants a kiss on its head, then reaches up to pat Tony’s cheek. “My hero. You’re a good boy, Tony. Thank you.”

Tony. Just Tony.

Your brain is already screaming.

Because you recognize the way he tilted his head when he smiled—that slight, predatory cant. You recognize the stillness in his hands even after he let go of the cat, the way they hover in the air for a fraction of a second too long, as if calculating where to land next. You recognize the geometry of his posture: balanced, lethal, coiled.

You’ve seen grainy surveillance photos. Witness sketches. A single blurry cell phone video from a warehouse fire two years ago, posted on a dark web forum you should never have found.

Bullseye.

He lives in your building.

No. That’s not right. He doesn’t just live here. He lives one floor above you. 4C’s famously been been empty for six months. The landlord kept showing to prospective tenants who never seemed to sign a lease.

You try to breathe normally. Try to remember what your face was doing before he came down the stairs. You’re still frozen on the landing, grocery bag digging into your fingers, and the woman is already headed back up with Mr. Meowgi in her arms. You, almost ridiculously, want to go with her to stay shrouded in whatever protection she obviously has, being neighbors with Bullseye and still breathing.

“Tony” is still standing there.

He turns.

His eyes find yours.

And for one endless, horrible second, you see it—the thing behind the smile. Not anger. Not malice. It’s something that looks at you and files something away for himself. You’re painfully aware of how you look. Standing with your feet at shoulder width. Heavy breathing rate. Your hand twitches toward the railing.

Then his smile widens, just a fraction.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says. His voice is pleasant. Almost friendly. “Didn’t mean to get in your way.”

He steps aside and gestures for you to pass him with a sweep of his hand that’s almost courtly.

Move. Move your legs. Move your body past him. Do not run. Do not let him see you run.

You walk.

You walk past him so close you could smell his cologne—something clean, something ordinary, something that makes your stomach lurch with the wrongness of it all. You keep your eyes forward. You do not look back.

But you feel his gaze on your spine the whole way down to the second floor.

And when you finally reach your door—hands shaking so badly you drop your keys twice—you hear a soft sound from the stairwell above.

Not footsteps.

A whistle.

A Billy Joel song.

He’s whistling.

You lock the door, and check the locks twice. You press your back against the wood and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, groceries forgotten in the hallway, heart hammering against your ribs like a caged thing.

He knows.

He knows you know.

And he’s happy about it.

You close your eyes and listen to the whistle fade as he walks back up to the fourth floor, one slow step at a time.

a/n: THERE WILL BE A PART 3 AND IT WILL BE THE FINAL ONE!!! i just got so carried away with part 2 that it became a monster, and i had to split it. i've outlined what i want and everything so it'll be a couple days? idk my finals ended last week so i've been super free and just. writing all day lmfao pretty please listen to this song after you read this. i lovelovelove the scenes that had it in barry. lastly my mind is absolutely BLOWN by the amount of love i received on the previous part. you guys are so awesome and i'm so freaking honored to have made something that other people enjoy, let alone to this degree. here's to reading more and making more fic with all you lovely people!

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home (No subject) 04/06/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-009.mp4             ▼]

Like the last eight messages, the subject line of this email is blank. The video attachment is labeled simply: you’ve guessed in your infinite wisdom that TF stood for Task Force, and the number corresponds to the day’s planned assassination in this ongoing series. The sender’s email is a scrambled string of characters you can’t find significance in. The domain is archaic, an actual @netscape.net address.

You didn’t bother continuing a trace on the address after your first attempt. The tech lady at The Bugle said that she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) sink her teeth into it before booting you out of her office. You then ran Scopum Impetum through a Latin to English translator and got something like “Hit Target” or “Hitting Target.”

Bullseye.

Rather on the nose with his intimidation. One of three things you’ve learned about him the past month, the other two being that he likes to pick off AVTF squads on their patrol routes or house calls. Massive, bloody, nightmarish killings that always made the news because it was impossible to mask them  as typical New York violence.

You also learned that while the patrol killings were random, the videos were special. All videoed victims were elite officers with significant power, or members who had amassed large red-pilled followings online.

All ironic kills. All final laughs in Fisk’s face. 

You open TF-009.mp4. There’s no thumbnail, but the video outline is vertical in cell phone dimensions. 

You hit play. The framing is steady. Bullseye either uses a tripod, or has very solid hands. 

You watch a man in AVTF tactical gear—you think his badge reads 4091, you’ll look him up later—crawl backward across a warehouse floor. His leg is bent at an angle that suggests his femur bone has been turned into several smaller bones. Pieces of it stick out, shards of white in crests that burst through skin. It reminds you of the Sydney Opera House.

He’s begging. You can’t really make out the words over the wet rasps of his uneven breathing, but it’s easy to guess what he’s saying. Please. Please.

The camera doesn’t move. There’s no voice here, and the video’s ambient noise doesn’t sound like it’s been scrubbed over by an A.I to remove speech. You make a mental note of that. Bullseye’s always been quiet with killing. No video reveals a voice.

Then a long, thin, yellow projectile sinks into the man’s left eye socket with a sound like a melon splitting.

The video ends.

Before you can think about it, you click the replay button. Bone shards, the wet choke-gasps. You skip over some of the tense anticipation until Bullseye throws. The projectile flies, and you see in this second viewing that it was a pencil that killed this officer. A pencil splintered in his skull and separated the soft flesh of his eyeball. You see the white orb deflate like a sad birthday balloon. It leaks red and small fleshy chunks over the officer’s face until he stops screaming. 

You close the player. You open Word.

task force victim no. 9 badge #4091? pencil through eye location tbd. warehouse district? low lighting. probably killed at night still no visual proof of attacker being bullseye

You don’t write: victim begged for his life

You don’t write: bullseye did us a favor.

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home No new mail

Three weeks ago, Adriana called you into her office. The glass walls around her desk made you feel like you were entering a snake terrarium at the back of the Bugle’s newsroom, and you were the next mouse to be swallowed alive.

“Morning,” you’d said. You didn’t sit down because people never sat unless Adriana told them to. 

Adriana slid a folded letter across her desk. The paper had the mayor’s emblem stamped over it. “This came in for you. Give it a look-see.” 

You pick up the creamy paper. Officially, it was an acknowledgment of your “balanced coverage” of city affairs, and it urged you to cover things “closer to the heart of the administration.” Unofficially, it was a target drawn on stationery being pinned to your back.

“Mayor Fisk read your piece on the Task Force’s budget allocation,” Adriana said, folding her hands. “The one where you pointed out the civilian engagement metrics.”

You said nothing. You put the letter back on Adriana’s desk. 

“He hated it,” she continued. “And because he hates it, everyone who works for him hates it. And because everyone who works for him hates it, you’re going radioactive here.”

You said nothing.

“Because I like you, I’m giving you a lifeline.” Adriana tapped the letter. “Bullseye. The Task Force killer. You’re going to cover him, and you’re going to humanize the victims. Make everyone cry. No ifs, ands, or buts. Show the city that you care about justice.”

“The Task Force,” you began, “is a fascist death squad.”

“The Task Force is the law,” Adriana clears her throat. “And you’re going to write about the people dying to uphold it. Or, you can clean out your desk and see how long your freelance career lasts when every editor in town knows Wilson Fisk has a personal grudge against you. You know he doesn’t forgive easily.”

That was the final nail in the coffin. 

You took the assignment. 

At first, Bullseye performed for the masses. He posted six kills publicly. They were grainy the way a phone camera got when zoomed a little too far, then uploaded to fringe forums. Every video had a time stamp and was geo-tagged like he was building an archive. The Task Force would always arrive too late to the scenes, find the bodies, and hold press conferences where they promised to find the “cowardly terrorist.”

You attended one of those press conferences when you were writing about the third victim. The commissioner stood behind a podium and called Bullseye “a disturbed vigilante threat to civilized society.” You watched the officers lined up behind him—people who had, in the last six days alone, fractured an unarmed Latino protester’s skull and shoved his sister down a flight of stairs.

You felt nothing for the Task Force.

You wrote the introductory article your editor wanted. You listed the victims’ names, described their service records, quoted grieving families. The ache in the hollows of your ribs had nothing to do with sympathy for the dead.

Then Bullseye stopped posting.

You assumed he’d been caught and killed before trial. On the other end, maybe he’d finally grown bored of killing. You felt a brief, shameful flicker of relief—not because the killings had stopped, but because you wouldn’t have to watch the forum videos.

Then the first video came.

 ☰     Outlook ☰     File     Home (No subject) 03/29/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-001.mp4             ▼]

The subject line was blank. The sender’s email is a scrambled string of characters on an @netscape.net address.

You almost deleted it instinctively. Spam mail. A virus showing you a video of the hot babes in your area. But the sender’s name was something Latin, and that raised a flag of curiosity. After running the file through a virus scanner, you opened it.

You truly wish you hadn’t. 

On the forums, people usually tagged warnings. You went in with no idea that you were about to watch a woman in a Task Force windbreaker take a staple gun to the side of her neck. It clicked as it hit her, a staple injecting itself into a fold of skin. The camera didn’t shake. The video ended with a slow zoom on her face as her eyes grew unfocused. 

You slammed your laptop shut. 

Then, you opened it a crack. With the screen pointing down and the laptop’s volume cranked to the max, you tried to listen for any targeted messages. You found nothing. You checked the forums, the sphere of Twitter that had a dedicated group of followers reposting the kills, other news sites, and it seemed that this specific video was sent only to you.

You told yourself it was a coincidence. You told yourself the killer had simply chosen a journalist at random.

You didn’t believe it.

[TF-004.mp4            ▼]

A man in tactical gear. A rolled-up magazine. The carotid artery spurted out in pumps that arc like sticky, red fountain water. Same steady camera. A zoom on the dying eye.

You have a working theory: Bullseye isn’t sending you these videos because he wants you to stop him. Maybe it's because you were the only city journalist at an outlet who wrote the truth about the Task Force, and this was him sliding into alignment with you. A weird Snapchat streak he held on his own.

It's the nicest theory you could come up. The others lead you down a path where you're the next person he’d videotape, and the videos are the road signs on the way.

[TF-005.mp4             ▼]

You have a system. You scan the file before downloading it, as anyone should. You let the audio play first to listen for cues. You watch the video after to make notes for the articles. You log the victim’s badge number if you can see it, estimated the time of day, and the weapon used. You waited until an hour after your source at the NYPD would contact you before sending a draft to your editor. You transfer the videos to a USB you’re too paranoid to let go of, so it now lives under the insole of your left shoe.

[TF-006.mp4             ▼]

You stop pretending everything is normal. 

The videos are inside you. They live behind your eyes. You’ll be walking to the coffee shop and suddenly remember the way a man’s throat opens like a zipper, thyroid cartilage visible as he chokes on blood. You’ll have to sit down on the curb to breathe until the world stops spinning. You wake up gasping, your hand pressed flat against your heart as if checking for wounds. Every creak of the radiator makes you think of footsteps, every gust of wind moving the creaky fire escape sounds like a throaty voice outside. 

[TF-007.mp4             ▼]

You don’t mourn them. They weren’t good people. They signed up to wield violence against civilians with the explicit blessing of a man who, not long ago, was in the F.B.I’s custody. They had chosen power without accountability. They had chosen to become the fists of a fascist.

You do mourn the part of yourself that couldn’t watch a man die. Now you know many ways people die: a pencil through the eye, a staple gun to the throat, a domino splitting a skull and macerating the brain stem.

[TF-009.mp4             ▼]

Your phone buzzes with text from Adriana.

I need your draft on victim 8. We need the human angle. Make me cry!!!

You rub your face with your hands before opening a new Word document.

The eighth member of the Anti-Vigilante Task Force was found dead yesterday morning in an alleyway behind Josie’s Bar. His name was Marcus Webb. He leaves behind two children and a wife.           He leaves behind an impressive legacy of violence. His record in the NYPD included various excessive force complaints and two internal investigations. The AVTF had to pay a settlement to a family whose son that Webb had permanently disabled.

You wish you could publish this. Reluctantly, you hit the backspace button until you’re behind the word wife. You rub your face again, you save the document, close your laptop, and sit in the dark. You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

Your laptop flashes a notification at you.

(No subject) 04/07/2027 (S.I)     Scopum Impetum To:    × Account 03 - The Daily Bugle [TF-010.mp4             ▼]

You wonder if Bullseye knows that you don’t need the videos anymore. The question you’re afraid to ask, the one that lives in the space between each wet tear of flesh in your dreams, is whether he knows what you are becoming. He must. He’s a serial killer sending out snuff films to a civilian. There’s no reasonable reaction he can guess on your behalf besides terror.

You close your eyes that night in bed, and you see a pencil falling.

[TF-010.mp4             ▼]

The tenth video sits in your inbox for six more hours before you open it.

You tell yourself it was the exhaustion that made you hesitate. You’re busy and tired. You tell yourself that your notes are now stagnant and boring. You need to think about other things to come back fresher.

But the truth’s simpler: you’re scared.

This isn’t a horror movie with jumpscares. You’re the victim of a cyber-stalker, but you don’t feel like one. You haven’t tried contacting him to tell him to stop, blocking him, or making someone else trace the address. You let it happen and you’re saving the videos on a fucking USB drive like that hides any involvement you have.

You open TF-010.mp4.

The frame is different this time. Not a warehouse or an alley. An office. Fluorescent lights. A desk with a nameplate: Lt. Patricia Voss, Internal Affairs.

You know her. You quoted her once, in a piece about police accountability. She called the Task Force “a necessary tool in a broken system.” She smiled when she said it.

Now the camera holds steady. No voice. No face. Just her, trembling, her hands bound behind her back with what looks like a zip tie.

You watch a single playing card—the ace of spades—slice through the air and bury itself in her throat.

She didn’t beg. She only stared at the camera with wide, confused eyes, as if she couldn't understand why this was happening to someone who had played by the rules.

The video ends.

You close the player. You open your notes. 

task force victim no. 10 lt. patricia voss, internal affairs weapon was playing card

Your phone buzzes. You flip it so the screen faces up, primed for annoyance with a test from Adriana.

Instead, it’s a text message from a number you don’t recognize.

You finally watched it.

Another one follows shortly:

I was wondering when you’d open it.

You stare at the screen. Your heart doesn't race. Your hands don’t shake. You feel a strange, almost clinical curiosity.

who is this?

The response comes in less than three seconds.

You know who. :)

Bullseye.

You can’t do anything but watch as three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Your stomach rolls slowly.

You’re the only one who sees them for what they are. I like to think that you think I'm doing something right. I've read everything you wrote before the editor started making you bootlick. You said the citizens deserve better than this.

You remember those pieces. They had been killed by Adriana, buried under a mountain of “libel concerns” and “advertiser pressure.” You thought no one read them.

You were right. They deserve better and the people who hurt them deserve punishment. They were bad people. *are bad people. They’re still everywhere.

You should stop. You should block Bullseye. You should go to the police—not that they would help you.

Instead, you type back. It’s not an active choice, you more so watch your fingers press the smooth glass of your phone screen.

why are you sending these to me?

You understand me. You always watch them so intently.

You set the phone down. A cold, slow thread unwinds in your stomach. He knows where you live. He’s read virtually everything you’ve put online, since he has your name. He can see you right now, and apparently he’s been seeing you since he sent the first TF video. 

Your breath catches as your fingers go numb. For the first time on this case, you feel it: panic. The real kind of prey animal fear, sharp and deep, like a knife sliding between your ribs.

You pick it up again.

i'm not doing anything i just watch what you send me and that’s for my job

That's enough. That's more than any civilian. Don't be scared, Cronkite. I'm not going to hurt you.

☆☆☆☆☆

The texts continue over the following days. Never many. Never at the same time. He sends a single message after each video—sometimes hours later, sometimes days.

Did you see the way he moved? He thought he could run.

She had a photo of her husband on her desk. A cop. Of course.

The commissioner is next. You'll want to read about him before tomorrow to prep your article.

You never ask him to stop. You never ask him to explain. You only respond with questions of your own—small, careful questions that he sometimes answers and sometimes ignores.

why the pencils It's funny. They're also widely available. People can buy them in packs of 100. :)

how do you choose them They choose themselves. Every time they put on that badge, they volunteer. The uniforms make it really easy to single them out.

do uou even feel anything

That question goes unanswered for two days. You assume he’s done with you. You assume you crossed the invisible line, not being polite and cowering slightly.

Then, at 3:17 AM, your phone lights up.

It's really hard. I'm not a mindless killer. I have emotions. I feel the same things everyone else feels, all at once.

You read the message seven times. You do not respond.

That night, you dream of the teenager who was put in a coma by the AVTF. Young and bruised, his eyelashes two small fans over his cheeks. And standing beside his bed is a shadow. No face. No voice. Just a shape that holds a pencil.

You wake up gasping.

Your phone is on the pillow beside you. A new message.

Bad dream?

You sit up. You look around your dark apartment. The windows are locked, and the blinds are drawn. The door is bolted shut and locked. But neither of those things feels like barriers.

They feel like inviting little challenges.

how thefuck do you know that I'm closer than you think, Cronkite.

The sun rises over the city. Your phone buzzes one last time.

Video 011 comes tonight. Be ready.

☆☆☆☆☆

You stare at the message through the day. You fuck up your bodega order and eat the wrong thing numbly. Your phone is a brick in your pocket.

You should ask what he means by ready. Ready to watch? Ready to take notes? Ready to feel nothing while another human being stops breathing?

whens it happening

The response is immediate.

Around 9:20. The commissioner’s speech ends at 9:15. He’ll be walking or in his car.  His license plate is custom. It’s ridiculous.

It's 7:43 PM. You have less than two hours to mentally prepare yourself for this.

how do you know that I pay attention. It's amazing what people post on social media.  His wife tagged him in a Father’s Day post with their new car.  And the event schedule is posted on Fisk’s campaign Instagram.

You open Instagram to find the accounts. The offending posts are pinned on both profiles—Fisk’s campaign account has a listing of the gala's entire timeline with the commissioner’s keynote speech slotted at 8:45-9:15 with some celebrity guest you don’t recognize to follow. The commissioner’s wife’s account has a Father's Day post pinned. A cute, crisp image of the whole family in front of a shiny black SUV. The license plate reads: N4SPEED. Probably the tackiest thing you’ve ever seen.

You close the app.

thats probably the easiest stalking i’ve ever seen See? I'm not that creepy.

The three dots appear. You wait.

Most people don't notice things. They walk through the world with their eyes half-closed.  But not you. You see the gaps, and where the story doesn't match the truth. and you’re pencilling in those gaps?

A longer pause this time. You wonder if you've offended him. If he'll stop texting, stop sending videos, leave you alone with nothing but the echoes of nine dead officers and the tenth on its way.

Something in you recoils from that possibility.

That made me laugh. Out loud. You’re always witty :) That’s why I like your work.

You don't feel witty. You feel hollow. But something in your chest loosens anyway.

do you ever miss Nope.  ever? No, lol. I have to go now. Be ready.

You read the message three times.

You lock your phone and set it face-down on the nightstand. The screen still glows through the glass, an accusing light that says you saw this. You aren’t stopping it. You won’t stop it anyway.

Then you think about Lt. Voss. The way she stared at the camera. The way the ace of spades sat in her throat like a second badge.

You don’t feel sick anymore. Just something heavy, like lead filling the hollow spots in your bones.

[TF-011.mp4             ▼]

Did you see his face? no he immediatly hit the pavement Exactly. They walk around like the badge makes them bulletproof. dont say something cheesy like but im a bomb or something No. I'm just better. :) You live close to that intersection.

You go cold. Not the dramatic cold of fear like earlier—the slow, sinking cold of confirmation. You knew that he knew, but reading him admit it so casually?

how the fuck do you know where i live I watch. You know I pay attention. You’re very careful. I respect that. thats not a fucking answet It’s the only one you're getting.

You set the phone down before walking to your front door. You check the locks. It's secure. You check the window. It's closed with your curtains drawn over it. You check the locks again.

Your phone buzzes.

Relax. I told you that I’m not going to hurt you. You’re the only one who understands me.

You pick up the phone. Your fingers are shaking now—just a little, just enough to notice.

and what the fuck do i understand Some people need to die. Not because I want to kill them. Because they've earned it. You can call it karmic debt finally being cashed in, if you believe in that. You have to crack eggs to make an omelet. You just don’t want to say it out loud.

You read the message seven times. You think about the Black teenagers who have been harassed by the AVTF. The woman who was taken off her street and reported missing by her friends. The protester and his sister. You think about the videos—the pencil, the staple gun, the spectacle, the show.

You think about the way you felt when Lieutenant Voss died. That small, ugly sense of satisfaction.

is that so bad you’re fucking killing people thats not exactlu a thing that normal people do That’s what I like about you. You’re still a moral person after all this. That's why people like me do the work for you.

You don’t say anything.

You’re still awake. I know you’re still reading these. what do you want from me I don't know yet. But I don't want to hurt you.

Another pause. Longer this time.

When I send you the videos, I'm not alone anymore. And neither are you.

You don't respond. You can't. Your throat is tight, and your eyes are dry, and you're not sure if you want to scream or sleep or laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Your phone buzzes two more times.

Goodnight, Cronkite. Sweet dreams.

* Hand Jobs under the table — hand jobs wherever actually. Bonus points if your hands are really soft.

* Road head — likes on and off duty. In the Upside Down and in the Rightside Up. It’s hard to come by so he’ll take it wherever he can get it.

* Cuddles after sex — usually falls asleep next to or on top of partners with his arms wrapped around them. Once he’s down, you will never get him back up again.

* Hypersensitive to fragrance and other sweet smells, but in a feral way. Perfume is something he appreciates and the Upside Down canonically smells like an old shitty diaper so there’s that too. He’s jerked off more to the samples inside the magazines than the models on the pages.

* Akers moans, whines and whimpers. This is also canon. He will muffle himself in his partners neck during sex.

⋆ ˚

He didn’t weigh much.

You expected him to be heavier, but his limbs were all wiry muscle and sharp bones under skin too thin, too warm. Carrying him was awkward, not hard—he clung to you without making a sound, breath hot against your throat, chest heaving shallowly as you hiked back toward the cabin.

The whole way, he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t ask where you were going. Didn’t beg or resist. Just held on. Like a dying thing too tired to fight anymore.

The cabin door creaked open with a groan. You nudged it with your boot and stepped inside, the cold snapping off the back of your neck. The woodstove was out. You set him down on the couch, still wrapped in your jacket, and went straight for the firewood.

He watched you.

Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just followed you with those swamp-green eyes like he needed you in his line of sight at all times or he’d stop breathing.

Once the fire was lit and crackling, you knelt beside him.

“I need to clean you up,” you said, voice low. “You’re bleeding all over my damn blanket.”

Again, no answer. Just that stare.

You peeled the soaked jacket off and winced. His chest and stomach were a mess of bruises and lacerations. Something had really done him in. The slashes weren’t clean—some looked like claws, others like bites. Not animal. Not human, either.

You got a bowl of warm water and some rags. Peroxide. Thread and needle. Sat down beside him and got to work.

He didn’t flinch when you touched him. Didn’t wince at the sting of antiseptic. Just watched you, lips parted, eyes tracking every movement of your hands like your care was a language he didn’t understand but wanted to memorize.

“You’re a quiet one,” you muttered, dabbing blood from his collarbone. “Probably how you ended up half-dead on a trail. Quiet and stupid.”

A soft breath escaped him. Not a laugh. Not quite. But close.

You looked up. His eyes were glistening. Not from pain.

“Don’t cry,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “Not like I’m doing this for you. I don’t need a corpse in my woods.”

His lips moved then. Barely.

“…you smell good.”

You stilled.

“What?”

He blinked slowly. “Warm.”

Your fingers flexed on the rag. You exhaled and turned back to the wound on his side.

“Don’t get weird,” you muttered. “You’re not staying long.”

But he just watched, quiet and pliant as you sewed his skin shut—like even your insults were holy. Like every second near you was a gift he didn’t deserve.

—

The storm had rolled in overnight. Thick fog clung to the windows like breath, and the trees outside groaned under the weight of cold rain. Inside the cabin, it was quiet—just the crackle of fire and the occasional creak of settling wood.

You stood at the stove, frying pan in hand, flipping eggs and watching the yolks settle. Bacon sizzled beside them, curling at the edges.

You could feel him watching behind you.

He sat at the little table by the window, knees drawn up, blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. Bare-chested. Bruises fading, skin still too pale. Hair damp from the wash you'd forced him to take that morning. He hadn’t said much—he rarely did—but his eyes followed you like always.

Hungry. Not just for food.

“Smells good,” he murmured.

His voice was always like that now—low, hoarse, careful. Like every word had weight. Like he didn’t want to speak unless you earned it.

You set the plate in front of him and handed him a fork.

He didn’t move to take it.

Instead, he looked up at you like he didn’t know what to do. Like the offering was too much. Hands curled in his lap, knuckles strained.

“You are gonna eat, right?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“…if you feed me.”

You raised a brow.

“Don’t push it.”

His eyes dropped instantly. “Sorry.”

That got you. That quiet apology, small and raw and not manipulative—just true. It sat heavy in your chest.

You sighed, pulled the chair out beside him, and sat down.

“Fine. But this is the first and last time.”

You picked up the fork and speared a bite of egg, holding it up. He leaned forward without hesitation—mouth open, slow, careful. His lips brushed the fork, and he hummed softly when he chewed.

You watched him swallow. Watched his lashes flutter.

“Good?”

He nodded.

You fed him another bite. Then another. He never looked away from your face. Even when you weren't looking directly at him, his gaze never wavered—like the food was just a means to stay close.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you asked softly, feeding him a piece of bacon.

He blinked. “Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna disappear.”

He chewed slowly. Licked a bit of yolk from his lip.

“…because you could.”

Your throat tightened. You shoved the last bite toward his mouth more roughly than necessary.

“Eat.”

He did. But when you set the fork down and stood to grab another plate for yourself, his hand caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just… asking.

“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes wide. “For helping me.”

You stared down at him, heartbeat slow and heavy.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you said flatly.

But you didn’t pull away.

⋆ ˚

You woke up to the sound of breathing that wasn’t yours.

Shallow. Close.

Your fingers curled around the knife under your pillow out of habit before your brain caught up with the familiarity of it. The warmth near your leg. The slow, anxious inhale.

You turned your head.

He was on the floor beside the bed, curled up on a blanket like some half-starved dog. Watching you.

Not asleep.

Just watching.

Again.

“How long have you been there?” you asked, voice flat.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it in the dark.

“…Since you came to bed.”

You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. “Boy, you have your own damn couch.”

“You’re safer this way,” he said. “I can tell if something comes for you.”

There was no reasoning with that. Not the way he said it. Like he really believed there was something coming—something worse than him.

You sat up, blanket falling from your chest. His gaze dropped for a moment, but not with lust. With reverence.

You could almost feel the weight of his stare on your collarbone.

“Get back on the couch,” you muttered.

He didn’t move.

Instead, he whispered, “I like being close.”

Your jaw tensed.

But you didn’t force him. Not this time.

You laid back down, turned your body away from him, and tried to ignore the way his breathing steadied as soon as you did. How the air shifted—less like fear, more like worship.

⋆ ˚

A few days passed like that.

He was good. Quiet. Obedient. He followed your rules—washed when you told him to, ate everything you fed him, stayed inside even when the woods called to him through the windows. He stayed close. Always close.

Until one afternoon, when you came back from town.

You dropped your pack by the door. The cabin was too quiet. The fire was low.

“Hey,” you called, stepping inside. “You better not be bleeding on the rug again.”

No answer.

Then you heard the floorboard creak—just past the kitchen.

You moved slowly. Quiet. The air felt wrong.

When you turned the corner, you stopped cold.

He was standing by the sink. Wearing one of your shirts.

It hung loose on him, neck stretched, sleeves too short. He was barefoot. Damp—like he’d just showered. His hair was combed down, parted like yours. His expression blank, but his eyes—

His eyes were glowing.

You didn’t speak. Just stared.

His lips moved, mimicking the way yours had curled that morning when you tied your boots.

“I wanted to see,” he murmured. “What it felt like. Being you.”

Your pulse climbed.

“You think that’s normal?” you said, voice like ice. “Digging through my clothes? Copying me?”

His fingers clenched at his sides. He looked ashamed. Or scared. You couldn’t tell which.

“…I want to understand you,” he said. “If I can be more like you, maybe you’ll keep me.”

That last part?

It didn’t sound pathetic.

It sounded sad.

He wasn’t trying to scare you. He didn’t even seem aware of how disturbing it was.

He just wanted to stay.

Even if it meant becoming you.

It didn't get any better. He stopped asking before following you from room to room. You’d shift in your chair—he’d shift too. You’d open a drawer—his eyes would follow your hands like they were divine. You’d sigh, and he’d mimic it seconds later like he could feel what you felt, even when you didn’t say a word.

But tonight—it snapped.

You had just stepped out of the bathroom, towel clutched to your chest, steam curling around your shoulders. You were tired. The hot water had done nothing to ease the tension that built up from his staring, his watching, the constant pressure of his presence brushing too close, too often.

He was in your bedroom again.

Sitting on the edge of your bed like he belonged there.

“Get out,” you said without looking at him. “I’m not in the mood.”

But he didn’t move.

You felt him rise behind you as you dug through your drawer. The heat of him at your back, chest bare, breath unsteady.

“I am,” he whispered.

You froze.

His hand touched your shoulder—light, trembling. Like he didn’t know whether to worship you or break you open just to crawl inside.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you. I do everything you ask. I sit by your bed like a dog, I eat when you feed me, I let you touch me when you clean my wounds—”

“You let me?” you snapped, whipping around, eyes hard.

He flinched, but didn’t back away.

“I need you,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t get it—I don’t know who I am anymore if I’m not touching something that belongs to you.”

You shoved past him, heart racing.

He grabbed your wrist.

Not hard—but with intent. His fingers curled, grounding himself on your skin.

“Please,” he whispered. “I won’t ask again. Just—just let me have something. Let me touch you. Let me show you that I can be what you need too.”

You stared at him.

Wild, half-naked, shaking.

His jaw trembled. “You belong to me, don’t you? Just a little?”

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t soften either.

He looked wrecked—eyes glassy, lips parted, hand still trembling around your wrist like you were his only lifeline. He didn’t know how to hide anything. His need sat open on his face like a wound.

You stepped into him.

And kissed him.

Just once.

Quick. Firm. Your hand at his jaw, mouth warm but unyielding, like you were closing a circuit instead of offering comfort.

When you pulled back, his mouth chased yours.

You stopped him with a look.

“Go to bed,” you said.

He blinked, dazed.

You stepped back and watched him swallow it. Watched him obey.

Barely.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The woods behind the cabin were overgrown and quiet. You made him chase you through tall grass and loose trails, laughing as he stumbled, panting like a beast that hadn’t tasted meat in days.

He was fast—stronger now—but never caught you unless you let him. And sometimes you did. Just enough for him to grab your arm, breathe hard against your throat.

Then you’d twist away.

“Down, boy,” you’d mutter.

He’d drop to one knee like he couldn’t help it.

Like his body was wired to obey you even when his hunger told him to tear your clothes off.

⋆ ˚

You went straight to the shower when you came back—sweaty, flushed, loose with adrenaline. He tried to follow you in, but one look was enough to send him sulking back down the hall.

When you opened your bedroom door, he was waiting again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.

“I need you,” he said.

It wasn’t a whisper this time.

“I need you. Now. I’ve done everything. I’ve waited—I’ve let you tease me. You kissed me, you let me sleep in your bed, you call me names like you don’t know what it does to me—”

You raised a hand and he stopped.

Stewing in the silence.

You walked right past him. Grabbed a fresh shirt from your dresser. Looked over your shoulder once, and said:

“No.”

Then left him there. Hard, desperate, too strung out on want to move.

He didn’t talk to you for an hour.

Didn’t look at you either.

Just stayed curled up in the corner of the room like a pet thrown outside.

You waited until it was dark before you got up and went to him. Watched the way he tried not to lift his head. The way his throat bobbed when he heard your steps.

You ruffled his hair. No apology.

Then started cooking.

His favorite. The only thing he ever asked for more than once.

You didn’t have to look when you heard him get up.

Didn’t even blink when he appeared in the doorway, standing there with bare feet and glassy eyes, watching like he couldn’t decide whether to bite you or beg.

His voice was low, rough around the edges. “You’re not mad?”

You stirred the pot.

“No.”

“But you left.”

“You needed to cool off.”

“I need you,” he bit, hands fisting at his sides. “You don’t get it—I can’t—you’re all I think about, you smell so good, you taste—”

You turned your head just enough to see him, lifting a brow.

That shut him up fast.

But he didn’t leave.

He came in slow, circling behind you. No more talk. Just breath—hot, wet, frantic—against the back of your neck. You felt the shift before he touched you. The way his body lost its rhythm, gave into instinct.

Then—

His hips pressed flush to your ass.

His dick was already hard, straining through his pants.

He thrust once. Slow.

Twice. A little harder.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t help him either.

He grabbed your hips, fingers trembling, and started grinding in earnest. Ragged, animalistic, dragging his clothed dick up against you again and again like his brain had short-circuited.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Feels—feels s’good—oh my god—please. Please just let me, I—I can’t—”

You rolled your eyes.

“You really can’t control yourself for five minutes, can you?” you muttered, letting him use you, body staying still as he rutted into your backside with frantic, shallow thrusts.

He whined. Actually whined.

You smirked.

“You really are just an animal, huh?”

A low, ragged groan vibrated from his chest. He rutted harder—slow, desperate. His head came down and layed on your shoulder, breath heavy and hot against your neck.

“You’d fuck me right here if I let you.”

"Mhmm," he managed to hum, still grinding into you.

He started to pant.

“You wouldn’t even last a minute, would you?”

You turned your head, barely glancing at him. “You’re so filthy. I thought you were a good boy, baby.”

He growled at you words, grip tightened at your waist.

Hips stuttering, breath catching, face probably twisted into something obscene behind you.

“Fuuuuck—fuck—oh my god—thank you, thank you, I needed—”

You felt him start to shake.

And then he came.

Hard.

Hot through his pants, his whole body curling around yours, pressing tighter as he spilled in his clothes with a broken, needy sob.

You didn’t turn around.

You just stirred the food, like he hadn’t just humped you like a dog and made a mess of himself on your ass.

“Dirty boy,” you said, calm, low. “Go clean yourself up.”

You heard him whimper.

“Then come eat.”

⋆ ˚

He came back ten minutes later.

Showered. Damp hair. Clean clothes.

But his face was still flushed, eyes holding so many mixed emotions, hands slightly shaking like the shame hadn’t washed off. He sat down at the table across from you, eyes flicking up, then down, then up again—starving, but not just for food.

You placed the bowl in front of him, slow and steady.

He didn’t say a word like he hadn’t just stained himself moaning your name under his breath.

But you watched him.

You watched the way his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the spoon.

The way he kept stealing glances at you, hungry and anxious, like he thought you might still be mad—or worse, like you might do nothing at all.

“You always eat so fast,” you said, voice smooth as cream.

He froze.

Chewed slow.

Swallowed.

“…sorry.”

“I didn’t say stop,” you added. “It’s cute. Like you’re afraid I’ll take it away.”

He blinked. A small sound caught in his throat.

You leaned your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm.

“And earlier? That was cute too.”

His entire face shifted.

You tilted your head. “Making a mess in your pants like that. Just from a little pressure.”

He put his utensil down, hands balling into fists in his lap.

“Stop,” he whispered.

“Oh? Is that too much for your dirty little brain?” you murmured. “You hump me like an animal and now you want to pretend you’re shy?”

“I said stop,” he snapped, low and trembling.

You smiled, slow and sharp.

Silence stretched between you. His jaw clenched. His breath was shallow, like he didn’t know if he wanted to scream or fall to his knees.

Then—

You asked it.

Calm. Quiet.

Like it was nothing.

“What are you?”

His eyes shot to yours. “What…?”

You didn’t blink, just stared for a second longer than usual. “You heard me.”

He stared at you, frozen. Something in him recoiled—but something else thrummed. Deep. Dark. Animal.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking.

You leaned in just a little, watching his pupils swell.

“You’re not human.”

“No.”

“But you’re not just some beast either.”

He shook his head slowly, lips parted, like the words had nowhere to go.

“I’m yours,” he said finally. “That’s all I know.

The words hung in the space between you.

“I’m yours.”

You let them sit. Heavy. Undeniable.

He was trembling, barely breathing—waiting to see if you’d reject it. Laugh. Walk away.

You didn’t.

You sat back in your chair, eyes never leaving his face. And softer now, more curious than cruel, you asked: “…Is that all you want to be?”

He blinked, chest rising and falling faster now. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.

Then: “I don’t know what else I can be.”

You watched him carefully. He wasn’t lying.

“Do you remember anything? Before I found you?”

His jaw tensed. Shoulders too.

“I remember pain,” he said. “I remember running. Hunger. And hands—people—trying to cut something out of me. Like I wasn’t supposed to have it.”

“What?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Something inside. Something that made me wrong.”

That quiet hung between you again. Thicker this time.

You took a slow breath, eyes drifting over his features—how human they seemed, and how they weren’t. The eyes were too still. The mouth too soft when he looked at you like that, worshipful and wrecked all at once.

You stood.

He flinched slightly like he thought you might leave again. But you didn’t.

You moved around the table and stood beside his chair, fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder.

“I don’t want you to be nothing,” you said. “Even if you think you’re mine.”

He tilted his head back to look at you. His eyes were glassy again—but not just from need.

“…Then what do you want me to be?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just stared at him, slow and searching, like maybe there was something hiding behind his ribs that you hadn’t noticed before.

“Something real,” you said at last. “Something more than just needy and obedient.”

You leaned down.

Brushed a hand over his hair.

“I think whatever they tried to take from you… it’s still in there.”

He exhaled, sharp and shaky, like the words hurt somewhere deep.

Like they freed something too.

“Are you going to help me find it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You straightened. That same calm edge in your voice returned—but softer, tempered by something else. “I already started.”

⋆ ˚

The rest of dinner passed in a strange hush.

He kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize the air between you. Like he didn’t quite trust that the moment was real—him, fed and wanted, not punished for needing more.

He finished the last bite slowly, his breathing still a little uneven. And when you stood to clear the plates, he followed with those same shadow-smooth movements, always one step behind, silent.

When you turned to face him in the doorway of the kitchen, he froze.

You studied him—warm and glowing under the low light, but his eyes looked wrong. Glossy. Dilated. His skin flushed, like the warmth was under his flesh and leaking out.

You reached up and cupped his cheek with your palm.

He leaned into it instantly.

"Come to bed with me," you said, voice low, calm.

His breath caught. His knees nearly did too.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was hot—too hot.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded.

⋆ ˚

Later, you woke in the dark.

Your chest ached slightly—something heavy pressing you down.

You shifted.

Something moved.

There was a sound. A low, needy moan.

You blinked awake to find him curled between your thighs, head resting on your lower belly, arms caging your hips.

Sweat dampened his hair. His shirt clung to his back, soaked. His whole body trembled—small, helpless, uncontrollable tremors like something was trying to crawl out of his skin.

"H-Hey," you murmured, pushing your hand into his hair. "You okay?"

He groaned.

Not in pain.

It was… needy.

He rocked into you subtly, hips twitching against the mattress, breath coming in ragged bursts.

"You're burning up," you whispered, concern creeping in. "You might have a fever—"

"No," he choked out.

Your fingers stilled in his hair.

He shook his head against your body, breath hot where it hit the inside of your thigh.

“It’s not— I’m not sick. It’s heat. I know what it is now.”

You tensed slightly, confused. “Heat?”

He whimpered, the sound pitiful, but his body was grinding.

"I thought it was just obsession—just you—but it's in my blood. My skin. I need," he panted, teeth gritted.

“You should’ve told me,” you said, hand sliding to his shoulder. “Before it got this bad.”

“I didn’t know,” he snapped, but it was breathless, wet. “Didn’t know it would feel like this. Like—like I’m going to split open just to crawl into you.”

The silence between you stretched again, hot and trembling.

Then you whispered: “Get up.”

He froze.

You guided him up your body with firm hands until his face hovered above yours, wild and flushed and desperate.

“Let’s cool you down,” you said. “Before you burn a hole through me.”

You didn’t tell him what you were about to do.

You just slipped your hand between your bodies, your palm warm and steady against the thick, pulsing heat straining in his pants.

He choked out a sound—half whimper, half sob—and buried his face in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath catch, his body go stiff.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You rubbed him through the fabric first, slow circles that had his hips twitching, his teeth sinking into your skin like he was trying not to fall apart. The bulge was hot—unnaturally so—and soaked at the tip where his arousal leaked freely.

“I can’t—” he rasped, but you cut him off with a shush again, stroking him now, firm and sure.

“Yes, you can. Just relax.”

He whimpered again and rocked his hips up, greedy. Needy.

“Please,” he panted. “Please touch it—please, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

You slipped your hand under the waistband.

He cried out.

Not loud, but broken. Like it hurt to be given this.

You wrapped your fingers around him and started to pump, slow and tight. He was thick, flushed hot, every vein pulsing against your grip.

“I'm not gonna let you fuck me,” you murmured against his ear, lips brushing the shell. “But I’ll help you. Just this once.”

He was trembling. Writhing. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, too far gone to speak now.

You shifted down and dragged his pants down with one hand. His dick sprung free, slick and twitching.

“Stay still,” you said, and he whimpered again, so obedient, even now.

You leaned in and took him into your mouth.

He nearly screamed.

His hands scrabbled for something to hold, finally settling in your hair, but he didn’t pull—he just trembled, lips mouthing your name over and over like a prayer.

You bobbed your head slowly, letting your hand do most of the work, saliva and precum making the slide wet and easy. He was panting, gasping, and when he got too close, too wild, you pressed your palm against his lower belly and held him down.

He jerked—twitched—then came with a broken moan, hips bucking helplessly, spilling down your throat with so much heat it almost burned.

You stayed there a second longer, swallowing him down, soft and calm, until he stopped shaking.

Then you pulled away.

“Dirty boy,” you murmured, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand as you looked up at him.

He blinked at you, dazed, wrecked, tears drying in the corners of his eyes.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Go clean yourself up,”

Two days pass.

You try to keep things normal—whatever that means, with a creature like him under your roof, one who pants when you touch his arm and whines when you leave the room. But his restraint is slipping. Badly.

He follows you everywhere now.

Not just quietly like before. Not just waiting in the doorway or sitting nearby.

No—he’s pressed to you, constantly.

When you fold laundry, he’s behind you, rubbing himself against your ass with soft, desperate ruts. When you sit on the couch, he climbs into your lap and noses at your neck, whimpering like you’re the only air he can breathe.

The worst is when you cook. Something about seeing you over the stove drives him mad—he paws at you, breathing heavy, rutting his hips against your thigh until you shove him off with a sharp, “Down.”

And still he stares at you with wet eyes like a scolded dog in heat, leaking into his boxers, throbbing with the weight of it.

You try to hold the line.

But his need is growing.

Worse, it’s mutating into something more feral.

At the store, it becomes undeniable.

He walks behind you, head low, hoodie pulled up, his steps wrong—off-balance and twitchy like his body can’t decide what to do with itself.

He breathes through his mouth, short and fast, and stares at everyone like they’re a threat.

Or a witness.

You catch him staring at your legs. Then your hips. Then the slope of your throat when you tilt your head to grab a jar from the shelf.

His eyes go black.

"You're sweating," you mutter under your breath, touching his arm. "You okay?"

He leans into your touch like he’s starving. “Can we go home? Please.”

You check out fast.

⋆ ˚

The second the door closes behind you, he snaps.

You don’t even get your shoes off.

He lunges—no hesitation—grabs your waist and slams you into the nearest wall with a desperate growl muffled into your shoulder.

“Hey—!” you gasp, startled.

But he’s already rutting against you—grinding with the force of a man drowning.

“Need you,” he pants. “Please—I can’t—I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve been so good—”

You shove at his shoulders, but he’s bigger than you, heavier, and right now he’s stronger too. Not hurting you—just wild.

“Calm down,” you hiss.

“I can’t,” he moans. “Smell you—touched you all day—I need—”

He grabs your face, kissing you hard—sloppy, wet, messy—and you taste the frustration on his tongue, the days of aching and whining and trembling.

You break the kiss, panting. His dick is grinding against your stomach through his sweats, thick and leaking.

“Animal,” you mutter.

He nods.

“Yours,” he whines, breath shaking. “Please let me—please—”

Your grip tightens in his hair.

And for a second, you consider it.

You shove him back, hard. Not enough to hurt—but enough to tell him: no.

And that does it.

His eyes widen, something unhinges in his chest—and he breaks.

With a snarl, he lunges forward, lifts you like you weigh nothing, and starts toward the bedroom with a single, choked, "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I can't—"

"Put me—down!" you snap, but your body’s already reacting—heat flooding your thighs, breath caught behind your teeth. Because you've never seen him like this. Not completely.

Not gone.

He kicks the door open.

Throws you on the bed.

You're scrambling up on your elbows to shout at him again when he grabs your legs and drags you back down to the edge of the mattress. His strength is brutal. He flips you over like you're nothing and shoves your hips up until you're on your knees, spine arched, face pressed into the blanket.

“Don’t think you can act like that,” he pants, “push me away—smell like that—and expect me not to—”

He tears your bottoms down. Snaps the waistband in his rush. You try to turn your head, say something—anything—but he’s already there.

Behind you.

Hot, flushed, leaking.

You feel the weight of it on your ass, thick and heavy, dragging over your skin.

“F-fuck—‘s too much—” he groans.

You flinch as his dick—not just long, but wide, too wide—grinds against your entrance. Wet with slick and precum. Hot like a fever.

You reach back blindly, touch his hip. “You’re gonna stretch me too much—”

“I know,” he whimpers, voice ragged with guilt and craving. “I’ll go slow—I’ll—fuck, I can’t—I’m sorry—sorry—”

He doesn’t go slow.

He grabs your hips and thrusts in hard, stuffing the tip past your entrance, and your breath leaves you.

"Shit—!" you cry, fingers clawing at the blanket as your body stretches wide to accommodate him. It hurts—but good, deep, sharp, searing with pressure.

He keeps moving.

Not all the way in—just these shallow, frantic thrusts, rutting at your entrance like an animal trying not to break its toy.

His voice is cracked and frantic.

“I missed it—I missed your heat—I missed your smell—don’t tell me no again—please—”

His teeth found your neck, biting, sucking, leaving bruises blooming like dark flowers under your skin.

You’re dripping.

His size swallowed you whole, filled every inch until you thought you’d cry from the stretch.

He slams forward again—deeper this time—and you swear the breath gets knocked right out of your lungs.

"You're—so big—" you gasp.

"Yeah?" he pants, delirious. "Too much? H-hurts, doesn't it? You're too small—fuck, you’re perfect—"

He’s shaking.

Your legs tremble from how deep he’s hitting. Your pussy flutters around him, trying to mold to the impossible stretch.

"H-hey, slow down" you rasp.

He didn’t listen. His hips snapped into you fast and brutal, driving inside you with a hunger that knocked the breath out of your lungs. The room smelled like sweat and something bittersweet and him—feral, real, and alive.

His hands slammed down on either side of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. The force pinned you to the bed.

You swallowed hard, chest heaving, legs spreading wide for him.

He slammed into you faster—deeper. The stretch burned, the fullness screamed, but you clenched tight around him, dragging out his groans like prayers.

He pulled you back by your hair and kissed you then—hard, wild—tongue sliding over your lips, teeth grazing your jaw.

Then—

You feel it.

The swell.

Thick and round, nudging the edge of your cunt, threatening to lock you together.

He groans into your back. “Let me—let me knot you—need it—need to stay.”

You jerk away. "You knot me, and you’re gonna rip me."

He moans like your voice is pleasure, grinding harder, chasing it anyway.

His hands roamed your body, claws scraping skin as he fucked you with a desperate, filthy worship that made you feel like a goddess—and like prey all at once.

He spoke, voice broken, “please—please let me cum inside you.”

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes, chest tight. “Cum for me.”

His dick throbs. He’s leaking inside you, dripping down your thighs. His forehead presses into your shoulder blade. He huffs, shudders

Then snaps his hips forward once, hard—and goes still.

You feel it.

Heat floods inside you. You gasp as his load pours in—thick, heavy, and never-ending—while his body trembles above yours.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he groans, humping in place, locked against you with a needy whimper.

You glance back, breathless, flushed, and say coolly: “Tch, unbelievable.”

He flinches like it hit.

You reach back and give his hair a tug. “Go clean yourself up.”

He breathes hard against your skin, dazed.

Then you add, voice sharp but indulgent—

"Then we'll try something new.”

Dividers by @elleisdesigning