#eclipse writes

If there was one thing anyone could say with certainty about BEN, it was that he loved control.

Not just in the casual, surface-level way most people did. Of course not, it's him after all. He savored the way people unraveled under him, how they squirmed, how their composure cracked piece by piece until there was nothing left but raw, visceral reaction. He liked being above them, liked knowing every tremor, every broken sound, every helpless glance was because of him. And, eventually, they became shells of what they were, pliant and mendable in his hands. What he always wanted out of all this was clear however, he wanted to see the life drain from their eyes eventually after all the fun.

That kind of power gave him a rush like nothing else quite could.

Well…almost nothing.

You shifted restlessly on the bed, the sheets twisted beneath you from how long this had been going on — minutes, maybe hours, you weren’t even sure anymore. Time had dissolved into pure sensation. Your thighs were slick, the evidence of it smeared against your skin and soaking faintly into the fabric beneath you. Every nerve felt exposed and raw, heightened to an unbearable degree.

You turned your head away, trying to escape the weight of BEN's gaze; the sharpness of it, the way it seemed to pin you in place more effectively than his hands ever could. It was too much. Too intense. Almost suffocating.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly, breaths catching between soft whimpers. Tears clung stubbornly to your lashes, blurring your vision, born from a confusing mix of pleasure and pain. You didn’t even know what you wanted anymore. More? Less? It all tangled together until it stopped making sense.

The moment you looked away, his hand was on you.

Firm fingers wrapped around your chin, forcing your face back toward him with little effort. At the same time, the vibration pressed against your clit intensified, just enough to make your entire body jolt.

“I thought I told you something about looking away?”

His voice was calm, almost conversational.

A quiet “tsk” left him when you didn’t respond immediately. His grip tightened.

“And I’m not hearing an apology either.”

“I—ah—… I’m sorry,” you stammered, your voice breaking under the strain. “I’m sorry, BEN. Please, just—…less… I can’t—ngh—!”

The plea dissolved into a helpless sound as another wave of sensation crashed through you. Your thoughts were slipping, fraying at the edges.

He only smiled with amusement at your reaction.

BEN's hand left your jaw, but the absence of it didn’t feel like freedom, it just made you more aware of everything else. The build-up inside you was reaching a tipping point again, that familiar tightening coil threatening to snap. It hurt. It burned. Your body was trembling from it, overwhelmed and sensitive.

And just as it crested—

He pulled the vibrator away.

The absence hit you like you got your head out from the water. A helpless, desperate whine tore from your throat before you could stop it, your hips twitching, trying to chase what was no longer there.

“I thought you didn’t want any more?” he murmured, voice soft with mock sympathy. “You know I’m only trying to please you. Even if that means stopping.”

There was a quiet laugh beneath his words, the kind that made heat crawl up your spine whenever you heard it.

“Look at you,” he added, tilting his head slightly. “You’re crying.”

Only then did you really register it; the warmth on your cheeks, the dampness trailing down toward your temples. Your breathing was uneven, your body still trembling as you weakly shook your head.

“You’re an…ahh…asshole,” you managed, the insult barely holding together.

“Oh?”

His brows lifted, interest piqued rather than offended.

Instead of responding verbally, his hand moved lower. Fingers brushed against your slick heat, deliberately slow as he gathered the evidence of your arousal, using it as lubricant. Then he pushed two fingers inside you.

You gasped sharply, your back arching off the bed as your body welcomed the intrusion far too easily. He didn’t rush it — to your surprise — instead he worked you open slowly. Each thrust drew out quiet, obscene wet sounds, accompanied by the broken rhythm of your moans.

When he curled his fingers in, your vision flickered, your breath catching as pleasure sparked through you like a fault line cracking open. It was too much. Too good.

He noticed. Of course he did. That bastard knows your way around your body so well it makes you embarrassed at times.

A low chuckle slipped from BEN, his thumb finding your clit again, but this time, instead of immediate pressure, there was something else. A sudden, sharp jolt.

You cried out, your body jerking involuntarily as the sensation shot through you. It wasn’t quite pain, not entirely — but it wasn’t purely pleasure either. It was something in between, literal electricity that made your nerves light up in a way you couldn’t quite process.

“Sensitive?” BEN murmured, watching you carefully.

Before you could answer, it happened again.

This time you were ready for it — or at least, more aware. The shock melted almost instantly into something else, something that twisted low in your stomach and spread outward in a wave of heat. Your moan came easier this time, trembling and unsteady.

His fingers resumed their rhythm, deeper now, more deliberate. His thumb switched with the fingers of his other hand, now that he rubbed your swollen clit with them, it was much more intense.

Ben watched you closely, drinking in every moan, every gasp, every little expression you've made.

He sped up his pace now, pumping into you. Occasionally sending another small jolt through your already oversensitive body. Each one pushed you closer to the edge, tightening everything inside you until you felt like you might snap.

“Good girl.”

The praise sent a shiver through you, your hips lifting instinctively, chasing more friction, more sensation. You were aching for it now, desperate despite everything.

And this time he let you have it.

The climax hit hard, crashing through you like a breaking wave. Your voice dissolved into helpless, sobbing moans as your body clenched tightly around his fingers.

BEN didn’t stop immediately. He slowed, drawing it out, guiding you through every aftershock until your body finally began to come down from it.

Only then did he withdraw his fingers, bringing them to his mouth.

You were left limp against the bed, completely spent. Your chest rose and fell heavily, skin damp with sweat, tears still cooling on your cheeks.

For a brief moment, there was quiet and stillness. That was until he lightly slapped your cheek.

“Come on,” he hummed, voice low, almost indulgent. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Your stomach dropped slightly, anticipation and dread twisting together again.

“I want you to beg me to stop.”

Knock Out grips the edge of the Medbay wall. A wonderful, truly wonderful, end to his week.

He sees his datapad glow, alerting him with a preview. Some ask sent to his blog.

He reads…

Beautiful, isn't it? the irony. Someone believing Sunstreaker — that garish yellow Autobot — had a better finish?

A drip of energon falls from his face onto the screen.

A burning laughter rips out of his intake.

Well, maybe they were onto something, after tonight.

His datapad turns off, his dark reflection staring back, finish ruined, dirt and back-fired muffler soot stuck between his gears.

Was this truly what he's been reduced to? Was his composure so irrevocably tied to one mech, that once they're gone so is his last remaining dignities?

It had hardly been two days.

That day, Wednesday, he knew it. He knew something was off. Just hadn't been able to catch it.

He, admittedly, doesn't remember what all he did. All he remembered was finding that white-and-blue racer again. Naturally, he had followed them to the next drag race.

If he was just that much more aware, if he'd just-

It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. Only putting that racer back in their place.

He'd win this time. He was planning on it. He wasn't to hold back, screw the humans.

He just didn't account for them fighting back.

Was this truly what he's been reduced to? Was his composure so irrevocably tied to one mech, that once they're gone so is his last remaining dignities?

Another notification.

About…

About his…

"No. No, no, no, no no NO—!"

fate, you cruel, cruel mistress.

The datapad clashes against the wall, Knock Out grabs his buffer, not caring whichever equipment he has to go through. 

"Not again. I'll be- next time, I'll be ready," He lies to himself, a promise to someone who won't ever hear it. "I will not let them get off again."

And now, he knows where to find them.

He'd seen it, briefly but brilliantly, now that he was paying attention. That bright red Autobot insignia, sticking like a sore-servo against the white.

He'll catch them off guard. On a patrol.

The buffer striggles against all the grim and deeper scratches. His mind betrays him, imaging how much easier it'd be with—

That, too, follows the same path as the datapad.

Something heavier clangs against the floor.

A scream echoes the halls of the Nemesis, it takes Knock Out far too long to realize it came from him.

It took him even longer to realize that wet feeling against his face was causing the blurring in his optics. the strain caused more energon to flow, staining the ground and his ruined, tarnished finish, one that was oh so loved by—

"STOP!" He cries out, to himself, to this week, to that Autobot to Breakdown to whatever will finally be the thing that snuffs out his spark at last.

That same laughter bubbles up like acid. Louder and louder it grows.

He'll finish this. He'll get that Autobot. Get whatever god continues to torment him. Whatever decided his fate will learn he will not go down quietly. If he's the meet the same fate as Breakdown, he'll claw everything else down with him, burning in a blaze of glory, one last flurish.

Drive, Autobot. Drive, and drive, and drive, and drive. 

You want to be first so badly? 

Seventy-six years later, you’re no longer bothered by the sharp blades because you have one too, even if she’s locked up too much of the time for you to learn her properly. Your princess croons to you that you can fix them up all pretty in their crimson blood, and you soothe her, ignore her, because in seventy-six years you’ve only seen the sunlight twice that number of times and you want to do it again.

Seventy-six days later, when you present her with your research, you present her with your blade instead, through her neck. She falls. Smiles. Steps out from behind a curtain and moves so quickly that you can’t even see her, only feel the whisper-thin sensation of hair being cut off at your neck, not a touch of steel on skin. As you stand surrounded by your golden declaration of war, your maker laughs, and calls in her daughter and her daughter’s daughter. You’re going off to war, she says, and you don’t know what war is but it has got to be better than here.

You learn to count in seventy-threes instead of seventy-sixes, three days sloughed off like your hair. Seventy-three is a half-term at the Academy, and there are seventy-three days without ostensible obligation in two terms, one day in five when you do not eat. The granddaughter keeps an eye on you, laughing sharply as she steals the hairbands you start wearing the moment your hair grows back long enough to tie. She grins at you the one time you’re bold enough to steal hers back, pretending that there’s nothing more to this game than this.

There’s another you recognize from the labs here, brown hair cut shorter than yours now and glasses he doesn’t need so he doesn’t need to look anyone in the eyes. You’re properly wary around him, because there are no friends in the labs, but it takes him three seventy-threes to act, sabotaging your projects at the last possible minute when the granddaughter you cannot ignore steals you away. Three days pass in an instant, like lightning through mist, and you begin to understand. 

Now you’re older than you ever thought you’d live to be, and you’re starting to learn hope. A Rukon rat can disappear into the dark, but a Shinigami manages a place in the light. Your body may never be your own again, but at least your mind can claim a measure of privacy after seven years in the light. Third in your class, because you daren’t threaten the girl who steals all of you away when your hairband isn’t enough without thinking twice, and because the boy will destroy you otherwise, with illusions you can’t tell from the air. Third of seventy-six had to be enough to learn to breathe.

You learn better. Even shinigami work in the shadows sometimes, and that girl was never going to let you go. Seventy-nine years pass, three more as if to make up for the past you can barely touch, and you see the grass only long enough to dirty it with blood. The girl laughs as her grandmother dies. Your crimson princess laughs, and blood drips down your face from the corner of your eyes. You never get the hang of smiling, but you think that’s just fine, and then you don’t think at all. 

Seventy-nine more years and Third seat after three promotions sends you deeper into the prisons until you’re not sure whether you’re an inmate in prison keeper’s robes. You disappear. You remake yourself in a corner of your mind, fashioning your hands more and more into lethal weapons. You learn that you cannot stay coherent for more than seventy-six hours at a time, and time rights itself again. Every three days, you sleep.

Time ceases to make sense when she tires of your game and moves back to the other’s. You’re a captain now, skin too tight in the light even with your hair and your manner as protection. There aren’t any hairbands anymore, but neither is there someone to steal them, so it works out. You’ve forgotten what freedom tastes like, even if refusing to submit to those below you is a familiar refrain. You’re a bit obsessed with it, a bit not a good leader, but they call it growing pains and a brown-haired boy smirks in your face.

Barely three threes later, barely a minute to catch your breath, and you’re already lost, looking at a game you didn’t know you were playing. Checkmate, and tip your king. The boy wins.

The boy wins, and your timelines don’t make sense. It’s eighty-one years, three and three and three and three, until you see him again. It’s enough to make a plan. You’re in the light now, more than you’ve ever been, and yet you’re hiding, with no greater job nor purpose nor guiding force except the emptiness above and the death below. But you work in the shadows, and the boy awaits you there, so you use the extra time to live rather than exist, to reset the board and not let on that you’ve got a new queen in play.

Your queen grows into a firebrand with hair to match, and like fire he doesn’t wait for permission. But fire scorches the dark away so you disappear. You enclose yourself in a lab, only coming to see the light when you think you’ve earned it, which is only when it’s useful for you to be there. Maybe it’s penance. It’s not the same, but they rhyme. The first time she mentions the woman whose face you can barely remember, her grandmother who drew you into it all, you laugh. Somehow, she laughs too. You’ve become her, just a little. It’s okay, you think. He sees the sun more than twice a day.

You’ve stepped into the light, put yourself on the board, and the boy loses. Your hands shake, for this is not your place. If you’d become the woman who made you, you wouldn’t flinch to think of the firebrand who you burned out, or the captains you bound to him, or the others you’ve used until you’ve used them up. The numbers run together, the people run together, and it’s for the best that no one goes after you, because you’re too broken in the light to fix anything anymore. The shadows are welcoming, and hide the cracks in your bones.

You only apologize to the one, bowing from your knees and hoping it’s enough. The boy, your opponent, is dead. Your princess hasn’t spoken since you chose to fight him without her.  Your maker is dead, and her granddaughter dead to you. The fire is dead, and that one is as meant for the dark as you are for the light, but it is to that one you bow. You count three seconds, then nine, then at seventy-six he sighs, and accepts. He’s seventeen and you’re who-knows-what, Rukon rats don’t count their ages except in the months it’s been since you lost someone, and he laughs, and pulls your hat back onto your head and over your eyes until you’re back in the darkness you can’t live without. You smile and present him with your research.

Okay, so incase it’s not clear: You is Kisuke, the boy is Aizen, the granddaughter is Yoruichi, her grandma is an oc, the firebrand is Ichigo, and the princess is Benihime. 

5:40 a.m., November 18th, 20XX.

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, rubbing the remnants of sleep from your eyes with one hand while the other fumbles blindly along the counter in search of your toothbrush. Your reflection looks back at you — pale and unfocused — until the blur finally sharpens enough to be recognizably you.

You open your mouth and shove the toothbrush between your teeth, still dry. A low hum escapes your throat, hovering somewhere between a sigh and a growl, irritation seeping out before you even register it. Only then do you glance around the bathroom, eyes sluggishly scanning for the toothpaste.

It’s been like this for months now. At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Just stress. Poor sleep. A bad diet. Something temporary, something that would fade once you settled into your new routine after moving out, after learning how to exist on your own.

But it never faded.

If anything, it’s gotten worse. The fog feels heavier, denser, pressing in as responsibilities pile up one by one. Not that there are many to begin with, which somehow makes it feel even more pathetic. Maybe you just aren’t built for this. For society. Maybe you’re defective; an outcast, a leech, a background character doomed to never amount to anything significant. Stunted by nothing at all.

How cliché.

The thought train derails when you feel something cold splatter against your toes. You glance down to see toothpaste dripping onto your feet, streaking the bathroom tiles. You’ve been squeezing the tube the entire time, lost in your own head. You sigh, resigned, and leave the mess for later.

The rest of your morning passes in a haze, your body moving on autopilot through a familiar routine: wash your face, get dressed, which is merely a half-hearted attempt at looking presentable. You feel detached, like you’re watching yourself from someone else's eyes. A spectator in your own life. And, oddly enough, it’s comforting.

You’re not sure you’d survive having to consciously endure the same motions every single day. Some people find comfort in routine, in predictability. Maybe you would too, if it didn’t feel so empty. So gray. So relentlessly uneventful.

Wake up. Get ready. Go to work. Work. Go home. Sleep. Rinse and repeat.

College crosses your mind, as it often does. Someday. When you have money. The idea of drowning in debt simply because you dared to want an education doesn’t sound appealing, not now. And your parents…well. They were never exactly generous, especially when money was involved. Even if they were, there’s still a long list of reasons you cut them out of your life entirely. Things you refuse to think about, especially not this early in the morning.

And then, you’re on the metro.

You don’t remember leaving the apartment. You don’t remember locking the door, or walking down the street, or stepping onto the train. It barely registers anymore. You’ve grown accustomed to losing time like this. When you finally step off and head toward your workplace, it feels more like arriving at a checkpoint than a destination. Getting to work can be crossed out from your list of daily tasks, that's always the same.

The hotel looms ahead of you. A small, unimpressive place. You work the front desk. Receptionist, technically. You don’t exactly have a charming personality, but neither does the hotel. From what your coworker told you, you were the youngest applicant they’d had in a while. Front desk jobs are like that; they want someone young, someone pleasant to look at. Or at least young. Makeup can usually handle the pleasant part.

You clock in and slide into the chair behind the desk. It’s going to be a slow day, you can already tell. November isn’t exactly prime vacation season, and this place isn’t popular enough to compensate for that. At least if it is slow, you won’t have to deal with gap-year backpackers, drunk middle-aged men sleeping off marital fights, or couples pretending they aren’t here to cheat on someone.

You boot up the computer and immediately pull up an online eight-ball pool game. Anyone coming in would assume you’re working. The site is some obscure Chinese page loaded with ridiculous power-ups that activate every few seconds without you even clicking anything. Bright colors, loud effects, all that jazz. It made you feel like an iPad baby, hypnotized by overstimulating YouTube cartoons.

“ Ah, fuck,” you mumble under your breath as the ball misses the pocket. The sound of your own voice startles you. The realization that you haven't spoken since you woke up hitting you like a train. It’s barely there, thin and rough, like the croak of a strangled frog. You clear your throat and glance around, suddenly self-conscious, before spotting your bag.

You lean down, grab your water bottle, and take a long sip. Then another. And another. You drink like a man stranded in the desert, until you finally notice a presence at the desk.

“Hello? Excuse me. I’d like a room for one, if you have any free.”

The woman looks to be in her early twenties, dressed casually. Pretty, too pretty, almost. She doesn’t fit the usual clientele at all.

You straighten, setting the bottle down as though it burned you, and lick your lips awkwardly.

“Ah, yes, of course. We have plenty of rooms available.” Your fingers move quickly over the keyboard as you speak, eyes glued to the screen. “I’ll need your name, phone number, and credit card.”

Her name is Rosa Anderson. She books two nights, thanks you politely, and disappears upstairs. She doesn’t leave her room for the rest of your shift. Only one other couple checks in.

When your shift ends, you greet Paula, she works the shift from 3 to 11pm. You head home without another word.

The moment you step into your apartment, your body gives up. You collapse onto the bed without even taking your shoes off. The day wasn’t particularly demanding, but it feels like you’ve run a marathon. Like you’ve done a thousand jumping jacks on an empty stomach.

You don't even notice when your eyelids drop, let alone when you fall asleep for the rest of the day.

2:02 p.m., November 19th, 20XX.

There’s been a strange feeling sitting in your stomach all day. Not dread, no…there wasn’t any sharp panic, or immediate fear, nothing like that. Just something off. Like a loose thread tugging at the back of your mind. Like the quiet certainty that something, somewhere, has gone wrong and simply hasn’t announced itself yet.

Maybe you’ve unlocked a sixth sense. That would be kind of cool, wouldn’t it? You could lean into it. Buy some cheap scarves, pitch a tent somewhere sketchy, lay out tarot cards for strangers. Tell them vague things about love and misfortune and fate. “I see change in your future,” you’d say, very seriously. People eat that stuff up.

You glance around the lobby.

Empty.

Painfully so. The lights hum softly overhead, the same artificial glow you got used to by now, bleaching the beige walls into something even duller than usual. No guests coming in. No one checking out. Not even the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall. Another slow day…

And then it clicks.

You haven’t seen her.

Rosa.

You haven’t seen her leave her room. Not once. You got here ten minutes before seven this morning, you haven't seen her leave yesterday either.

That’s…odd.

But only odd enough to notice, not enough to panic. Maybe she’s an early bird and left before your shift even started. Or perhaps went to a party at night and still isn't back. That’s reasonable. Yeah. The most obvious explanation. You’re probably just overthinking things — since when do you keep track of guests like this, anyway?

You tell yourself that, yet the feeling in your gut tightens.

It’s been there since the moment you stepped behind the desk. You try to ignore it, but it clings to you like static, buzzing under your skin.

With a sigh, you push your chair back and stand. Your body feels tense without you consciously willing it to be, shoulders stiff, breath shallow. You reach beneath the counter and take out the spare key.

Room 13.

…

Of course it’s 13.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask yourself, internally scoffing. This isn’t your job. You’re not security. You’re not housekeeping. You’re just a receptionist, playing fucking 8-Ball or ocassional solitaire behind a desk.

The key slides into the lock anyway.

Before you can second-guess yourself, before you can turn back and sit down and laugh at your own paranoia, at how you could get a complaint to the manager about you disturbing guests, the door clicks open.

The smell hits you immediately. Sharp and metallic, stinging your nostrils, making your nose wrinkle.

Your palms grow damp as you freeze up, fingers tightening around the key. This…this is not good. Every instinct you’ve been ignoring since this morning suddenly screams at once.

“Rosa?” you call out, hesitantly stepping inside.

Your voice almost echoes in the quiet room. You already know there won’t be an answer. Still, you wait a moment longer than necessary, as if hoping you’ll be proven wrong. Still, nothing.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Why does this have to happen during your shift? Of all people. Of all days.

Your eyes drift toward the bathroom.

The door is closed, but the smell is stronger there, unmistakable now. Blood. You know it is. Nothing else smells like that. Warm and sour and heavy in the air. You can’t lie to yourself anymore, as much as you wish to, not when the truth is this obvious.

Your feet carry you forward despite your better judgment. You brace yourself, heart pounding so loudly it drowns every other sound out. One hand reaches for the door, fingers trembling.

It creaks open.

For a split second, your mind refuses to process what you’re seeing.

Then it does.

Blood. Everywhere.

It coats the tiles, pools unnaturally on the floor, splattered and smeared in a way that makes your stomach lurch. You step forward without realizing it and let out a small, broken sound when your shoe sinks into something wet. You stumble back, breath hitching, eyes finally landing on the body crumpled against the wall.

Rosa.

She’s impossibly still.

The razor in her hand is hard to make out at first, lost against the red-stained tiles, nearly invisible beneath the sticky sheen coating everything. Her phone lies nearby, half-submerged in crimson, the screen dark.

You stare.

You’re surprised you haven’t vomited yet. Maybe you’re more desensitized than you thought. But no — desensitization would mean numbness, and you feel everything. Your chest is tight, your thoughts racing so fast they blur together into one hazy mess, from which you can barely pick apart anything coherent. One of the most prominent things is…

Why?

She didn't seem like she's going to do it. No sadness, no nothing.

Then again, every school PSA ever made likes to remind you that suicidal people often seem fine. Happy, even. Normal. The thought does nothing to make this easier to understand.

For a fleeting moment, you convince yourself this has to be a dream. That any second now you’ll wake up in your cramped apartment, the sound of your alarm buzzing obnoxiously beside your bed. That none of this is real.

But even as you pinch yourself, blink multiple times, tell yourself in your head to wake up…

…The smell lingers.

7:33 p.m., December 16th, 20XX.

“Twenty-Two year old woman commits suicide at Olive Sierra Hotel, found dead by an employee!”

Those words haunted the news cycle for nearly two weeks.

You couldn’t escape them, or more specifically, the memories they brought with themselves. Why? Well…They were everywhere. On TV screens in passing cafés, in headlines flashing across your phone, in snippets of radio chatter bleeding through open car windows as you walk down the street for work. No matter how hard you tried to avoid them, they followed you, even into your mind. Whenever you didn’t have something specific to latch onto, to anchor yourself to reality, it wandered back there. To the bathroom. You could smell the sickly, metallic blood again. Feel the stillness in the air. The image of Rosa’s body burned itself behind your eyelids, waiting for you to close your eyes so you can see it again and keep the poor girl company.

Another thing that constantly reminded you of it all, was the fact you’d become — rather unwillingly — one of the most important people involved in the investigation. Which made sense, you supposed. You were the one who found her. The first to see her dead. The last to see her alive. However, “important” didn’t directly translate to “useful”.

What could you tell them? You didn’t know her. You didn’t know why she did it. You didn’t know why she chose a hotel bathroom instead of the privacy of her own home. Sometimes you found yourself spiraling into theories late at night when you couldn't sleep, trying to make sense of it all. Maybe she didn’t want her loved ones to find her like that and wanted to spare them the image. The clean up of the blood of someone who was so close and dear left on the floor before dying.

That thought felt…almost kind. Empathetic, even. Which somehow made it all worse to think about.

Still, if not for that sudden, inexplicable hunch, her corpse might have been left there for another day. That had come up during questioning, of course. When you explained it was just a pure instinct, the officers exchanged questioning glances between each other, but didn't say anything more about it. Don't all cops and detectives in movies have those gut feelings that move the case forward? Maybe it really is just a thing of fiction then…

After that came the reporters. They swarmed the hotel like flies to rotten meat, shoving microphones in your face and asking unnecessary questions. You avoided them as best you could, slipping past with your head down, but even from a distance their presence felt invasive. You weren’t a particularly emotional person — or at least you hadn’t thought you were until recently — but something about it all felt deeply dejecting. They didn't care about her, not really. Neither did they care about you. All that mattered was to tell the story over and over again, milking it dry for sensation until people got bored. It's a funny thing to say, getting bored of someone's death. Still, that was the truth as far as you could see.

By the time December rolled around, the attention finally started to die down. The reporters moved on. The police closed the case and ruled it as undeniable suicide. Your coworkers stopped bringing it up as well, letting it fade into the past.

You could go back to peacefully wasting your life away! Yay! Okay, that sounded awfully edgy, but you get the point, don't you?

You’re sitting in your cramped apartment now, legs pulled up on the couch after another shift, eating instant ramen straight from the cup. Spicy; kimchi flavor, you're pretty sure. The TV hums in the background, playing something you aren’t really watching. Some game show, but again, you didn't bother with actually looking. You keep it on for the background noise.

And yet, even without any reminders, you still have nightmares. Every. Single. Night. You wish you could exaggerate. Once, you managed to hallucinate the body too.

You’ve thought about therapy. Briefly. But the idea makes you uncomfortable. How do you even start that conversation?

“Hey, I found a dead body and now I can’t stop seeing it!”

And then what? They’d tell you to breathe. To meditate. To “reframe your thoughts”. All for the extremely low price of draining your already meager savings. No thanks. You knew that wasn’t necessarily fair; after all, you’d never actually tried therapy, but you’re not convinced it wouldn’t be a colossal waste of time (and money, and since time IS money, it's waste squared).

You finish the ramen and set the empty cup on the small, wooden coffee table. Then you reach for your phone. Twenty percent battery. You consider grabbing the charger, but the effort feels monumental at the moment, so instead you sink further into the couch.

Ahhh, doomscrolling, Humanity's greatest invention as of yet.

Instagram first. Watching your old high school classmates slowly assemble functional lives fills you with a quiet, bitter jealousy. Diplomas, marriage, one already has a kid. Another posted their house. You exit the app almost immediately. Then you go to Tiktok, which is an even worse clusterfuck, but at least you don't have to look at those people any longer. You also make a mental note to block them later on.

The longer you scroll, the more videos you mindlessly watch, the heavier the loneliness becomes. You become hyperaware of the apartment having only you in it.

Maybe if you had a friend here, you’d be handling all this better. Unfortunately, you’ve always been terrible at making friends. You drift in and out of groups. A floater. You could get along…somehow, but you've never been sought after. When you made the effort instead, it was met with plastic enthusiasm.

You stop yourself before the self-pity spiral fully takes hold.

Fine. Be proactive! Be the change you want to see in yourself! You're pretty sure that's what people say.

You go through a few sites which basically pair you up with a random person to talk to, similar to omegle (RIP). As you finally settle for one, you click to connect.

A few seconds pass. Then a message pops up immediately. Copied and pasted, you took a guess.

STRANGER: 22M looking for a freaky girl ;) send your snap if interested

You sigh.

Of course.

To be honest, what did you expect? A miracle coming at you right away? You disconnect and try again.

STRANGER: 20F wanting to RP, you're my brother's childhood friend, we've had a rivalry since we were young, but now we are going on a road trip to Oregon and forced to share one bed–

Again.

And again, and again, and again.

Since when was everyone so aggressively horny? And how do they all manage to miss each other and land on someone who wants nothing to do with it? It seems luck is neither on yours, nor their side. You’re about to give up entirely when you try one last time.

YOU: Hey hey

YOU: How are you?

It feels awkward. Especially when the reply takes a moment longer than you wanted to.

STRANGER: Heeey :p I'm fine, how abt u

You hum quietly. The first normal response you’ve gotten in around…half an hour? You didn’t keep track.

YOU: Im fine, just bored

YOU: Whats ur name?

STRANGER: Im B-

The screen goes black.

Your phone dies.

You groan, rubbing your face, resisting the urge to hurl the phone across the room. Great. Now you look like an asshole AND you’re alone again. It seems the universe itself is personally invested in keeping you lonely. You grab the phone and shuffle to the bedroom to plug it in. Might as well sleep too. Tomorrow’s Saturday. No work. Small miracles.

You lie in your bed staring at the ceiling, frustration knotting in your chest. You start to miss the past even more, you were constantly tired, just like now, but back then you could sleep peacefully at the very least.

After what feels like an hour, you get up to grab your phone from the floor. The screen lights up painfully bright and you drop it again with a soft thud. Whatever, time doesn't matter. It's dark outside so it's late, all you have to know. You get up to grab some water. You move through the dark apartment half-blind, bumping into the couch because of course you do. Screw that connected kitchen-living room. You finally find your bottle and take a long gulp–

–and immediately spit it out, then drop the bottle.

Blood. It's so warm. Like someone just cut a fresh kill open and let everything pour in there.

Your hands start shaking. No. No, no. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. You’re hallucinating. You're going genuinely crazy but that’s still better than blood being randomly in your kitchen. It’s water. Just water. A lie told 100 times eventually becomes the truth.

You leave wet footprints behind you as you stagger toward the bathroom, fingers slipping on the doorknob before you finally manage to turn on the light.

Something grabs your ankle.

You look down.

Rosa.

Her grip is cold and unyielding. You freeze for half a second before kicking her head, panic flooding every nerve. She doesn’t let go. Her fingers tighten. But hey, on the bright side, there's no blood anymore so it doesn't feel like you're stuck in a horrifying (yet cheap) slasher movie!

Then she whispers something. A name, you think.

But you don’t care about hyperrealistic hallucinations warning you about your impending doom or whatever. You kick again. And again. But she just won't let go and instead claws at your ankle, making you almost scream just from how deep her nails are going.

You jolt awake.

Cold sweat drenches your forehead. Your heart pounds painfully in your chest, you can hear it in the silence of your bedroom. Of course it was a nightmare. A vivid one. You sit up, rubbing your face, trying to steady your breathing.

You really need to do something about this. Not today though. Maybe next week.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. You fall into a shallow, dreamless sleep. It's mediocre, but you'll take anything after this.

1:07 p.m., December 17th, 20XX.

You sleep in, which feels justified given everything. When you finally drag yourself out of bed, your head throbs dully, as if you’re hungover despite not having touched a drop of alcohol. Your mouth is dry. Your limbs feel heavy. You’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes, they cling to you uncomfortably, stiff and wrinkled. With a tired sigh, you peel them off and pull on something clean before shuffling toward the bathroom.

The mirror greets you with a face that feels…wrong, which makes you stare at your reflection longer than necessary. Objectively, nothing is that different. Just darker circles under your eyes and your mouth is now tilted to a permanent frown. Still, the longer you stare, the less it feels like you’re looking at yourself. It’s like watching a stranger who happens to be wearing your skin.

You don’t like that feeling.

Okay. You need to go outside.

You get dressed properly. Coat, scarf, boots. Then you grab your phone and wallet, stuffing them into your pocket afterwards just in case. You don’t have a destination in mind. You just know that if you stay inside any longer, your thoughts are going to make you bang your head against the wall.

Once you step outside, the cold hits you immediately. You inhale sharply, lungs filling with crisp winter air that stings in the best way. You’ve always liked winter. It was quiet. Everything feels muted and slower. The holiday season helps, too. That made you remember Christmas is coming. You're going to spend it alone. Not like you mind, being alone with your brain is still easier than the company of your family.

As you walk, you take in the decorated houses and storefronts, windows plastered with “Christmas Sale” signs. The snow beneath your boots crunches loudly, uneven and thick enough to make you stumble if you’re not careful.

About fifteen minutes into your aimless walk, you realize just how much you've underestimated the cold. Your fingers ache despite the gloves, your nose stings and your ears hurt. You glance around, scanning for somewhere warm. A café. A convenience store. Anything. You prefer the first option more though, you'd die for some hot chocolate right now.

You spot a small coffee shop tucked between two buildings and push the door open gratefully. The warmth hits you instantly. You stand in line, fumbling with your wallet, and order a large hot chocolate. When you finally sit down at a small table near the window, wrapping your hands around the cup, heat seeps back into your body.

For the first time in a long while, you relax.

You take out your phone, turn it on for the first time today and freeze up slightly. You’re still on that chat site. Still connected.

That’s…strange.

Your phone died last night. It should’ve disconnected immediately. And even if it hadn’t, most sites automatically end conversations after a few minutes of inactivity. Still, maybe this one’s just…special, or the developers suck. Or maybe fate is throwing you a bone after so much fucking you in the ass. You can apologize to the stranger for leaving them on delivered for the whole night at least.

You finally read the message they sent you last night.

STRANGER: Im Ben

You hum softly and start typing back a response.

YOU: sosososososoo sorry For not replying :(( my phone died and then I went to sleep

YOU: I'm surprised the convo didn't end tho

YOU: Im [Y/N] btw

You stare at the screen for a solid five minutes, sipping your drink and wondering if you’ve completely botched this. The little typing indicator appears.

STRANGER: Its okay I went to sleep too :p

You sigh in relief. All things considered, that reply was really quick.

YOU: Ive been really stressed lately, thats all ahaha

STRANGER: wanna tell me why? I can listen

YOU: Its a long story, and a SUPER depressing one too

STRANGER: I wanna know even more know

STRANGER: Tell me

STRANGER Tell me

STRANGER: Tell me!!

You hesitate, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. This isn’t like you. Trauma dumping on strangers? Really? But he's so…oddly convincing, it's almost comical how quick it took for you to give in.

YOU: Ok Ok ill tell you

YOU: So I'm working at a hotel, front desk

YOU: And a month ago a girl offed herself in the bathroom in one of the rooms

YOU: And I found her

YOU: I can't stop thinking about it that's all

There’s a pause. Long enough for regret to start creeping in. Then Ben replies.

STRANGER: Olive Sierra? I heard about it

STRANGER: That's awful

STRANGER: Im sorry you had to go trough that :(

STRANGER: Yk for me the best help is just not thinking abt it and distracting myself

STRANGER: Do u play any video games?

You think for a moment. You’re not really a gamer. You’ve never had the time or the money to get into it seriously. Still, you’ve enjoyed them when you’ve had the chance.

YOU: Yeah, I don't play much tho

STRANGER: Wanna play something together ?

STRANGER: I could add you on discord

STRANGER: If u have it ofc

The suggestion makes your stomach twist. It’s so…kind and well-meaning. And yet, something inside you recoils. Paranoia again, probably. You crave connection, but the moment it’s offered, you hesitate.

YOU: ill Think about it

YOU: U can give me yours and I'll add u if I make up my mind abt it

STRANGER: Okkkkkk wait

STRANGER: Its M4J0R4

You take a screenshot. You talk a little longer about nothing important before disconnecting. Ben has been nothing but nice. When you finally leave the café, your mood is noticeably lighter. But on the walk home, though, your doubt creeps back in.

Why are you like this? One moment you’re desperate for support, and the next you’re pushing it away over baseless suspicion. You’ve been on edge around everyone lately, convinced they’re hiding something, that they’re dangerous. Which is ridiculous.

Rosa wasn’t even murdered. She killed herself.

And yet…when you found her, you felt something. That nagging sense that everything wasn’t entirely right. Not that someone killed her, but that something pushed her there. You quickly shake off those thoughts. You don't need, or want to theorize any longer about a dead depressed girl.

Back in your apartment, you shrug off your coat and kick off your snow-covered boots. Despite everything, the outing helped. You feel a little more grounded.

Then you walk into the living room. The TV is on, hissing and crackling with static. You stop short. You’re almost certain you left it off. But can you trust your memory anymore?

You pick up the remote from the coffee table. As your thumb hovers over the power button, the screen flickers.

For a split second, Rosa’s face fills it.

You yelp and slam the button, plunging the room into silence. Your heart pounds as you stand there, breathing hard.

Another hallucination. That’s all.

Still…maybe you’ll reconsider Ben’s offer.

Just for the distraction.

4:21 p.m., December 24th, 20XX.

You got home from your shift around an hour ago. Yes, you work during Christmas, that's one of the many charms of being employed at a hotel that operates constantly. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, all year round. Holidays were just regular days but with a plastic tree in the corner of the lobby, and a slightly higher traffic. Maybe you'd feel more of a difference if you worked at a fancier place. But who knows? It wasn't that big of a deal anyways.

First of all, you didn’t have anything waiting for you at home. No family at the dinner table, friends to spend the day with, not even particular plans for today to keep yourself from growing depressed over this predicament. Second of all, one of the housekeepers brought in cake. Homemade gingerbread cake. She set it down in the break room like it was nothing and told everyone to take a piece before their shifts ended. During Halloween, she had done something similar. Chocolate-stuffed muffins with bright orange and black icing, piped carefully to resemble pumpkins. They’d been absurdly good. They melted in your mouth and if you remember correctly you ate five. Of course you pretended you took just one to not look like some food hoarder.

Truthfully, you’d never thought of your coworkers as a tight-knit, found-family sort of group that your boss described to you during your interview. You clocked in, you did your job, you clocked out. There was nothing deeper than necessary between you all. So seeing someone put that much effort into something meant purely for others had caught you off guard at first.

You could never.

Not because you were cruel. You weren’t…you think. You hope so, at least. You would help a kicked puppy! You would hold the door open for someone with hands full of groceries! Give directions to a tourist! All that must account for something, even if you didn’t intentionally go out of your way for people you considered strangers. Unlike her. You envied her for that, quietly. The world could use more light like hers.

…Speaking of light, and kindness, you had been thinking about Ben’s offer ever since that day.

Well. Thinking might be too generous a word. Because after some quick reflection, a bitter realization had settled in, you didn’t even own a console. And while you did have a laptop, using it always felt like playing russian roulette with the CPU. To set itself on fire, or not to, that is the question. Luckily for you, it chose to not do the former as of yet. You can never be too sure with this thing though. The fan sounds like it's working horrendous overtime.

Still, it felt ridiculous to message him days later just to say no. To reject something he’d offered so kindly to you. You will try to make it work. Somehow. Maybe you could tell him about this though, perhaps he was upset you still didn't text him…No, No. He isn't a loser like you. He definitely has a family that he's sitting at the table with as we speak. People who want him around. Talking and having a good time. You sigh, pulling out your phone and staring at the dark screen, thumb hovering uselessly above it as you debate with yourself what to do.

Before you can make up your mind, your phone buzzes and lights up.

Unknown number.

You answer and put the phone on speaker, holding it slightly away from your face.

“Hello?” you said.

“Are you still going to prolong that little tantrum?”

Not even a greeting. Of course.

The person on the other end of the line was no one else but your mother. Unfortunately for you, you haven't been away from her for enough time to forget her voice. To make it less ingrained into your brain. You had blocked her number months ago, so she must’ve gone out of her way to call you from somewhere else. The effort alone was almost impressive. You don’t reply right away, your thumb moving to linger over the end-call button. You should hang up. You know you should. Yet a flicker of curiosity keeps you away from pressing it.

She continues, undeterred by your silence.

“You can’t even be decent enough of a child to call us during Christmas. I won’t even mention visiting…how could I have raised someone so self-centered?”

“I learned from the best,” you reply finally.

Your mother scoffs.

“And you still have the nerve to talk back.”

“…I’m an adult. This isn’t talking back. It’s just a conversation.” You rub your forehead, already feeling drained. “Why did you call me?”

There’s a pause between the two of you.

“Your father’s sick,” she says. “Pancreatic cancer.”

You wait for something, some reaction within you. But nothing comes. Just a hollow acknowledgement of the situation. He had it coming, you think distantly. You don’t even feel bad for not feeling bad.

“…I’m not a doctor,” you say flatly.

She goes quiet again. When she finally speaks, irritation sharpens her voice.

“You’re really going to regret only seeing him again at his funeral.”

“And who said I’ll go?”

The line goes dead. She hangs up, though you hear her frustrated groan just before it cuts out.

You stare at your phone for a moment longer, the screen reflecting your face back at you. Then you block the number without hesitation and set the phone down, standing from the couch. You feel anger buzzing beneath your skin. The nerve of her. Acting like you owe them anything. Like your mother deciding not to abort you somehow equated to a lifelong obligation towards her, or that sad excuse of a father.

You couldn’t care less about him dying. The last time he saw you, he’d wished the same fate on you — maybe not in those exact words, but close enough. He'd told you he hoped your life would fall apart so thoroughly that you’d have no choice but to crawl back to him, to your mother, to that suffocating town you grew up in.

Jokes on him. Even if you needed a kidney, you're sure it wouldn't even cross your mind for a millisecond to come to him.

And now they’re the ones reaching out, after nearly a year of silence. You expected it to go that way.

After getting yourself a glass of water to calm down, you figure you might as well check how your laptop is holding up. With a small sigh, you head to your bedroom and start digging through your things, pushing aside clothes and half-forgotten items until your fingers finally brush against the familiar fabric of the bag you keep it in. It’s hard to miss, you'd find it earlier if not for the clutter. It's an almost neon mint color, patterned with orange flowers and other vaguely floral shapes. Very loud. Very early-2000s.

You remember exactly where it came from. A small garage sale back in your hometown, held in the driveway of a modest little house. The woman running it had been somewhere in her late thirties or early forties, you think, living there with just her husband. For whatever reason, she’d taken a liking to you. When you mentioned you’d just gotten a laptop, she insisted you take the bag for free “as a bonus”. You had also bought a ridiculous number of books that day, your arms nearly aching by the time you left. You’re pretty sure you brought them with you when you moved. They have to be here…somewhere. You'll look for them one day.

Shaking off the thought, you pull the laptop out of the bag. You don’t bother getting onto the bed, you just lower yourself to the floor and sit cross legged, setting the laptop down in front of you. When you press the power button, it responds with a few unsettling, almost crack-like noises, and the fan immediately kicks in. It begs you to turn it off and end its suffering. Well, too bad.

The last time you used it, you were sending out CVs — dozens of them, you think — to job listings that blurred together after a while. You picked anything that even remotely fit. There was something about doing that on a laptop instead of your phone that made you feel more…more professional. Like you were actually an adult who had their shit together.

Your attention snaps back to the screen. You type in your password, muscle memory guiding your fingers, and the homescreen loads. It’s painfully basic. You still have the default wallpaper put on, zero personal touches at all. You never really bothered customizing it. It feels oddly fitting now, even if it’s a little sad.

You grab your phone again and open Discord. After a brief moment of hesitation, you send a friend request to Ben. Hopefully he isn’t too busy. Or annoyed. Or mad at you. Or decided you made up your mind too late. You set the phone aside once more and turn your attention back to the laptop while you wait.

The desktop is bleak. Almost comically so. There are around ten CV files cluttering the screen, and you honestly don’t know why you never overwrote the old ones instead of saving new copies every time. Alongside them are several folders labeled with random strings of letters and numbers, you had a habit of keyboard smashing and calling it a day when it came to that stuff. You start by deleting the older CVs, leaving only the most recent one behind. Then, out of curiosity, you click on one of the folders.

It opens to reveal a flood of photos. Selfies, mostly. They’re from shortly after you got the laptop, taken during a time when you were hanging out with a friend. You remember finding some dumb website online that slapped ridiculous filters onto your face, and for some reason younger you thought it was a wonderful idea to take…dozens of photos with it. Fifty, at least. Maybe more. You cringe as you scroll. You don’t even talk to that girl anymore. Her name was Leah. The last you heard, she had moved to France. After high school, you just…stopped keeping in touch. Like with everyone else, really.

The longer you stare at the photos, the hotter your face feels, embarrassment creeping up your neck. You exit the folder quickly and try to delete it altogether. Instead, an error message pops up.

“An unexpected error is keeping you from deleting this folder. If you continue to receive this error, you can use the error code to search for help with this problem.”

Below it sits the error code, along with two buttons: Try Again and Cancel. You click Try Again. Then again. And again. Nothing happens. Eventually, you give up and reopen the folder, deciding to delete the photos individually instead.

No luck.

“An unexpected error is keeping you from deleting this file...”

You let out a groan and lean back slightly, staring at the screen. Great. This thing is even more broken than you thought. You abandon the folder entirely and click through a few others, but they’re filled with nothing remotely interesting.

Finally, you glance back at your phone. Ben accepted your friend request. There’s a simple “hey” waiting for you. Your eyes brighten just a little, and before you can overthink it, you start typing a response.

Y/N: Heyy

Y/N: Im fighting my laptop rn

Y/N: This thing barely works

M4J0R4: You want to play with me then?

M4J0R4: yay!!!!

M4J0R4: U have anything in mind?

Y/N: You choose

Y/N: idk what my amazing quality device can handle

M4J0R4: We could play minecraft

M4J0R4: Oooooor valorant

M4J0R4: Ooooor fortnite

M4J0R4: Ooooooor overwatch

You stare at the screen as he practically spams you with the names of multiplayer games. You decide to settle with the first one, you're pretty sure even your laptop can handle a block game.

Y/N: minecraft sounds good :p

Y/N: You don't celebrate with family?

M4J0R4: Nahhhh

M4J0R4: They live far away

M4J0R4: I couldn't afford to see them this year

Well, this still means he has more of a life than you.

The conversation flows easily enough. After a few more exchanged messages, you find yourself setting up Minecraft on your laptop. You join Ben’s world, and just like that, the hours begin to blur together.

You’re having a genuinely good time, even if your skill level leaves much to be desired. Which is honestly impressive in its own way, considering it’s Minecraft. You keep missing obvious holes in the ground, walking straight into them without realizing until it’s too late. One second you’re strolling along, the next you’re plummeting into a cave, your screen flashing red as everything you were carrying scatters.

Ben laughs it off in chat, reassuring you it’s fine, but when you half-jokingly suggest turning on keep inventory, he immediately shoots it down. Apparently that makes the game “too easy,” and suffering a little is part of the “authentic Minecraft experience”, whatever that means. You roll your eyes but go along with it anyway. Even if it's slightly frustrating, at the end of the day you don't care that much.

Eventually, you settle into a rhythm. While Ben runs off to explore, mine, and gather resources, you stay behind and start building a house. You focus on placing blocks carefully (following a tutorial you found online, but let's not mention that anymore and pretend it's fully your work), occasionally stopping to respond when Ben types something in the chat.

Somehow, nearly three hours pass before your body finally makes itself known.

Your back starts aching, a deep, persistent pain that makes you suddenly aware of how you’ve been sitting this entire time. Curled forward on the floor in a shrimp-like position, shoulders hunched, neck craned toward the screen. You shift slightly and wince. Yeah. That’s not good. You type in the chat that you’re getting a bit tired, half-expecting disappointment, but Ben is immediately understanding. He says it was fun, that you should play again soon.

He’s been really nice to you the whole time. Patient. Kind. It makes your chest feel warm in a way you’re not used to. For a little while, the paranoia you felt about him, and everything else, quiets down. You stop overanalyzing every interaction. He was right. Distractions do help, at least for a bit.

You say your goodbyes, promise to play again sometime, and shut the laptop off. The sudden silence feels strange after hours of sound effects and background music. You glance at the clock. It’s only around 8pm, but your eyes feel dry and itchy from staring at the screen for so long.

You slide the laptop back into its bag and lean it carefully against the wall. Then you stand up and stretch, arms reaching overhead. There’s a loud, satisfying pop from your back, followed by a wave of relief. Usually, this would be the moment you collapse straight onto your bed and pass out in whatever you’re wearing. Like it was for a while now. Maybe you’d kick off your pants first and settle for sleeping in a hoodie and underwear. Still not ideal, but serviceable.

Tonight, though, you’re in a good mood.

So you decide to practice a little self-care.

You shuffle into the bathroom and grab your toothbrush. Brushing your teeth feels almost ceremonial at this point. It’s been…what, three days? A bit gross, sure, but at least you’re brushing them on the day you ate the most sugar, right? You scrub a little longer than usual, staring at your reflection with tired eyes. Next, you splash some water on your face, using just a tiny bit of soap. You’re careful around your eyes, not wanting that awful stinging feeling. You dry your face, glance at yourself one last time, and nod. Somehow, splashing your face with water made you more tired. Maybe because the water was rather warm.

Okay. That’s enough self-care for one night, actually.

3:01 p.m., February 20th, 20XX.

You’re tugging your coat on, fingers fumbling slightly with the zipper as you brace yourself for the cold. It’s not as brutal as it was a few weeks ago, but winter is still clinging on stubbornly. At least the snow doesn’t fall as often now, and when it does, it melts into slush almost immediately. Still, the air bites at your cheeks the moment you step outside and you hate that feeling. You pull your hat down over your ears and reach for your bag. Just as your hand closes around the strap, you feel someone rest their hand on your shoulder. You nearly jump out of your skin.

Your body tenses instantly as you turn your head, heart thudding, only to find Paula standing beside you. She looks completely unfazed, as if she didn’t almost scare you half to death. Her green eyes catch the light as she smiles, bright and lively. Though, to be fair, they always sparkle like that. Paula has always had that effortless charm about her. The kind of person who could sit still and somehow still draw attention, like she was born to be admired. Her beauty does half the talking for her, which only ever made you wonder why she chose to work in a place as shabby and underwhelming as this one.

You let out a small, confused hum, and she immediately claps her hands together, clearly excited, her voice taking on an upbeat, sing-song tone you guess she mostly uses when at the front desk while talking to the visitors.

“Y/N! I was thinking…well, actually, me and Maisie have been thinking, if you want to go out with us both this weekend.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you almost choke on thin air. What?

For a split second, your mind goes completely blank. You didn’t even realize people here hung out outside of work. As far as you knew everyone clocked out and vanished into their own lives the moment their shifts ended. And Maisie? You barely knew her at all. She worked night shifts. By the time you arrived in the mornings, she was already gone. You’d exchanged maybe a handful of words with her, but you're not even sure about that. The idea that the two of them were friends, let alone inviting you, feels unreal.

You force a small, tense smile, trying not to look startled or ungrateful. The last thing you want is coworker drama. You’ve always preferred to stay neutral, invisible if possible.

“…I didn’t know you guys were friends,” you say carefully. “Are you sure it’s okay? I don’t want to make it awkward.”

Paula lets out a soft laugh, waving her hand dismissively. Only then do you realize you’ve started walking with her, drifting back toward the front desk where she’s already settling in.

“Maybe if it was…you from a few months ago!” she says, still smiling. “Then yeah, we wouldn’t even dream of inviting you, no offense. But you know how you were…all gloomy and asocial.”

She says it so lightly, so casually, as if what she said wasn’t insulting at all.

“Uh, well–” you start, unsure how to respond.

“But now you actually, like, talk to us!” she continues. “Everyone’s been wondering what happened. Especially after you found that dead girl. What was her name again…Riley? Rebecca?” She taps her lips thoughtfully.

“Rosa,” you reply quietly. “It was Rosa.”

For a moment, you’re not entirely sure what she means. You hadn’t noticed yourself changing, not really. You always thought you were just…getting by. But as you stand there, the words sink in, and the gears in your head slowly start turning. When you think back to the beginning of the year, the differences are subtle but undeniable. You have been smiling more. Talking more. You’ve even started caring about how you look before work…nothing drastic, but still more than before. And the nightmares…they’ve been fewer and spaced farther apart, the same with the hallucinations, which you’re incredibly grateful for.

It all seems to trace back to Ben.

He became such a big part of your life so naturally that you almost didn’t notice it happening. Talking to him every day made things feel lighter, easier. He distracted you from the memories, from everything that went wrong. It’s almost silly how much happier you feel just because you’re not alone anymore. Maybe your problem really was a lack of friends all along.

“Anyway,” Paula says suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts, “have you found anyone speeeeecial?” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Come on, spill!”

Your face heats up instantly.

You don’t have a crush on Ben. He’s your friend. JUST your friend. And no, this isn’t denial. The embarrassment comes from something else entirely. It's the assumption that happiness must automatically come from romance. Still, you know that if you say you’ve just made a friend, Paula will think you're simply hiding your partner from her for whatever reason. So you choose a safer answer, it's not really that much of a lie either way.

“No, actually,” you say, clearing your throat. “I started…working on myself. Eating better, exercising, you know. Self-care.”

Paula studies you for a moment, her eyes narrowing just a bit, like she’s weighing your words. Then she smiles again and nods, apparently satisfied.

“Ah, that’s good, that’s good,” she says. “So, are you free this weekend or not? We don’t have to drink if you’re all health-focused now.”

You hesitate for just a second before nodding.

“…Sure. Just text me. I’m pretty sure I gave you my number.”

She immediately pulls out her phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen. A second later, you feel your own phone vibrate in the back pocket of your pants. When you check it, you see a message from Paula, it's nothing but a string of random emojis. You remember giving her your number when you first started the job. She mostly used it to ask about scheduling or organization stuff when she got confused. It's funny considering you are her junior.

“See you!” she chirps, already turning to the computer screen.

You give a small wave over your shoulder as you step out of the hotel, even though Paula wasn't really watching if you leave or not. The cold greets you immediately, it stings your entire face, making you narrow your eyes, scrunch your nose and shudder. You shove your hands into the pockets of your coat and take a few steps forward, letting the door close behind you with a soft thud.

This is your first actual plan to hang out with people since you moved out. A whole year ago. Maybe more, if you’re being honest with yourself. After highschool you stayed with your parents for just a bit longer, and during that time period everyone went away to college or simply didn't want to associate with you anymore. It was mutual.

You can’t help but wonder if your coworkers have always been closer than you assumed. Maybe they’ve been laughing together, grabbing drinks, building connections right under your nose while you stayed safely in your own bubble. Maybe you built that version of them — the one that assumed everyone is so self-centered and uninterested in socializing as you — in your head on purpose. So you could cope somehow with your low self worth, feeling of being an actual real life NPC, and that kindness is a rarity nowadays so you don't have to possess it.

The thought lingers as you walk toward the metro station, your boots making weird sloshing sounds against patches of the melting snow. The air stings your fingers when you pull your phone out, bare skin protesting against the cold almost immediately. You ignore it. You’re buzzing with nervous excitement, and there’s only one person you want to tell (also the only one you CAN tell, you have no one else, remember?).

Your thumbs move quickly as you type.

Y/N: Guess what

Y/N: im going out this weekend

Y/N: With my coworkers

Y/N: Paula and Maisie

Y/N: im so excited !!!

Y/N: and nervous

Y/N: i hope i won’t mess this up somehow,, it would suck if things got weird between us

You stare at the screen, waiting. Nothing.

He’s probably busy, you tell yourself. You try not to read into it as you slip your phone back into your pocket and descend into the station. Soon enough, you’re seated inside the metro, shoulders relaxing as the doors slide shut. Your phone buzzes and you grab it almost too fast.

M4J0R4: i didn’t know you talk to them

M4J0R4: you said you’re kind of lonely back there

Your brows knit together as you read it. That’s…not what you expected. Not from Ben. You thought he’d be excited. Proud, even. Supportive. That’s the word that keeps echoing in your head. You type back, trying to keep things light.

Y/N: well that was until today lol

Y/N: paula surprised me a lot

Y/N: she said i was unapproachable before lmaoaoaoa

Y/N: still it’s not like i care about being friends with them i just don’t want them to think badly of me

Y/N: did something happen?

The three little dots don’t appear. Seconds pass, then a minute. Your chest tightens just a bit more than you’d like to admit. You start typing another message, something that's a bit too desperate for your liking, but before you can send anything, his reply comes through.

M4J0R4: srry, i had a rough day that’s all

M4J0R4: im happy for u ^^

M4J0R4: i hope u have fun, don’t forget to text me tho, i wanna know how it goes

You let out a quiet sigh, tension leaving your shoulders. Of course. It wasn’t about you. It rarely is, but your brain loves to pretend otherwise. Relief settles warmly in your chest. You text back and forth as the metro carries you home, Ben tells you about his day. By the time you reach your stop and unlock your apartment door, the conversation hasn’t slowed.

You toss your bag aside, kick off your shoes, and make your way to the kitchen. Dinner is nothing special, just a pre-made baguette stuffed with chicken that you slide into the oven for a few minutes. While it heats up, you’re still texting him. When it’s done and you’re sitting at the couch, eating, you’re still texting him.

Yeah. You’ve been texting him a lot. The thought doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it probably should. He's your friend after all, it's normal to talk to your friends a lot.

6:07 p.m., February 25th, 20XX.

You spread your clothes out carefully on the bed, smoothing the fabric with your hands and then pausing, just to look at them. For a moment, you almost admire the little arrangement you’ve made. This is the nicest stuff you own, no contest, and it’s been sitting untouched in your closet for months…okay, maybe longer, quietly collecting dust.

It’s not like you’ve had many occasions to dress up. For work, you rotate through the same three button-up shirts, pairing them with dark bottoms. They’re fine. Functional, don't draw attention towards you, just how you like it. And when you get home, you have a bad habit of staying in the same clothes for days at a time. Not great — kind of gross, honestly — but it saves you from doing laundry more often than absolutely necessary. You try not to think too hard about it.

As sad as it sounds, it’s only after moving out that you’ve developed anything resembling a fashion sense. Before that, your mom picked out your clothes for you. Every shirt, every pair of pants, even goddamn shoes. You could’ve fought it, of course. You could’ve bought things you liked and changed at school, but that meant spending money you were trying so hard to save to move out as soon as you could. And honestly? It didn’t feel worth the effort anyways. The clothes she chose were modest, a bit too prim and proper, but you never looked ridiculous, so you settled. You just…didn’t feel like yourself, that's all.

Now, ironically, when you finally have the freedom to experiment, money is tight. There's rent, groceries, transit, things that matter way more than what you wear. Fashion is a luxury you can't afford yet, it's way far down on your list.

Carefully, you slip the outfit on and head to the bathroom. The light hums softly as you look at yourself in the mirror.

You look…nice.

Actually, more than nice. It’s the best you’ve looked in a long while. You showered earlier, brushed your teeth properly, even made sure to eat something decent so you wouldn’t go out on an empty stomach and end up irritable. For some reason, social events drain not only your social battery but your appetite too. You’ve learned that the hard way.

All that’s left is your hair. You grab the brush and run it through slowly, untangling it while keeping your eyes on your reflection. When you’re done, you pause again, taking yourself in and a small smile tugs at your lips.

Somewhere along the way, the sharp edge of your nervousness dulled. You’re still anxious, sure, but the fear of messing everything up isn’t suffocating anymore. Ben helped with that throughout the week.

Right. Ben.

You were supposed to text him once you were ready and about to leave. You set the brush down and head back to your bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed as you unlock your phone and start typing.

Y/N: i’ll be leaving in likeee 20 minutes

Y/N: and it’s gonna take another 20 to get there

The reply comes quickly.

M4J0R4: txt me when u get there then ;p

M4J0R4: just so ik u got there safe

You smile down at your phone, warmth spreading through your chest. He cares a lot. You can’t really remember anyone ever paying this much attention to you before. Not your family, not your former friends, you didn't even care this much about yourself, ever. You’ve never thought of yourself as particularly special, not worth any extra effort or time. But for some reason he thinks you are.

You shake your head slightly, forcing the thought away. You’re getting ahead of yourself.

It would be pathetic to start falling for someone just because they’re genuinely kind to you. Desperate, even. And it would only highlight how starved you are for connection, how easily gentle warmth feels like a blazing fire when you were stranded and cold for so long. You exhale slowly and lock your phone.

Your way to the bar isn’t anything remarkable. The streets blur together as you walk half distracted, glancing at your phone from time to time to make sure you head in the right direction. You arrive exactly when you planned to. Still, you stop short once you’re there, standing on the sidewalk and staring at the building in front of you.

You hadn’t really looked into the place beyond figuring out how to get here. Seeing it in person is…a lot. It looked so polished? Expensive? You seem unable to find the right adjective. You already feel out of place, and you’re painfully aware that this feeling will probably get worse once you actually sit down with Paula and Maisie. From the outside, the bar leans heavily toward the fancy side, with its large windows that spill warm light out onto the street. Above the entrance, a massive LED sign glows softly — “Small Mercies”.

Three girls walk past you and head inside, glancing at you for just a moment, long enough for your brain to interpret it as judgment. That’s your cue. You’re being weird, great. Before you can overthink it any further, you straighten up and follow them inside.

The interior somehow looks even nicer. The walls are a deep, muted red. The floors shine under the low lighting, reflecting movement and color. Behind the bar, bottles line the shelves in neat, glowing rows, it's so many options it’s almost dizzying. You suppose you should be grateful they didn’t invite you to some grimy place where the air smells stale and there’s an almost one hundred percent chance a middle-aged alcoholic would hit on you, leaving you feeling gross just for existing in the same room. Still, your stomach tightens when you think about the prices. Your wallet feels heavier in your pocket, it's already bracing itself for when it's time to pay.

You can’t help but wonder if Paula and Maisie come here often. If they do…how can they afford it? You all make the same salary, you're pretty sure. Maybe they get help from their families or something similar. You decide to believe this is a one-time thing. It's easier that way, and you choose kindness towards yourself right now.

You pull out your phone quickly and text Ben a simple “I’m here”, then tuck it away again and scan the room. It takes a moment, but then you spot Paula’s dark hair. Sitting beside her is a blonde girl wearing glasses — Maisie, you assume. Last time you saw her you’re sure she wore contact lenses instead though. You lift your hand in a small wave and manage a brief smile as you make your way over.

“You made it!” Paula beams, shuffling closer to Maisie to make space for you. As you sit down, Maisie gives you a soft, barely-there “hey,” her voice quiet and reserved.

“I hope you weren’t waiting too long for me…” you reply.

“Noooo, we just got here ourselves,” Paula replies easily. “Maisie’s boyfriend gave us a ride.” She glances at the blonde, who nods in confirmation. Paula continues, “He’s gonna pick us up too, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maisie says. “I just gotta text him when.” Then she looks at you, speaking more so out of politeness rather than actual concern. “We can take you with us if you want. So you don’t have to go back drunk at night and all.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Paula cuts in immediately.

“Y/N isn’t drinking tonight. Thought I told you.”

Maisie’s eyebrows knit together. “So she’s just gonna…watch us get drunk?”

“I’m fine, really,” you say quickly, your voice softer than you intend. “It’s no big deal.”

“You hear her!” Paula says, already standing up. “Anyway, I’ll go grab the drinks. What do you want, Y/N?”

You hesitate, glancing toward the bar again. All those bottles. All those prices you don’t want to imagine. You chose to go with something basic.

“…A margarita mocktail would be nice,” you say finally.

Paula nods and heads off, clearly already knowing what Maisie wants. The moment she’s far enough away, Maisie shifts in her seat and pushes her glasses back up her nose.

“Sorry Paula put you on the spot like that,” she says. “It’s typical for her, really. She’s always so inconsiderate toward others.”

You blink. You’ve been here for maybe ten minutes, and it’s already turning into gossip. Great. Just great.

“It’s really fine–” you start.

“Like, what made her think you’d have fun watching the two of us drink?” Maisie continues. “That’s basically being a babysitter to toddlers.”

“I don’t mind–”

“You really seem like you have your shit together,” she says, cutting you off again. “Unlike her. Drinking every weekend. She’s just an alcoholic in denial.”

That catches you so off guard you go completely quiet.

You? Having your shit together? The thought is so absurd it short-circuits your brain, and your silence seems to encourage her.

“Yeah,” Maisie goes on. “Like, you didn’t really talk to anyone or anything, but I respected that. You came in, did your job, didn’t take shit from anybody.”

“…Uhm,” you manage. “Thank you?”

Before she can say anything else, Paula returns with the drinks, setting them down on the table with a bright smile. Thank whatever is up there in the skies.

The tension drains just a little, but the awkwardness inside you lingers. You wrap your hands around your glass, trying to ground yourself. Why do they even hang out if Maisie so clearly dislikes Paula? The question nags at you. And, unexpectedly, you feel a small pang of sympathy for the brunette.

This night is already shaping up to be…something.

Still, you sip on your margarita and make a conscious effort to relax. You don’t want to ruin the evening for yourself or them. The drink is cold and pleasantly tart, and you focus on that for a moment, letting it ground you. You lean back slightly in your seat, shoulders loosening as the minutes crawl by.

Mostly, you just nod along to whatever Paula and Maisie are talking about. You add a comment here and there when it feels appropriate, but your input is minimal. They don’t really seem to notice. Somehow, they’re having a fantastic time together, which feels almost surreal considering Maisie was tearing into Paula not that long ago. The contradiction makes your head spin a little. As they drink more, they both loosen up even further. Voices louder, laughter sharper, words tumbling over each other. Meanwhile, you stuck to that single mocktail, not ordering anything after that. Maisie was right about it being with two toddlers. Still, it makes you wonder why she chose to drink so much anyways, despite her apparent sympathy towards you.

Eventually, the conversation derails completely. It turns into nonstop giggling and inside jokes, stuff you have zero context for. Paula starts rambling about a cousin who lives in Wisconsin, going on and on about things that mean absolutely nothing to you. You tune out, fingers drifting to your phone almost on autopilot.

You check if Ben texted you. He did.

M4J0R4: Hope you’re having fun!!

Your mouth twists slightly before you respond.

Y/N: could’ve been better tbh

Y/N: they’re drunk af

Y/N: and lowkey hate each other

Y/N: maisie talked shit abt paula to me

Y/N: and now they act like suuuuch good friends and ignore me

Y/N: it makes me wonder why I’m here

The reply comes quickly.

M4J0R4: oof

M4J0R4: maybe u could like say you have an emergency or somethin and leave

You glance up at the table for a second. Paula is still rambling to her friend, laughing so hard she has to brace herself. Neither of them even looks in your direction.

Y/N: idk i don’t want to leave them like this still…

Y/N: i mean the place is nice but u never know

Y/N: two drunk young women alone in a bar is not the best scenario

M4J0R4: you’re way too kind towards people who don’t like you lmaoooo

M4J0R4: i’ll never get that abt you

M4J0R4: don’t you dislike them too after this??

Something tightens in your chest. He’s right. Objectively, he’s completely right. You don’t plan on hanging out with them again after tonight. You already know that. And they’re clearly too drunk to remember anything you do or say anyway. So why stay?

Y/N: i mean, i do

Y/N: i don’t care if something happens to them

Y/N: idk maybe you’re right

Before you can think any further, Paula’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“Y/N!!”

You jolt, snapping your head up from your phone. Paula is giggling uncontrollably, her face flushed deep pink, eyes glassy. She’s leaning heavily against Maisie, barely holding herself upright.

“Phut that…thing down!” she slurs, pointing vaguely at your phone.

“Yeaahh!” Maisie joins in, laughing. “Put it doooown, Y/N!”

You hesitate, scanning them both.

“…Don’t you girls think you should call it a night?” you suggest carefully. “Paula’s barely sitting upright.”

“Noooo!” Paula protests loudly. “I’m not...hic…drunk!”

Luckily, Maisie seems just sober enough to agree with you.

“That type of shit would make you die first in any horror movie,” she says, snorting. “Anyway, I’ll text my boyfriend, yeah.”

She pulls out her phone, squinting at the screen before frowning deeply.

“Ugggh, it’s dead…where did I put my charger…They have outlets next to tables here…”

While Maisie starts fumbling around, first her pockets, then her bag, you stand up from the table, your legs stiff from sitting so long.

“I’ll go to the bathroom,” you say lightly. “Don’t run off anywhere.” You even manage a small smile, attempting humor…somehow.

Then you turn on your heel and head toward the bathroom. Once inside, you close the door behind you and let out a shaky sigh, resting your back against it. The noise from the bar is muffled in here, distant and dull. You look at yourself in the small mirror above the sink.

You look…rougher than you expected. Your hair is messy, sticking slightly to your face. You hadn’t even realized how warm and sweaty you were. You step closer to the sink and turn on the tap, letting cold water rush out. You cup your hands and splash your face, the chill sending a wave of relief through you. You exhale softly, shoulders dropping. You grab some paper towels and blot your face dry. It’s not the most pleasant texture, but it’ll do. Better than walking around with a wet face.

You take your phone out again, turning so your back rests against the cool porcelain of the sink. Ben has already sent more messages.

M4J0R4: You don’t sound too convinced

M4J0R4: Stop letting people walk all over you like that

M4J0R4: U said you want to be how you were before

M4J0R4: To have that, admit I’m right

You sigh, rubbing your thumb over the edge of your phone. He sounds so firm. So unyielding. You’ve never seen Ben talk to you like this before, not this…sharply. He's been like this the whole evening and it makes something uneasy twist in your chest. Usually, he softens things. Reassures you. This feels different; like he’s pushing instead of pulling.

Still, you type back.

Y/N: Okay, I don’t care about them

Y/N: You’re right

Even as you send it, the words feel hollow. You’re just repeating something you don’t actually believe, hoping that saying it will somehow make it true. Ben doesn’t reply.

The silence stretches, and then the lights above you flicker. Once. Twice.

Your breath catches in your throat. A second later, a scream pierces from the outside.Your heart stutters violently in your chest, the sound echoing in your ears. For a moment, you’re frozen, staring at the bathroom door as if it might burst open on its own. Someone will run in here with a gun or something. Every instinct in you screams don’t look. Don’t go out there. Don’t see it.

But the noise outside only grows louder. Chairs scraping. Voices overlapping. Panic spreading like wildfire. Your curiosity wins. It will be the death of you one day, you know it.

You step out of the bathroom.

Your line of sight lands immediately on the table you were sitting at not long ago. Maisie is slumped forward, face down against the tabletop.

Paula is beside her, shaking, sobbing uncontrollably, her hands hovering uselessly like she doesn’t know where to put them. Someone is shouting for help. Someone else is yelling to call an ambulance. One of the servers rushes to them both. The room spins.

No.

No, no, no. Not again.

You don’t need to get any closer. You already know. Just like with Rosa. One moment it's all normal, the next, it's this.

Your vision blurs as panic surges through you. Do you bring bad luck everywhere you go? Is there something wrong with you? Are you cursed or something? How does this even happen? You told yourself the second time would be easier. For fuck's sake, you told yourself there wouldn’t be a second time at all. Your chest tightens until it hurts.

You bolt out of the bar, leaving the chaos and screaming behind you. Outside, the cold night air hits your lungs, but it doesn’t help. You brace yourself against the wall, knees giving out as you slide down, bile rising up your throat fast. You retch onto the pavement, body shaking uncontrollably. Your nails dig into the bricks as if you can anchor yourself there, the sting shooting up your arm grounding you just enough to keep from collapsing completely.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your arm, it tastes acidic, making you frown even more. Then force yourself upright, though your legs still tremble beneath you. Singular tears trail down your cheeks, blurring your vision.

You take your phone out again, fingers numb as you type.

Y/N: Ben

Y/N: im pretty sure Maisie died or idk what happened omfgnwk

The reply comes quickly.

M4J0R4: You said you don’t care

What?

Why would he say that? Why now? This doesn’t sound like Ben. Not the Ben who comforted you, who made you laugh, who told you things would be okay. You clutch your phone tighter, knuckles whitening. It feels cruel. Heartless. And horribly timed. Like both the universe and him are mocking you, considering everything happened right after you sent that message.

You stare at the screen, disbelief numbing you. More messages appear on your screen.

M4J0R4: Are you seriously going to let all this make you fall back into the state you were in when we first talked?

M4J0R4: You keep repeating the same mistakes

M4J0R4: Or maybe you think it’s your fault?

M4J0R4: That you bring them death somehow?

M4J0R4: Wouldn’t it be better if you just stopped socializing altogether if that’s what you think?

M4J0R4: Clearly it brings more good to both you and them, if you’re so convinced that’s the case

M4J0R4: I know you

M4J0R4: I know you think all this

Your hands start shaking so badly you almost drop your phone. You clutch it tighter now, your knuckles turning white.

He’s right. That’s the worst part. Those thoughts have already been clawing at the back of your head. You do think it’s your fault. You do think you ruin everything you touch. Seeing it spelled out like this, thrown back at you so bluntly, makes your chest tighten until it feels like it might cave in.

Your breathing grows faster, shallow and uneven. Tears spill freely now, blurring the words on the screen. You were waiting for him to tell you it wasn’t your fault. To ground you. To be the one steady thing. He doesn’t.

So you give in.

Y/N: I’ll stop going out then

Y/N: I mean I won’t get so depressed again

Y/N: u r with me after all

Y/N: and just talking to you at home is the happiest I’ve been in a long time

The message sends and is met with no reply.

The silence afterward feels deafening. You slowly slip your phone back into your pocket and press your head against the wall, drawing in a shaky breath. Your mind feels foggy, unfocused, like you’re moving through water.

Is he disappointed in you?

He sounded disappointed. That hurts more than you expect.

You stay there, shaking, as the noise from inside the bar bleeds out into the night.

“I– I told you! She was just plugging in her phone and–... and then she just…now she’s…!”

Paula's voice breaks as she talks to the officers.

You stand beside her, awkward and stiff, one hand hovering before settling on her back. You rub slow, uncertain circles. You’ve never been good at this, comforting people, especially when you feel this guilty.

Thankfully, Maisie is alive. She’d just fallen unconscious. No death.

Apparently, she had been electrocuted.

She’d plugged her phone into an outlet near the table, wanting to charge it, and something went wrong. You can’t make sense of it. This isn’t some grimy bar tucked into an alley with exposed wires and flickering lights. This place is polished, expensive, and safe. How does something like that even happen?

You don’t bother trying to wrap your head around it. You leave that to the officers, who look just as confused as you feel. Eventually, after paramedics take Maisie away and the crowd thins, they leave you and Paula alone.

The quiet that follows is heavy.

Paula suddenly steps forward and wraps her arms around you, clinging tight. The gesture is so sudden it knocks the breath from your lungs. You freeze for a split second before carefully returning the hug, your arms resting around her shoulders. You pat her back gently, murmuring something that doesn’t quite form into words. After a moment, you pull away, unable to hold it any longer.

“…I’ll call you a taxi,” you say quietly.

She nods, eyes red and unfocused, mascara smeared darkly down her cheeks. You pull out your phone and make the call, your voice sounding distant even to yourself. Paula wipes at her face with the sleeve of her jacket, smudging the makeup further.

When you hang up, there’s nothing left to do but wait.

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable. The sounds of the street feel muted. Your gaze drifts down to your phone screen, though you’re not really looking at anything. Ben didn't text anything else. He's probably mad at you. You'll tell him Maisie's alive later.

“Try not to think about it,” you say softer than expected, looking at Paula again.

Yet, the words sound hollow the moment they leave your mouth.

10:39 a.m., March 20th, 20XX

“I swear I put tape here somewhere…” you mutter under your breath, voice low and distracted as you dig through the drawers of your desk.

Paperclips clatter softly as you push them aside. Pens roll, markers knock against each other, loose sheets crinkle under your fingers. It’s a mess. It was organized at some point, when you got really bored you would rearrange stuff in here, but now it’s just layers of things you’ve shoved away without thinking. Your movements grow more impatient the longer you search.

Your phone camera has been acting weird lately.

Always on. No matter what you do, that tiny indicator refuses to disappear. There’s something deeply unsettling about it, something that makes your skin prickle every time you notice that dot glowing in the corner of your screen. Ben told you not to worry about it, said it’s probably just a glitch, nothing serious. But it's not like he'd know if you covered it up, and it would give you peace of mind. It shouldn't bother you as much as it does, but it does. You're you after all. A mess. Just like the one in this goddamn drawer, if not worse. Yeah, probably worse. Where the hell is that tape?

Your fingers finally brush against something circular, half-hidden beneath a pile of random office clutter. Tape. You pull it free, a small, quiet victory, and set it down on the desk.

Your mind drifts as you reach for your phone.

Ever since the incident at the bar, things have felt…off. Maisie took time off to recover, which makes sense, but the absence still lingers in the workplace like something unspoken. You and Paula barely talk anymore. A quiet “good afternoon” here and there, and even that feels strained and rare. You’re pretty sure she’s avoiding you. It's not entirely subtle either. Sometimes she makes it so obvious, it makes you feel worse about yourself.

Like you’re something contagious.

You try not to think about it too much.

You still have Ben.

He’s the one constant that didn’t disappear. Despite everything that happened. Despite you. Even when you spiral, even when you sabotage yourself in ways you don’t fully understand, he stays. He stopped trying to “fix” you a while ago, you noticed that. He probably realized it didn’t work. You're such a lost case…it's sad.

Your hand moves automatically as you pull your phone from your bag. Scissors would make this easier, but you don’t feel like searching again. Instead, you reach down and grab your small, baby blue toiletry bag. The zipper sounds louder than it should in the quiet room as you open it and take out the razor.

With the bag resting on your lap, you pull a small strip of tape free and use the razor to cut it. It’s not clean — the edge comes out rather uneven and slightly jagged — but it works. Good enough.

You press the tape over your phone’s camera, smoothing it down with your thumb, making sure it sticks properly. There.

You turn the phone on. The little dot still glows in the corner of the screen, stubborn as ever. But at least now…now it doesn’t feel like anyone can see you. Not that anyone would want to. You can’t imagine someone watching you for long without getting bored.

Still.

This helps.

You quickly tuck the razor back into the toiletry bag and shove it away, returning the tape to the drawer like nothing happened. Your movements are quick, almost instinctive, like you’re afraid someone might walk in and catch you even though the room is empty. You glance up.

Yup, still no one but sad, old you.

It’s been quiet all day. You would’ve expected more people by now, it is spring, after all. The kind of season where things pick up, where people start going out more. But today is slow. Like most days lately.

Might as well eat.

You reach into your bag and pull out a small pack of chips. Just plain salted ones, nothing fancy. You turn slightly away from the desk before opening them, partly so you don’t get crumbs everywhere on it, partly so if someone does walk in, the first thing they see isn’t you eating.

The bag crinkles loudly as you open it. You wince a little, then start eating, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Your phone sits beside you, screen lighting up every so often as you check it. Nothing. You’ve been waiting for Ben to text back for two hours now.

You don’t like it when he takes this long. You don’t like the silence, the emptiness that creeps in when he’s not there to fill it. It’s almost funny, in a bitter kind of way. You used to love being alone. Craved it, even. Now it feels suffocating. Things change.

You shift slightly, staring at your phone again. Now the power button is all greasy because you didn't lick the chip residue off your fingers.

Sometimes, you feel guilty. Like you’re using him. Like you’ve built your stability around him in a way that isn’t fair. You don’t actually feel better about yourself, not really. No matter what he says, you still feel like something discarded, something at the very bottom of everything…That should explain well enough why he stopped trying.

And yet, the guilt doesn’t go away. If anything, it grows. It sits heavy in your chest, mixing with everything else until you can’t tell one feeling from another. You exhale sharply. Great. Now you’re thinking about it again.

Your eyes drop to the chip bag in your hands. It’s almost empty.

Already?

A flicker of disgust curls in your stomach. Look at you. Sitting here, eating junk food at work like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t care. Like you’ve completely lost any sense of shame. You crumple the empty bag and toss it into the trash.

Your hands instinctively move to wipe themselves on your thighs, but you stop midway. That would just make you look worse. Dirtier. You hesitate, then stand up abruptly, grabbing your toiletry bag again.

Bathroom.

Quickly. Before anyone comes in.

You slip inside, licking your fingers so as to not get your…equipment dirty, and shut the door behind you, leaning back against it for a moment. The quiet is even more intense. Your heartbeat sounds louder.

Your hands move on their own as you open the bag and take out the razor again.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you pull your black jeans down just enough.

You don’t think too hard about it.

You just do it.

The blade drags across your skin, and the sharp sting cuts through everything else. Your self-disgust, your guilt, your paranoia. Everything goes a bit more quiet whenever you do that, whenever you look at the blood blooming from the wound like pretty little fragile flowers and petals. You've started doing this a few weeks ago and it became a daily habit of yours. Sure, it's such a cliché thing to do, but something has to keep you from killing yourself, okay?

Your breathing grows heavier, uneven, you

squeeze around the wound a bit just to see some more of the blood leak out.

You turn to the sink and rinse the razor, watching the water wash the red away until it disappears completely. Then you tuck it back into the bag.

Afterwards you grab some toilet paper, wet it under the tap, and press it gently against your skin, then dab it dry. It’s not ideal, but your genius self forgot to bring wet wipes again, so it has to do.

You’ve always been scared of going deeper.

It’s almost ironic. Being afraid of death, while doing something that dances so close to it. But that’s just…you, isn’t it?

Pathetic.

The word settles heavily in your mind.

You pull your jeans back up. The dark fabric will hide any blood that could potentially stain it. You wash your hands carefully, watching the water swirl down the drain, then dry them off.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at your reflection. Then you look away, open the door, and step back out.

11:23 p.m., March 21st, 20XX.

The mattress dips beneath you, soft in a way that is almost comforting. Your hair fans out across the pillow and sheets in messy strands, catching faintly in the cold, bluish glow of your laptop screen — the only light cutting through the darkness of your room. The night outside offers nothing in return. Thick clouds smother the sky, hiding the stars, the moon, everything. It feels like the whole world has dimmed itself down to match your room.

Your fingers hover over the touchpad, sluggish, before dragging across it with just enough effort to click another video. Some long, rambling iceberg video about amusement park incidents. You don’t even remember when you started watching these kinds of things, but they’ve become background noise lately. Something to fill the silence. However, you pause it almost immediately.

Discord opens with a familiar click, your fingers moving a little faster now as you type. You’ve been messaging him every few minutes, ten, maybe less. You try not to think too hard about that. He’s never complained. Never said you were annoying. That has to mean something, right? Hopefully he isn't just holding back.

Y/N: heyy

Y/N: u done?

You stare at the screen for a few seconds. No typing bubble.

A quiet sigh slips past your lips, barely audible even to yourself, and you switch back to the video. The narrator’s voice fills the room again, droning on about safety failures and negligence. Your eyes sting, dry and tired, so you rub at them with the heel of your palm, blinking rapidly as if that might help.

You shift in bed, the sheets bunching beneath you, and reach blindly for the bag of tiny star-shaped chocolates sitting beside your laptop. You used to eat them when you were younger, so when you've found them in the store one time when going back from work, you couldn't help but buy them to bring back some memories. You grab a handful and shove them into your mouth, barely tasting them at first. You lick your fingers, slow and absentminded, before wiping them against your hoodie. It’s already stained in places, covered in old marks you stopped caring about days ago, so what’s one more?

You should go grocery shopping.

The thought drifts in uninvited, heavy and inconvenient. There’s barely anything left in the kitchen. You’ve been putting it off for days now. You don’t want to go. It means stepping outside, standing in lines, exchanging empty words with strangers. Time wasted. Time that could be spent here. Talking to him. Even the few minutes talking to the cashier feel like too much time wasted.

Your hand reaches for your phone this time, unlocking it without thinking. The video keeps playing in the background, you don’t even bother pausing it. You scroll for a moment, then open a delivery app. You can afford it. It’s easier and faster. You hum quietly to yourself as you remember to place an order tomorrow.

You rest your phone screen-down on your chest, rising and falling with your breathing as your gaze drifts back to the laptop.

The narrator keeps talking. Something about preventable deaths. Mistakes that should have been obvious. People not paying attention. Your brows knit faintly, a flicker of discomfort crossing your face, but it doesn’t last.

A soft ping cuts through the room.

You’re already moving before you consciously register it, clicking back onto Discord.

M4J0R4: im here

M4J0R4: Hey :p

A smile spreads across your face almost instantly. You sit up a little too quickly, and your phone slips off your chest, hitting the mattress with a dull thud. You barely notice.

The laptop is pulled onto your lap, the warmth seeping through your clothes immediately. It’s almost too hot, especially where your skin is…sensitive, but you ignore it. You’ve gotten used to ignoring worse.

You think vaguely that you read somewhere it’s bad for you. Something about heat, or radiation, or whatever. Probably pseudoscience. Probably not. You don’t really care enough to find out.

Y/N: What were u doing!!

His reply comes quickly this time.

M4J0R4: Just had to clean up a bit

Of course he did.

You smile again, softer now. He’s so…put together. At least compared to you. You glance briefly around your room. Clothes, wrappers, things half-finished and abandoned. You used to try to keep it clean. You don’t tell him you stopped. He wouldn’t like that. You’re sure of it.

He already listens to enough.

Your fingers move quickly now, tapping out your thoughts before they can settle.

Y/N: wanna play something

Y/N: or watch a movie

Y/N: Actually i found one i want to see it with you

Y/N: Its abt some alien parasite that comes to earth from a meteorite

There’s a pause. You watch the screen, waiting.

M4J0R4: Just gimmie the title and I'll stream it

Your smile widens.

You send it, then stretch your back with a quiet groan, reaching behind you to prop your pillow against the bedframe. Once it’s in place, you lean back into it, adjusting until it feels just right.

Something about the movie tugs at your memory. A vague recollection of some old flash game you played years ago. Newgrounds, maybe. You controlled a worm or something like that, ate things, mutated. It was weird but fun. You can’t remember the name. You’ll look it up later…if you remember, that is.

Soon enough, the movie starts.

You and Ben watch together. Both muted. That was his rule. No voice or face. He said he didn’t like how he sounded or looked and you accepted that. Mostly.

Still, it nags at you sometimes. The imbalance. He knows things about you — small things, big things. Things you don’t even remember telling him. Like where you live.

You frown faintly at that thought.

When did you tell him that?

Your mind tries to trace it back, but the memory slips away from you. Well, he somehow knew about that incident in your hotel, back when you first met on that chat site. But it was on the news. Anyone could’ve seen it. So that's probably where he knew it from.

Yeah.

That makes sense.

You let the thought go.

But curiosity lingers.

What does he look like? What does he sound like? What would it be like to sit next to him instead of this…typing, waiting, imagining?

Your face warms slightly at the thought, and you shake your head, almost embarrassed with yourself. It’s pathetic. He’s just your friend.

Still…

Your eyes drift to his profile picture. Link, from The Legend of Zelda. You’ve stared at it enough times that your brain fills in the gaps automatically. You picture him like that…just… human. No pointy ears.

You smile softly.

A sudden scream from the movie snaps your attention back. On screen, a girl convulses as something tears its way out of her stomach. You watch it without flinching.

Stuff like this doesn’t really get to you anymore.

Your gaze drops to the keyboard instead. You’re not paying attention.

Y/N: Ben can u pause

The movie halts almost immediately.

You type again, hesitating just a little this time.

Y/N: Maybe we could talk normally instead of texting

Y/N: I'd focus better on the movie and could comment on it

Y/N: also itd be nice to hear your voice ^_^

No response. Your chest tightens, just slightly. You rush to fill the silence. Digital silence, yeah.

Y/N: I mean no pressure or anything

Y/N: if you don't want to it's ok

A moment passes.

M4J0R4: Yeah sorry no

M4J0R4: my throat is sore recently too sooo maybe another time

Another time.

The words settle gently in your mind, soft and hopeful.

You smile.

Y/N: Oki

Y/N: You can play the movie

It resumes, but your attention doesn’t.

Your thoughts drift again, pulled toward him like they always are. You imagine his voice now, trying different versions in your head. Would it be low? Soft? Rough? Smooth like velvet? You hum quietly, lost in it.

The longer you drift, the more aware you become of the heat against your legs. The laptop burns through the fabric of your clothes, sharp and uncomfortable now.

You hiss under your breath, wincing as you lift it slightly.

“Jesus,” you mutter to yourself. It’s overheating way too often and way too much now.

You set the laptop down beside you, wincing slightly as the heat leaves your skin in uneven waves. Your thighs tingle, oversensitive where the warmth had lingered too long, especially on the cuts. For a moment, you just sit there, letting the cool air settle back in.

Then your eyes drift upward and focus on the camera. The tiny light beside it is on.

You freeze.

It’s faint, easy to miss if you weren’t already staring, but unmistakable. Your stomach tightens.

“Huh…”

The sound leaves your lips hollow, uncertain. Your brain scrambles for a rational explanation. Your laptop is old…and it glitches, freezes, has so many bugs…Overheats like it’s trying to combust half the time. Maybe it’s just…that. Yeah, probably. It has to be harmless.

Still, your fingers twitch slightly, the thought of covering it crossing your mind, just like you did with your phone. A piece of tape. A sticker. Anything on hand would be nice to be honest.

But you don’t. Not yet.

You tell yourself you’ll wait. Maybe it'll…turn off on its own or something.

The movie keeps playing, voices bleeding into the silence, but you’ve already checked out. Your focus slips completely now, unraveling thread by thread until you don’t even hear what’s happening on screen anymore.

Instead, you open your files.

If you can’t focus, you might as well do something. Clean things up a little. Maybe if your laptop didn’t have to fight for its life every time you turned it on, it wouldn’t act like this.

You open up folders, and as you do so, windows stack on top of each other. You try deleting a few of the files inside of them.

Error.

That same message you got before. When you tried deleting those photos of yourself. You kind of hoped that with time it'll just go away on its own.

You stare at it for a second too long, something cold creeping up your spine.

“...It’s fine,” you murmur under your breath, more to fill the silence than anything else.

You dig deeper. You dig further into directories you didn't even know existed on this thing, you're not some I.T specialist after all. Then, you stumble upon a folder you don't recognize, the name being a random string of letters and numbers. Which, you suppose, should fit with the other folders you have as you name them all this way. However, this one in particular had this weird...feel about it. Especially if you consider the fact that it was so deep in the files, in a place where you wouldn't create new folders.

Your cursor hovers, then you click. Your breath stops.

Photos.

Dozens of them.

Your face.

Your room.

You.

Taken seconds ago.

The angle...like it was taken through your laptop camera.

Your chest tightens so fast it almost hurts. Your throat closes up as you stare, your brain refusing to process what your eyes are clearly seeing.

“No…no, no…”

Your gaze flicks up. To the camera.

That tiny light is still on.

Watching.

You swallow hard, forcing your face to stay still. Like that matters. Like whoever, whatever, is behind this could read your expression through the screen.

Slowly, mechanically, you close the folder.

Okay, calm down.

There’s an explanation. There has to be. Your hands move, grabbing your phone. Unlocking it and then searching. Digging through your gallery with growing urgency. There are photos in there as well.

Okay, nevermind, panic.

Your breathing picks up, shallow and uneven.

Someone is watching you.

The proof is right there, sitting in your devices right under your nose all this time. But it doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone do it like this? Why leave evidence behind for you to find?

…

They wouldn't do that unless they wanted you to find it.

Your stomach twists violently. You feel sick. Actually sick.

Like you might throw up or pass out or both at once.

You force yourself to breathe. In. Out. It doesn’t help.

Your phone rests beside you now, abandoned, as your hands tremble in your lap. You don’t even notice the Discord notification at first.

Then another.

And another.

You look back at the screen.

M4J0R4: Are u ok?

Your fingers feel stiff, disconnected, as you type.

Y/N: Yeah srry

The lie sits heavy in your chest.

You weren't sure if you should tell him or not. All of this stuff that keeps happening to you…it makes less and less sense with every passing day. It all started with Rosa's death, and after that…are you next? Is someone really stalking you just to kill you? Toying with you? It would make sense, isolating you, just to get you one day. No, no, Rosa's death was a suicide…

…Are you being driven to that?

Was she driven to that?

Your grip tightens on the bedsheets, knuckles paling. Your breath stutters. Your thumbs move again before you can stop them.

Y/N: Ben i think someone wants me dead

The movie pauses instantly.

M4J0R4: What are you talking abt?

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you type, each message more frantic than the last.

Y/N: I just saw photos of me on my laptop, taken from my front camera

Y/N: On my phone too

Y/N: And it was all kept in some weird folder

There’s a pause.

M4J0R4: Maybe it's some bug

M4J0R4: I could look into it for you

M4J0R4: Don't worry abt that why would anyone want you dead lmaooo

M4J0R4: you're so paranoid it's cute sometimes

M4J0R4: Its not like you have anyone beside me

…

The words hit harder than they should.

Your chest tightens again, but for a different reason now.

He’s right.

Who would go after you?

It would have to be random, someone you've never met, or…

Or him.

The idea feels wrong the moment it forms. Ugly. Unfair. He’s been there for you. He’s the only one who has been.

You don’t want to believe it.

You won’t.

…right?

M4J0R4: Don't ignore me

Your fingers hesitate.

Then type.

Y/N: Ben is it you?

You stare at the screen, heart in your throat. If he denies it, you can still take it back. Say it’s a joke. Laugh it off.

You just need him to deny it.

Just say no.

Just—

M4J0R4: What if I was?

M4J0R4: What would you do about it?

M4J0R4: Call the police?

M4J0R4: You'd be dead before they even arrived

Your breath catches.

Everything inside you goes cold.

Is he…joking?

He has to be joking.

Something deep in your gut twists sharply.

No.

He isn’t.

Y/N: Ben this isn't funny haha

Your message looks pathetic even to you.

M4J0R4: Well, it's not a joke in the first place

It feels like the entire world tilts, and with it everything you've known shattered in an instant and even attempting to piece it back together will cut your fingers and hands.

Tears blur your vision before you even realize you’re crying.

M4J0R4: Are you gonna cry now?

M4J0R4: Its cute whenever you do that

M4J0R4: Its like…looking at a puppy getting kicked lol

M4J0R4: Yk there are people on dark web that stream that stuff

Your hands shake harder now.

M4J0R4: I got you speechless huh

M4J0R4: How about you just end it all?

M4J0R4: I didn't think you'd be smart enough to figure this out, you seemed rather out of it lately

M4J0R4: I was sure I'd get you to do it soon without much prompting on my side

M4J0R4: But it seems I underestimated you, so congrats

Each message lands like a blow right to your stomach.

This was the one thing keeping you together.

And now you have nothing.

Nothing.

Your thoughts fracture, slipping into something dark and heavy. Maybe he’s right and this is what you deserve, everything happening to you is some sick divine punishment for being such a piece of shit.

M4J0R4: You still had such a silly crush on me

M4J0R4: So desperate you fell for a dude who you weren't even sure his name is actually Ben

M4J0R4: You have that razor right? How about you do one thing right and put on a show for me?

M4J0R4: Be useful for something in your life for once instead of being such a parasite

M4J0R4: Im doing you and society a favor with this

Your vision swims. Your chest aches. Your breathing breaks.

…and then something snaps.

No.

You won’t give him that.

Anything but that.

Even if you will have to spend every single day that remains in your lifetime in misery, you won't give him the satisfaction of taking your life. This is the last act of self-preservation you have left in you.

You refuse to give him what he wants so bad.

With shaking hands, you move your cursor to the block button and click it. You don’t stop there. You shut the laptop completely, the room going black in an instant. Your phone follows, you block him everywhere you can.

He’s gone.

You go out of your room into the kitchen. Your hands fumble with a glass, filling it with water, nearly spilling it as you drink too fast. Your whole body trembles.

You wish you had something stronger. Like whiskey or vodka. But you’re not going out to buy it. You're not going to cut yourself either.

And maybe that’s good.

Because you know you’re not stable enough right now to trust yourself with anything sharp. Not like this.

At least here, he can’t see you.

Your laptop. Your phone. They’re in the other room.

He’s cut off. You’re alone. You feel…somewhat safe.

The silence stretches, then you hear your name trough...something like static.

“...Y/N.”

01:27 a.m., March 22nd, 20XX.

The TV is on.A harsh white glow spills into the room, flattening the furniture into long, ugly shadows. The static crackles softly, a dry, whispering sound, like someone trying to speak through a mouth full of dust.

You stand there for a moment, the half-full glass of water halfway to your lips, heart beating so loudly it feels like it might interrupt whatever…this is. You swallow anyway. Hydration is important. Even during what is the beginning of your psychological collapse. Or murder. The chances are fifty-fifty, if you can trust whatever BEN told you.

You set the glass down slowly, carefully. For a second, you consider the comforting lie — that it’s a coincidence, a cheap TV doing cheap TV things. However after all that happened, it would be both wishful thinking, and you dumbing yourself down on purpose. So as much as you want to entertain the idea, you can't. Idiots die first in horror stories. You take a step closer.

“BEN?! Where the hell are you–?!”

Your voice cuts through the room, louder than you expected. Your only answer is the static of the television. You exhale sharply and drop onto the couch, grabbing the remote like it’s going to save you (it has never saved you from anything in its life, but tonight could be its big moment, who knows, maybe you'll knock someone out with it).

“Right here.”

The voice slithers out of the TV. It sounds wrong. Flat and mechanical, like text-to-speech, but make it filtered through an old radio.Your grip tightens around the remote. You glance around the room like BEN might be hiding behind the curtains, under the table, inside your walls…Then your eyes snap back to the screen.

“I'm not going to do anything to myself,” you say, forcing your voice steady. It trembles anyway. “If you want me–...want me dead so bad, go kill me yourself, coward.”

Nice. Strong. Confident.

Your hands are shaking.

“…Please. Just leave me alone.”

Less strong. Slightly pathetic, but at least honest.

You stare down at the remote. Why are you even talking to him? Why are you engaging? That’s exactly what he wants, right? You press the power button.

Click.

Darkness floods the room instantly and you also feel instant relief coming with it. You let out a soft breath.

Okay. Good. Problem solved. Y/N, you are a genius. You–

Click.

The TV turns back on after what? 3 seconds?You blink in slight disbelief, then press the button again.

Off. On. Off. On.

You keep going. Faster now.

Clicking like you’re trying to beat it in a race. Thirty seconds. Forty. A full minute of this ridiculous, desperate back-and-forth until your thumb aches and you finally give up.

The TV stays on. You stare at it, breathing harder than you should be. How is he doing that? Is he some kind of hacker? Well, he definitely is, but…is he like an ultra-advanced psycho hacker whose hobby is making people kill themselves? Next thing you will find out he uses 4-chan and telegram or something?

“I told you to leave me alone. You're not getting anything more out of me.” you mutter, walking over. You yank the plug out of the socket. The TV stays on. There’s a pause.

“…No.”Still on.“…No, no, no, no–”

Still. On.

You stare at it. It stares back. Not literally. But it feels like it could. Who knows, maybe he's inside somehow. Okay, that's too ridiculous even for this…whole situation. But then again, how the hell is it still on despite not being plugged in? You slowly turn your head toward the empty outlet then back to the TV. You let out a long, suffering groan and collapse back onto the couch.

“How are you doing this?!”

Your voice rises despite yourself.

A laugh answers you; thin, distorted, unmistakably mocking.

“I have my ways.”

You stare at the screen.

“...If you don't want to answer, just keep quiet,” you say flatly. “You couldn’t have said something less helpful if you tried.”

The remote trembles in your hands, though whether from fear, anger or despair, you’re not sure anymore.

“…So what more do you want from me?” you ask, exhaustion creeping in. “I told you. I’m not going to do anything.”

A brief pause is between you and BEN.

“Oh, no, no, Y/N. I changed my mind.” Something twists in your stomach. “I want to keep you alive. For the time being.”

What? You look up at the TV as if it was BEN standing in front of you instead.

“I thought I had you all figured out,” he continues. “But you proved me wrong. You know, that’s the first time that’s happened.”

There’s something almost cheerful in it. Like he’s talking about a fun hobby. Like…baking or painting. Your brows knit together as he goes on.

“People are predictable,” he goes on. “They meet me, I offer them comfort, friendship…all the things they think they need. They grow dependent. And then…They break. One way or another. After that I move on and the cycle repeats.”

Rosa. Of course. You knew it. Your hands curl into fists. Words pile up in your chest — anger, disgust, something close to hatred — but they don’t come out. What’s the point? What would that change?

“You didn’t follow that pattern,” he says. “So I’ve decided you’re…interesting. Worth keeping around until I finally understand you. And when that happens…You’ll stop being fun, and I'm sure you can figure out what comes after.”

Your jaw tightens.

“And what makes you think I agree to any of this?”

Your voice comes out sharper now, anger cutting through the other emotions.

“You don’t have a say in this.”

That does it.It's all his fault. Rosa’s death, your declining mental state, you wouldn't have ever needed his comfort if he didn't cause all this. The fact your old life is gone is all HIS fault. Something in you snaps at the realization. You stand so fast the remote slips from your hand and hits the floor with a dull clack. You barely notice. You’re already moving; already swinging.

Your fist connects with the screen. Glass cracks. The screen splinters. You keep going, fueled by adrenaline and rage and the desperate need to break something back. Just how he broke you.

Finally, you stop. Your breathing is ragged. You feel throbbing pain. You look down. Your hand is bleeding.

“…Okay,” you breathe, staring at the shattered remains of your TV. “...that was a bit excessive...”

But still, checkmate. Right? You stand there for a moment longer, waiting and listening in, but don't hear anything anymore. You turn and head toward the bathroom, legs still shaky, your heartbeat slowly coming down.

As you stand in the bathroom, staring at your reflection and soon, looking for some tweezers, you try to remember the last time you were this angry.Not annoyed. Not resentful. Not that dull, familiar ache you’ve learned to tuck neatly behind your ribs. Actually angry. It takes a moment, then it comes back. A few years ago. 17. Still stuck in that godforsaken town. People call that age “the start of independence and rebellion,” like it was something exciting. However, you’d never been the rebellious type. You didn’t yell. You didn’t slam doors. You didn’t break things, well, aside from one very unfortunate TV just now. You swallowed things down instead until they burned your throat. Let them simmer. Let them rot. Sometimes you didn’t even let yourself feel them at all. You’d seen what anger did to people, how it twisted them, how it burned through everything they touched. You didn’t want to be that.…Funny how that worked out.

You finally spot a pair of tweezers by the sink. You sit down on the toilet lid, hand trembling slightly as you start picking out shards of glass. Each piece stings as it slides free. You hiss softly with each pull. Your mind drifts back again. It was the beginning of summer back then. You’d been “hanging out” with your friends: Leah, Catherine, Claire, and Oliver. Well.“Hanging out” is generous. You tagged along.Inserted yourself into their plans is a better way to put this. Because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t exist to them outside of school. And at school, you played a role. The good kid.Reliable. Quiet, but not too quiet. Friendly, but not memorable. The human equivalent of a clean white shirt; inoffensive, useful, and mostly there to make everything else look better. It was almost funny, in hindsight. You made them look good. That was your function. Because when they did something wrong, no one suspected them. After all, they hung out with you. And you were good. So they must’ve been too. You rinse your hand under cold water. It stings sharply, snapping you back for a second. Blood swirls down the drain in thin, diluted ribbons.

You reach for the bandages, clumsily wrapping your palm. It’s messy, uneven. You're not the best at it, but does it require much skill anyways? If it sticks, it sticks. That day…yeah. You were outside of town, near the forest. You used to like that place.It was quiet in a good way. Sometimes you’d go alone, just to breathe. If you were lucky, you’d catch a glimpse of a deer slipping through the trees, or a fox darting past like a flicker of fire. You loved that.You’d all been sitting in a circle on a blanket with snacks. They talked and laughed while you mostly nodded along. Background noise with legs, that’s what you were. Then Claire pulled out a box. You remember thinking it was weird. Curious, maybe. Then she opened it. A hamster. Small with light cream fur. Tiny nose twitching and black dots for eyes.

You lean your head back against the cool bathroom wall now, eyes half-lidded, breath slow. Your hand throbs under the bandage. You don’t want to remember the rest.But you do. At first, you froze. Because your brain couldn’t quite process it — what she was doing, what the others were letting her do. Then you remember lunging forward, grabbing her wrist, knocking the rock out of her hand. Your voice was loud, sharp and unfamiliar. And their reactions.

“Relax.”

“It’s just a hamster.”

“It’s dead anyway.”

Like that somehow made it better. Like that made it normal. Everyone except Leah. Leah, who actually looked at you like you weren’t insane. Who said it was disgusting. You’d always had a talent for picking the worst possible moments to be brave. Or maybe those were the only moments that actually mattered. Who knows.

You didn’t speak to the others after that. Not for the rest of the summer. After that, it was just you and Leah. All senior year. You blink, staring at the ceiling. Your hand pulses again. Right. Present moment.You push yourself up from the toilet, flexing your fingers carefully. It still hurts, you just hope to feel better by tomorrow morning.

As you step out of the bathroom, your thoughts drift back uninvited.Is that what you are to him? To BEN?Just another small, helpless thing. Something to observe. Something to poke and prod and break, just to see how it works. Like that hamster. The comparison makes your stomach churn. No, you proved something. You're not going to play his little game. Still. There’s that thought. The ugly one. What is it with your luck? You always seem to attract the worst people. Or maybe…Maybe everyone’s like that, deep down. Maybe “good” is just a convenient story people tell each other so they can sleep at night without checking under the bed for themselves. Maybe you’re not an exception and you’re just better at pretending. You shake your head and along with that, the thoughts away.