۶ৎ 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞⭑𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧 ♡ 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫⭑𝐲𝐨𝐮 ۶ৎ
From the moment you step into the games, the Front Man's eyes find you — not drawn by chaos or bloodlust, but by your silence. A stillness that stinks of something far more dangerous.
He studies you through the cameras like a riddle he can't solve — not for what you do, but for what you don't. No trembling, no outbursts. Just that unnerving calm of someone who has already made peace with the idea of dying... or killing.
When you win, he never lets you leave — he tells you the outside world would break someone like you: that you're too fragile, too dangerous to survive out there. So he keeps you locked away, like a fragile flower preserved in a glass cage, wrapped in luxury but suffocating in isolation.
He speaks to you with the cold patience of a keeper, his gaze probing for any crack in your facade — but your face stays hollow, unyielding and empty... like a void where something dangerous quietly festers beneath.
You never scream. Never plead — you fix him with those icy, unreadable eyes, an emptiness that unnerves him deep down. And still, he finds himself drawn back, unable to look away from the void you wear like a mask.
The Front Man begins to deceive himself, interpreting your silence as submission — he convinces himself you've resigned to your fate: becoming his companion, a locked enigma meant only for his understanding.
He brings you books, art supplies, even music — desperate attempts to “awaken” something inside you. But you betray no spark of joy, no flicker of fear. Only a chilling, hollow obedience that feels more like a quiet surrender of the self.
What he doesn't realize — you're the one watching him. Memorizing the guards' shifts, the security protocols, his every daily move — all concealed beneath your unbreakable, emotionless mask.
One day, he enters your room — and you're gone. No alarms blare. No doors forced open. Just vanished.
The cameras are wiped. The logs erased. Every detail planned with surgical precision — and you slipped away like a shadow, leaving nothing behind. Not even a trace.
He stands in your empty room for hours, unmoving — for the first time since seizing control of the games, he feels it — true powerlessness, cold and absolute.
He isn't angry. Not even surprised. He's haunted — because deep down, he knows the truth — you were never broken. You were simply waiting. Watching. Planning.
Now you're out there — and he can't stop thinking about when, not if, you'll return. Only this time, it'll be you watching him. Waiting. Choosing the moment.
۶ৎ 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡: @cutecat2005 ۶ৎ
