Still, you sigh and reach for your things. “You guys are acting insane, you know that?”

Gojo stands at the same time, stretching like the entire situation is just mildly inconvenient rather than anything serious, his usual grin slipping back into place as if it never left. “We prefer ‘concerned citizens,’ actually.”

“You’re not citizens of anything,” you mutter under your breath.

Sukuna is already walking ahead without waiting for the rest of you, hands in his pockets, posture loose but deliberate in a way that makes it feel like he’s always aware of exits, distances, people around him, even when he looks like he isn’t paying attention at all.

Of course he is.

The car ride back doesn’t feel like the earlier one. It’s quieter in a way that presses more than it comforts, like the space between words has gotten heavier instead of emptier. Gojo tries to force some kind of normal back into it at first, turning the music on a little too loud, talking about random things that don’t connect to anything real, laughing at his own comments like he can still pull the mood back into place if he tries hard enough, but even he starts to fade into the background when you don’t really give him anything to bounce off anymore.

Sukuna drives without saying much at all.

Just steady hands on the wheel, eyes forward, expression unreadable in that way that never fully feels relaxed even when he’s silent. There’s a kind of focus to him that makes everything else feel slightly less stable by comparison, like he’s paying attention to something no one else has noticed yet.

You end up staring out the window instead, watching streetlights blur past in streaks of warm color that don’t match how you feel inside.

“You two are being weird,” you finally say, breaking the silence more out of discomfort than confidence.

Gojo perks up immediately like he’s been waiting for you to say something. “Define weird.”

“This,” you gesture vaguely between them without even looking away from the window at first, “all of this. Acting like I need security detail or something.”

Sukuna doesn’t look at you when he answers, but his voice is steady, flat in a way that doesn’t invite argument. “You do.”

You frown immediately. “No, I don’t.”

Gojo leans forward from the back seat, resting his arms on the front console like he’s joining a conversation he already decided he’s winning. “Okay but hypothetically—”

“I hate when you say hypothetically,” you cut in automatically.

He ignores you completely. “Hypothetically, if something creepy is calling you, and people are getting killed on campus, and that same someone somehow knows things they shouldn’t—”

“It’s still just a prank,” you insist, even though it comes out less certain than you want it to.

Sukuna scoffs quietly under his breath at that, not dramatic, not loud—just enough for you to notice it, and somehow that small sound does more than any argument could.

Gojo shrugs like he’s trying to lighten the weight again. “Anyways, point is—we’re staying alert.”

Sukuna finally glances at you for half a second, just long enough that it feels deliberate, before looking back at the road. “You’re not staying alone tonight.”

You sit up slightly, instantly alert again. “Excuse me?”

Gojo smiles like he’s been waiting for that reaction. “We’re crashing your place.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes we are,” he answers immediately, too casual for how absolute it sounds.

Sukuna doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even look like he needs to.

And that’s when it clicks—not as a realization, but as something settling uncomfortably into place

They weren’t asking.

They were deciding.

By the time you reach your house, the argument has drained out of you more than you want to admit. It isn’t even that you’ve agreed—it’s more like you’ve run out of energy to keep pushing back against something that doesn’t seem interested in changing direction no matter what you say.

The house feels normal when you unlock the door. Warm. Familiar. Safe in a way that almost convinces you, for a second, that everything outside of it can stay outside.

Gojo steps in immediately behind you like he’s done it a hundred times before. “Nice place.”

“You’ve been here before,” you say flatly without even turning around.

“Yeah,” he replies, completely unfazed, “but I like reminding you I’m welcome.”

Sukuna follows more slowly, pausing just inside the doorway before fully stepping in. His eyes move across the room in a quiet sweep—windows, corners, hallway—like he’s confirming something for himself rather than just observing it. There’s no panic in it, no obvious concern, just calculation that doesn’t really match the setting of a normal living room.

That makes you pause without meaning to.

You close the door behind them anyway.

“You guys are seriously staying?” you ask again, slower this time.

“Yes,” Sukuna says immediately.

“Yup,” Gojo echoes, raising a hand like he’s signing attendance.

You sigh under your breath. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“You didn’t disagree hard enough,” Gojo replies, already moving further inside like he’s claimed the space.

You just stare at him for a second, and he smiles back like that’s the end of the conversation.

Within minutes, he’s already messing with your TV setup like he owns it.

“This horror selection is offensive,” he announces loudly. “How are you surviving like this? This is cinematic neglect.”

“It’s called having taste,” you mutter as you head toward the kitchen just to breathe away from him for a second.

Sukuna sits down on the arm of the couch instead of the seat, watching Gojo work the remote with a level of patience that looks practiced rather than natural.

“You always say that,” he says quietly.

“That doesn’t make it wrong,” you call back from the kitchen.

From there, you can still hear them—Gojo complaining, overreacting, talking too much, Sukuna responding only when necessary, his voice low and controlled in a way that never wastes words. It almost feels normal if you don’t think too hard about it.

Almost.

But underneath everything, there’s still that same tension sitting just out of reach of language, like the air hasn’t fully settled yet.

Like something is still waiting to happen.

When you come back out with snacks, Gojo is already standing again, stretching like he’s made a decision.

“I’m gonna go grab better movies,” he announces.

You blink. “What?”

He points at the TV like it’s personally offended him. “This is criminal. I need real horror. Not… whatever this is.”

Sukuna looks up slightly. “Where are you going?”

“Video store,” Gojo says like it’s obvious. “Downtown. Still has actual good stuff. I’ll be quick.”

You frown. “It’s almost dark.”

Gojo waves it off without even looking worried. “Relax. I’m not the one getting creepy phone calls, remember?”

You open your mouth to respond—

But Sukuna cuts in first.

“Don’t be long.”

Gojo pauses just long enough to glance at him, grin widening slightly in a way that doesn’t feel entirely playful.

“Oh?” he hums.

Sukuna doesn’t react. Doesn’t explain. Just holds his gaze, calm and unreadable.

For a second, it feels like something is being said without words that you’re not part of.

Gojo finally laughs under his breath. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t miss me too much.”

He heads for the door, stopping just before it, looking back over his shoulder at you.

“Lock it behind me,” he adds lightly, like it’s nothing important at all.

Then he leaves.

The door clicks shut.

And suddenly, the house feels different—not empty, not quiet exactly, just shifted.

And it’s only you and Sukuna left now.

── დ ──

The house settles into silence after that in a way that feels different from earlier, not empty exactly, but less distracted, like there’s no longer anything filling the space between you and Sukuna except the things neither of you are saying.

You end up sitting back on the couch again, arms loosely folded around yourself without realizing it, eyes drifting toward the muted TV while your mind refuses to actually focus on whatever is playing. Sukuna sits a little ways off, not far enough to be avoidant, not close enough to be familiar, just there in a way that feels deliberate, like he chose that exact distance without thinking about it too long.

Every so often you feel him glance at you, quick and controlled, like he’s checking something without wanting you to notice, but you do anyway, because you’ve started noticing more than you should.

“You don’t look fine,” he says eventually, voice low enough that it almost blends into the background noise of the TV.

You don’t even look at him at first, forcing a small laugh like it’s nothing, like it’s easy. “I am fine.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and that silence is what makes you look over at him properly. His eyes are on you now, steady, not accusing, but not buying a single word either, like he’s already decided your answer doesn’t matter because it isn’t the truth.

That alone makes your chest tighten slightly in a way you don’t know how to explain, so you lean back further into the couch like it’ll help you disappear into something less exposed.

“You’ve said that a lot recently,” he says after a moment, quieter this time, not pushing, just observing, and there’s something in his tone that feels less sharp than usual, more controlled in a way that isn’t cold, just careful.

You try to brush it off again, but it comes out weaker than you want it to. “It’s nothing. It’s just some weird calls. It’s not like—” you stop yourself because even saying it out loud feels stupid now, like pretending it’s small is getting harder every time you repeat it.

Sukuna exhales slowly through his nose, leaning back slightly like he’s choosing his next words instead of reacting. “You keep acting like you can just ignore it and it’ll go away.”

That makes you go quiet for a second longer than you intend to, your gaze dropping to your hands without meaning to. There’s something about the way he says it—not dramatic, not loud, just steady—that makes it harder to keep holding everything in place.

“I’m not ignoring it,” you mutter, though it doesn’t sound convincing even to you.

“No,” he replies immediately, and there’s no judgment in it, just certainty, “you’re holding it in like it won’t mess you up eventually.”

The words land heavier than you expect, and for a second you don’t have anything smart to say back. You just sit there, staring at the TV while your throat tightens slightly, annoyed at yourself more than anything for even letting it get to you.

Sukuna watches you for a moment longer, then shifts closer—not fully invading your space, just enough that the distance doesn’t feel like a barrier anymore.

“Tell me what they said,” he adds, quieter now.

You hesitate, because saying it out loud makes it real in a way you’ve been avoiding all day, but something about the way he’s looking at you doesn’t feel like pressure, more like patience that doesn’t plan on leaving. So eventually you do, voice lower than usual as you explain it in fragments at first, the call, the questions, the way they knew things they shouldn’t have known, how it didn’t feel random, how it felt like being watched even when nothing was there. Sukuna doesn’t interrupt you once, doesn’t try to fix it or joke it away, just listens with that same steady focus that makes it feel like you’re not being dismissed for once.

When you finally stop talking, the silence that follows doesn’t feel as sharp as before.

“That's fucked up,” he says simply, like he’s stating a fact instead of reacting to it, and the lack of exaggeration somehow makes it more real.

You let out a small breath that sounds almost like a laugh but doesn’t fully become one. “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”

That earns the faintest shift in his expression, something barely there but softer than before. “You shouldn’t be dealing with that alone.”

“I’m not alone,” you say automatically, then hesitate when you realize how quickly you said it, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.

Sukuna studies you for a second longer, then reaches up—not sudden, not forceful—and gently cups your cheek in a way that makes your words stop entirely.

It isn’t dramatic, it isn’t soft in an overly sentimental way either, it’s just steady, grounding in a way that feels unfamiliar coming from him. His thumb brushes lightly once like he’s making sure you’re actually there, actually okay enough to be sitting in front of him.

“You are right now,” he says quietly, voice lower than before, “and that’s not happening again.”

Something in your chest tightens at the way he says it—not like a promise made for effect, but like something already decided.

You try to recover a little of yourself with a shaky breath, because vulnerability feels too exposed all of a sudden, and you force a small, uneven smile. “Wow,” you mutter, trying to lighten it, “didn’t know you had a soft side.”

His hand doesn’t move away immediately, but his eyes narrow slightly in warning that isn’t harsh, just… focused. “Don’t ruin it.”

That actually makes you let out a real breath of laughter, softer this time, more genuine, and for a moment the tension between you shifts instead of breaking, like it’s still there but not as heavy. Sukuna finally lets his hand drop, but the space he was in still feels occupied somehow.

For a while after that, neither of you speak much, but it’s not awkward anymore in the same way. It’s quieter, more aware, like something between you has changed shape without either of you naming it.

Every so often your eyes meet and linger a second too long before one of you looks away first, like there’s an unspoken line neither of you is fully stepping over yet but both of you are standing right in front of.

At some point you notice it—how close he’s sitting now compared to before, how you didn’t even realize when the distance disappeared. And when you look at him again, he’s already looking at you, not moving, not joking, just there in a way that makes your heartbeat feel louder than it should.

Neither of you says anything.

Neither of you really needs to.

The moment stretches out like it’s deciding what it wants to become, until—

The phone rings.

The sound cuts through everything instantly, too sharp, too sudden, breaking whatever quiet had started forming between you. You jerk slightly, eyes snapping toward your phone like your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up, and Sukuna moves at the same time, already standing without hesitation.

“I’ll get it,” you say quickly, starting to shift forward.

“No,” he cuts in immediately, already stepping past you, tone firmer now in a way that doesn’t invite argument, “stay.”

You pause, watching him move, your mouth parting slightly like you want to say something but can’t quite find it fast enough. Sukuna doesn’t look back at you when he picks up the phone, just answers it with a calmness that feels wrong given everything that just happened in the room.

And for the first time since Gojo left, the air doesn’t feel quiet anymore.

It feels like it’s holding its breath again.

── დ ──

The living room still held the faint scent of buttered popcorn and the low hum of the television left on mute. Sukuna stood rigid by the corded phone mounted on the wall, one hand braced against the paneling while the other gripped the receiver so tightly his knuckles had gone bone-white.

His jaw flexed once, twice, the muscle ticking beneath his skin as he listened. The voice on the other end was low, distorted through whatever cheap modulator the caller was using, but it carried that same sickening familiarity that had been haunting you for days.

"Hello?" the voice drawled, stretching the word out like it was tasting something sweet. "Did you really think it would be over, Y/N? That one little hang-up would make me disappear?"

Sukuna’s reply came out flat, almost bored, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. "Wrong number, asshole. Try again some other night."

A soft, wet chuckle filtered through the line. "Oh, I don’t think so. You sound different tonight. Deeper. Rougher. Not the little scared girl I’ve been talking to. Who’s there with you, sweetheart? Is that your boyfriend? Or just some guy you’re letting hang around while you pretend everything’s fine?"

You had froze on the couch, knees drawn up to your chest, but the moment you heard the voice—distorted yet unmistakable—you felt your stomach drop straight through the floor. Your breath caught. You knew that tone. You knew the way it lingered on your name like it owned it.

The same voice that had called you two nights ago while you were alone in the kitchen, the same one that had whispered about the windows, Her eyes snapped to Sukuna, wide and glassy, silently begging him to confirm what she already feared.

He didn’t look at you. His gaze stayed fixed on the wall ahead, crimson eyes narrowed into slits. "I said wrong number. Lose this number before I lose my patience."

"Patience," the caller repeated, almost fondly. "That’s funny coming from you. I wonder how patient you’ll be when I tell you exactly what I’m going to do to her. To Y/n. She’s been so jumpy lately, hasn’t she? Jumping at every shadow, checking the locks twice, three times. Cute. Real cute. But locks don’t stop someone who already knows the layout of the house. Someone who’s been watching. Someone who knows she likes to leave the back porch light off because she thinks it saves electricity."

Sukuna’s free hand curled into a fist at his side. "You’re wasting your breath."

"Am I?" The voice dropped lower, turning oily. "Tell me, does she still sleep with that little nightlight on in the hallway? The one shaped like a moon? I bet she does. I bet she lies there staring at the ceiling, wondering if tonight’s the night someone finally comes through that window she always forgets to latch.

"And when they do… when I do… I’m going to make sure she screams loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear."

Your pulse roared in h you're ears. You pushed off the couch on shaky legs, bare feet padding across the hardwood as you edged closer to Sukuna, trying to catch any fragment of the conversation.

The caller’s words were muffled now, but you could still make out the cadence—slow, deliberate, savoring every syllable. Your tomach twisted. You reached out, fingers brushing Sukuna’s sleeve, but he shook his head once, sharp and warning.

"You’re not scaring anyone," Sukuna said, voice calm but edged with steel. "Whatever game you’re playing, it ends here."

"Game?" The caller laughed again, louder this time, the sound crackling through the receiver. "This isn’t a game, pretty boy. This is foreplay. And Y/N… she’s been such a good little participant. Answering every call, staying on the line just a little longer each time. She likes the attention, doesn’t she? Likes knowing someone’s thinking about her. Watching her. Wanting her."

The line went quiet for a beat, then the voice returned, colder. "I can see the living room from here. The curtains are open just enough. I see you standing there, trying to play the hero. But heroes die first in these kinds of stories. You should know that."

Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward the front windows, scanning the darkness beyond the glass. Nothing moved. The street outside looked empty, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up anyway. "Keep talking. I’m tracing this call right now."

"Liar," the caller purred. "You’re not tracing anything. You’re just standing there, listening, wondering how fast you can get Y/N out of the house before I come inside. But you won’t make it. I’m already closer than you think."

Your hand flew to your mouth. You could hear it now—the faint, rhythmic breathing on the other end, the way the caller seemed to be savoring the silence between words. Your mind raced back to every late-night conversation you had with this voice, every threat disguised as a question, every detail they’d known about your life that no stranger should. The realization hit you like ice water: this wasn’t random. This was personal.

"Did you think it would be over?" the Caller repeated, voice rising with something almost giddy. "Did you really believe I’d just stop? After all the fun we’ve had? After I told you exactly how I’d gut those pretty insides of yours if you ever think to hang up on me? No, Y/n. We’re just getting started. And tonight… tonight I’m tired of talking. Tonight I want to see you in person."

A soft click echoed through the line, followed by the dial tone. Sukuna slammed the receiver down harder than necessary, the plastic cracking against the cradle. He turned to you, mouth opening to say something, but the words died on his tongue when the unmistakable sound of shattering glass exploded from the kitchen.

The back door had been forced. Shards of the small window pane littered the tile floor, and through the jagged opening a tall figure in a flowing black robe and a stark white ghost mask stepped inside. The knife in their gloved hand caught the low light from the living room lamp, the blade long and serrated, already dripping with something dark.

Sukuna moved first. He lunged forward, grabbing the intruder’s wrist before the knife could arc toward his chest. The two men collided hard against the kitchen island, grunting as they grappled.

Sukuna’s free hand drove a brutal punch into the side of the mask, the plastic cracking under the force. The killer staggered but didn’t release the blade. Instead they twisted, driving the knife upward into Sukuna’s side with a sickening wet sound.

Sukuna’s breath punched out of him in a sharp grunt, blood immediately soaking through his shirt and down his hip.

You screamed. didn’t think—you just moved. Your fingers closed around the heavy wooden frame of a portrait hanging near the hallway entrance. You ripped it off the wall and swung with everything you had.

The corner of the frame connected with the back of the killer’s head in a loud crack. The masked figure dropped to one knee, releasing Sukuna’s side as they clutched at their skull. The knife clattered to the floor.

"Come on!" You grabbed Sukuna’s arm, hauling him toward the stairs even as blood continued to seep between his fingers where he pressed against the wound. Behind them the killer was already rising, mask askew, knife retrieved, boots pounding across the hardwood in pursuit.

They reached the top of the stairs just as the first heavy thud hit the bedroom door. Sukuna slammed it shut with his good shoulder, twisting the lock with shaking fingers.

You dragged your desk chair across the room and wedged it under the knob while Sukuna shoved her nightstand against the door for good measure. The barricade rattled violently as the killer threw their full weight against it from the other side, each impact making the wood groan.

"Phone," Sukuna rasped, sliding down the wall to sit with his back against the barricade, one hand still clamped over his bleeding side. "Call 911. Now."

Your hands trembled so badly you nearly dropped the cordless phone twice before you managed to dial the three numbers.

The line rang once, twice, while the pounding on the door grew louder, more frantic, the killer’s boots kicking hard enough to make the hinges shriek. Sukuna’s breathing was labored, but his crimson eyes stayed locked on the door, ready to move again if the barricade failed.

The operator’s voice finally crackled through. "911, what’s your emergency?"

Your voice came out thin and shaking. "Someone’s in the house. They broke in. My friend’s hurt—he’s bleeding. Please send help. Please."

Another thunderous kick shook the door. The killer’s voice, no longer filtered through the phone, rose from the hallway in a low, mocking sing-song. "Y/N… open up. We’re not finished yet."

Sukuna gritted his teeth, pressing harder against the wound as fresh blood welled between his fingers. The night outside the bedroom window remained dark and silent, offering no help, no sirens yet, nothing but the relentless, furious pounding of the killer trying to break through.

Sukuna’s crimson eyes stayed locked on the bedroom door as another violent kick slammed into the wood from the other side. The hinges groaned under the force, the entire frame shuddering like it might tear free from the wall at any second.

Splinters flew from the edges where the killer’s boot connected again and again, each impact louder than the last. He could see the door bowing inward, the cheap lock already cracked and useless.

Without wasting another second he pushed himself up from the floor despite the burning pain in his side, blood still seeping between his fingers.

He grabbed the heavy dresser next to your bed and dragged it across the carpet with a grunt, muscles straining as he wedged it against the barricade. The nightstand and chair shifted but held for now.

Your gaze darted around the room in panic until it landed on the window. The sash was cracked open just enough for a breeze to slip through, the curtains fluttering slightly. your stomach dropped.

Had the killer been inside the whole time? Watching them from the shadows while they were downstairs? Had he been the one making those calls from within the house itself, listening to every word, every breath? The thought made her skin crawl.

Questions flooded your mind in a dizzying rush—how long had the intruder been there? Had he followed them up the stairs? Was he the reason the back door had been so easy to break? You're hands shook harder as she stared at the open window, heart hammering against your ribs.

Sukuna’s voice cut through the spiral. “Y/n. Look at me. Breathe. We don’t have time for that right now.”

Another thunderous kick rocked the door. The dresser scraped an inch across the floor. The killer’s gloved hand appeared through the widening gap, fingers clawing at the wood as they tried to force their way inside. The mask’s empty black eyes seemed to stare straight through the crack, the serrated knife flashing in the low light.

“Fuck,” Sukuna hissed, grabbing your arm and yanking you toward the window. “Nothing’s holding. We have to go.”

They heard it at the same time—the distant wail of sirens cutting through the night. Relief mixed with fresh terror as Sukuna shoved the window open wider and helped you climb out onto the roof.

He followed right behind, ignoring the sharp pain in his side as they slid down the shingles and dropped to the grass below. Your bare feet hit the ground hard, and you stumbled forward, tears already streaming down your face. Your whole body shook uncontrollably, sobs tearing from your throat as the adrenaline crashed through your system.

Sukuna pulled you against his chest the moment they reached the front yard, one arm wrapped tight around your shoulders while his other hand stayed pressed to his bleeding wound.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered against your hair, voice low and steady even as his own breathing came ragged. “You’re okay. We’re out. Police are here.”

Two patrol cars screeched to a stop at the curb, lights flashing red and blue across the lawn. Officers poured out with flashlights and drawn weapons, shouting orders as they rushed toward the house.

You buried your face in Sukuna’s shirt, still trembling so hard your teeth chattered. The killer’s voice echoed in your head even now—the sing-song taunt from the hallway, the threats over the phone. You couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop the helpless shakes that wracked your frame.

Sukuna held you tighter, ignoring the blood soaking into his clothes as he guided you toward the officers. One of them approached quickly, radio crackling at his hip. “Ma’am, sir—are you hurt? We need to get you checked out.”

You could only nod weakly, still clinging to Sukuna as the police moved past them and into the house, flashlights sweeping through the darkness. The sirens continued to wail in the background while the officers searched room by room, their voices echoing from inside.

Sukuna kept one arm around you, crimson eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, refusing to let go even as more backup arrived on the scene.

── დ ──

The police lights painted the front of your house in harsh, rotating colors that didn’t feel real against how drained everything inside you already was. You stood near the edge of the yard without really standing straight, body still locked in that leftover shock that hadn’t fully caught up with your breathing yet, your hands shaking in small, delayed tremors every time your mind replayed something you didn’t want to see again.

Officers moved in and out of your house with practiced urgency, calling out to each other, checking rooms, doors, windows, speaking in that calm official tone that somehow made everything feel even less real than it already did. You could hear fragments of it all but none of it fully stayed—just pieces floating in and out like your brain couldn’t decide what mattered anymore.

Sukuna was off to the side getting checked by paramedics, sitting in a way that looked too controlled for someone who had just gone through what he did, jaw tight even as someone asked him questions he barely answered.

There was a stain of blood at his side where the injury had been, nothing dramatic in how it looked, but enough to make your stomach twist every time your eyes accidentally landed on it because it meant the moment inside the house had been real, not something your mind had exaggerated.

Every so often his eyes flicked toward you instead of the officers, like he was checking without needing permission, making sure you were still there, still upright, still not slipping further into whatever state you’d been stuck in since it happened.

And you were still stuck in it.

In your head, the house wasn’t outside anymore—it was still that room upstairs, still the door shaking under impact, still that voice through the phone sounding calm while everything around you turned sharp and violent.

You couldn’t shake the way he laughed like he already belonged there, like your panic had been something it expected, even enjoyed. Even now, standing in open air, you kept replaying the sound of it, the timing of it, the certainty in it. It didn’t feel like fear anymore. It felt like being watched even after it was over.

That was when you saw Gojo.

He was standing a little farther down the yard with something still in his hands—movie cases, completely forgotten now, hanging loosely like his grip had gone absent without him noticing. His expression didn’t match his usual energy at all.

There was confusion first, sharp and immediate, and then something heavier underneath it when his eyes landed properly on you, like his brain was trying to catch up to a reality that didn’t make sense with what he left behind.

The second he processed it, he dropped everything without hesitation, the cases hitting the ground with a dull sound that didn’t even register properly in the chaos, and he was already moving toward you.

“Hey—what the hell happened?” he asked, voice lower than usual, no humor in it, just disbelief trying to anchor itself to something solid.

You barely had time to process him before he was in front of you, hands hovering for half a second like he wasn’t sure if touching you was the right thing, before he just pulled you into a tight, abrupt hug anyway.

It wasn’t playful like he usually was. It was immediate, instinctive, like he had decided without thinking that you were the thing that mattered most in that moment. You could feel how fast he was breathing against you when he spoke again, quieter now, “Talk to me. What the hell happened in there?”

And when you did try to speak, it all came out at once, messy and uneven, not even in order—how the mysterious caller came back, how the voice changed, how it knew things it shouldn’t have known, how it felt like it was inside the house before anything even broke, how Sukuna picked up and everything shifted, how the fighting started, how the door shook so violently it felt like it wouldn’t hold, how you didn’t even think before grabbing what you could to help, how everything became movement and panic and noise until there was no space left for anything else.

Gojo went still in a way that didn’t match him at all as he listened, his usual grin completely gone, replaced with something sharper, more focused, like he was trying to map every word into something he could understand and fix.

Behind you, Sukuna had already pushed himself off the medical support and was walking closer despite the pain he wasn’t showing properly. His gaze stayed fixed on you while Gojo processed everything, but there was something different in his expression now too—less controlled than before, not shaken exactly, but aware in a way that felt heavier, like he was replaying the same moments you were but from a different angle.

“Someone was inside your house,” Gojo finally said, slower now, like saying it too quickly would make it more real than it already was.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Your throat tightened instead, eyes drifting back toward the house like it might give you something you missed, something that would explain how any of this even happened. “I don’t know,” you said finally, voice quieter than before. “I don’t know if he was already in there or if the window—if I left it open or—”

Sukuna cut in immediately, not harsh, just steady in a way that grounded the spiral starting in your head. “It doesn’t matter right now.”

You looked at him, confused.

“It does matter,” you said, but it came out weaker than you meant.

“No,” he repeated, stepping closer until he was directly in your line of sight, voice low enough that it wasn’t for anyone else, only you. “Right now what matters is you’re out of there.”

The certainty in his tone made something in your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t just fear anymore, but exhaustion finally cracking through it. Gojo, still standing beside you, glanced between the two of you like he wanted to interrupt with something lighter, something that made sense of it, but even he couldn’t find it this time. Instead, he just exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.

“This is insane,” he muttered, but it didn’t sound like a joke anymore. It sounded like he was trying to accept it.

Around you, neighbors had started gathering further down the street, voices low but constant, curiosity bleeding into fear, phones out, whispers spreading too fast. Reporters were already pushing closer at the edges of the police line, trying to get statements, trying to turn something that was still happening into something consumable. Sukuna’s head turned slightly toward them, expression hardening immediately.

“Fuck off,” he snapped sharply when one of them tried stepping closer, and even the officers nearby didn’t fully argue with the tone of it.

But none of that noise really reached you fully. Not anymore.

Because your mind kept going back to the room upstairs. To the window. To the possibility that you had never actually been alone at any point that night.

And that thought wouldn’t leave.

Gojo noticed your silence again, softer this time. “Hey,” he said, more carefully now, “you’re not staying there tonight. You shouldn’t even think about it.”

Sukuna’s voice came right after, steady as ever but quieter than before. “Come with us.”

It wasn’t framed as a question.

It was a line drawn.

You shook your head slightly, overwhelmed more than anything else, because the idea of going back inside any house tonight felt impossible, but the idea of going anywhere with the weight of everything still sitting in your chest felt just as hard. “I… I can’t go back there,” you admitted finally, voice breaking at the end despite how hard you tried to hold it together.

There was a brief pause between them, something unspoken passing that you didn’t fully catch, but it shifted the air anyway.

Then you reached for your phone with shaking hands and stepped away slightly, turning your back just enough to breathe. “I’m calling Shoko,” you said quietly. “I need—someone I can just… stay with tonight.”

Neither of them stopped you.

But you felt it anyway—the way they both reacted without saying anything, like that answer meant something more than just a plan change.

Minutes later, when Shoko arrived and stepped out of her car, she took in the scene immediately—the police, the house, your face, the state of everything without needing anyone to explain it. She didn’t ask questions first. She just walked straight to you and pulled you into a hug that felt steady in a way nothing else had all night.

And only after a moment did she look up at Gojo and Sukuna, voice flat but sharp with concern.

“What the hell happened?”

Neither of them answered right away.

Because for once, even they didn’t have a clean way to say it.

── დ ──

Sukuna is the one who ends up explaining it, not because he wants to, but because no one else can really piece it together in a way that makes sense without it sounding like panic. His voice stays steady the entire time, low and controlled, but there’s a tension underneath it that wasn’t there before—like he’s forcing himself to replay something he doesn’t actually want to revisit.

He talks about the call first, how it started the same as before but felt different this time, less like a game and more like something watching from the other side of the line. Then the shift, how the sound in the house changed, how it stopped feeling like coincidence when the noises started coming from inside instead of outside.

He doesn’t exaggerate, doesn’t dramatize it, but that almost makes it worse, because every detail he gives lands too cleanly, too real, like he’s describing something that still hasn’t fully left the room.

Shoko listens without interrupting, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable in that way she has when she’s processing something too fast to immediately react to it. She glances once at you while Sukuna speaks, then back toward him, absorbing it all without asking for repetition, and when he finally finishes, there’s a long pause where nobody speaks because there isn’t really anything obvious to say first.

The police begin stepping out of your house around the same time, speaking to each other in low voices, confirming that the search is complete, that there’s no one left inside, that the situation is “contained,” even though nobody there looks like they fully believes that word means anything right now.

One of them gestures toward the crowd and tells everyone to clear the area, go home, give space, like it’s just procedure and not something that just cracked open everyone’s sense of safety.

That’s when Shoko shifts her attention fully to you.

“You’re coming with me,” she says simply, not like a suggestion, not even like a decision that needs input, just something already decided the moment she saw your face.

You barely get a chance to nod before movement breaks out near the edge of the scene. Reporters have gotten closer again, microphones already up, voices overlapping, asking questions that don’t feel real in the middle of everything that just happened.

You hear your name first, then words like incident, attack, what did you see, all blending together in a way that makes your stomach twist because it feels too immediate, too invasive, like they’re trying to turn something still bleeding into something performable.

One of them steps directly into your path, a woman holding her mic up like she’s entitled to answers, her tone sharp in that practiced way that tries to sound calm while pushing anyway. “Can you describe what it felt like being inside the house during the attack? Were you alone when it happened?”

Something in you snaps—not loud, not dramatic, just fast.

You stop walking.

The crowd doesn’t immediately understand what’s about to happen, not until your expression changes and you turn fully toward her. There’s a second where everything feels suspended, like even the noise behind her lowers just slightly, and then your hand moves before your thoughts catch up.

The impact is quick and clean, not exaggerated, but enough that the reporter stumbles back in shock, her mic dropping slightly as the crowd immediately reacts like they’ve just witnessed something they didn’t expect from you.

For a second, nobody speaks.

Then everything erupts at once—gasps, murmurs, someone calling your name, someone else telling you to move, cameras shifting rapidly. But you don’t stay to hear any of it. Shoko is already opening the car door, and you get inside without looking back again, your hands still shaking slightly from adrenaline that hasn’t fully burned off yet.

Gojo calls your name once from behind, but you don’t turn.

Sukuna doesn’t call out.

He just watches as Shoko closes the door and starts the engine.

The car pulls away, and the sound of the crowd fades behind you, replaced by silence that feels heavier in its own way.

The drive to Shoko’s place is quiet for a while. Not uncomfortable, just full in a way that doesn’t need words immediately. You sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window without really focusing on anything, replaying fragments of the night in pieces you still can’t fully organize into something that makes sense. Shoko doesn’t push you to talk. She just drives, occasionally glancing at you like she’s making sure you’re still present, still here, still real.

When you finally arrive, she doesn’t waste time.

“You’re staying here,” she says as she unlocks her door, tone flat but certain. “As long as you need. Don’t argue.”

You don’t.

Inside, her place feels quieter than yours in a way that’s different, less haunted, more grounded. Like nothing bad has ever really been allowed to linger here long enough to settle. She leads you to her room without much ceremony, and you end up sitting on her bed first, then slowly lying down as the exhaustion finally catches up with everything your body has been ignoring all night.

Shoko sits beside you for a while, leaning back slightly, staring at the ceiling like she’s thinking through too many things at once.

After a moment, she lets out a small breath.

“Those two,” she says casually, like she’s commenting on something mildly annoying instead of life-threatening situations, “your beavis and butthead duo… they always like this or is today special?”

Despite everything, a weak sound almost leaves you that might’ve been a laugh if your chest didn’t feel so heavy. You turn your head slightly toward her.

“No,” you say quietly. “Sukuna was with me the whole time. Gojo left to get better movies.”

Shoko hums, like she’s filing that away without judgment. “Right. Of course he did.”

There’s another pause after that, more natural this time. She pulls a blanket slightly over you without making it feel like a big gesture, just something automatic, like she’s decided you don’t get to deal with anything else tonight.

“Get some sleep,” she says after a while, already shifting to lie down beside you but not too close, giving you space without leaving you alone in it. “Nothing else you can do tonight anyway.”

You don’t answer immediately.

Your eyes stay open longer than they should, staring at the dim edge of the room, listening to Shoko’s breathing settle into something steady.

But your mind doesn’t settle.

Because even now, even here, safe and away from it all, you can’t stop replaying what she said earlier.

Do you think those two—

You turn your head slightly, just enough to glance at the dark ceiling.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, despite everything that just happened, you can’t help it.

You wonder.

── დ ──

Morning doesn’t really feel like morning when it starts with Shoko pulling the blanket off you and lightly smacking you in the shoulder with a pillow like she’s trying to restart your entire existence instead of just waking you up. You barely move at first, still half stuck in that heavy in-between state where sleep didn’t actually fix anything and your brain is already remembering things you weren’t ready to think about again. Shoko doesn’t say anything soft or careful about it, she just looks down at you with that tired expression of hers and sighs like she’s already made up her mind.

“Get up,” she says bluntly, tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “We’re going to campus."

You groan quietly into the blanket but don't really argue, mostly because your body feels too heavy to properly resist anything yet. The idea of going back to campus after everything feels almost unreal, like you’re stepping into a place that should’ve paused while you were gone and somehow didn’t.

The walk there doesn’t help.

If anything, it makes it worse.

Campus feels different the moment you get close to it—not quieter, not calmer, just sharper. Like everyone already knows something about you before you even fully step through the gates. The shift is immediate; conversations lower just slightly when you pass, heads turning in that subtle way that pretends not to stare while still staring anyway. You catch fragments as you walk past—your name, the word “house,” “attack,” “news”—all broken up into pieces that never fully form something respectful.

It’s not fear in their voices.

It’s curiosity.

And something worse underneath it.

Entertainment.

You keep your eyes forward, shoulders tight, while Shoko walks beside you like none of it is worth slowing down for. Someone calls out something behind you—half question, half joke—but she doesn’t even turn around. She just pushes forward through the crowd without hesitation, making space by existing in it like she refuses to acknowledge the noise.

“Hey, isn’t that her?” someone says louder.

“Dude, she actually punched that reporter—”

“That was insane, though.”

You hear it all even when you try not to.

Shoko clicks her tongue once, annoyed now, and pushes through a cluster of students blocking the hallway until the noise thins just enough for you to breathe again. That’s when you see them.

Gojo is leaning against a railing like he’s been waiting there on purpose, hands in his pockets, expression already lighting up when he spots you. Sukuna is a little further back, standing instead of sitting, posture the same as always but his eyes immediately landing on you like they’ve been checking for you before anything else in the room.

You don’t even realize you’re walking toward them until you are.

“How are you guys?” you ask before you can overthink it, voice quieter than you intended.

Gojo reacts first, like he always does, grin snapping back into place immediately even though there’s something about his eyes that doesn’t fully match it. “Alive, unfortunately. I was really hoping for a quieter morning.”

You let out a small breath through your nose despite yourself.

“That’s not funny,” you say automatically.

“It’s a little funny,” he shrugs. “In a tragic, character-development kind of way.”

Shoko exhales like she’s already tired of him being alive in general. “I’m going to the cafeteria. Don’t let him say anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Sukuna doesn’t look at her, but his voice is flat when he answers anyway. “No promises.”

That earns him a side-eye from Gojo immediately.

“You’re so supportive,” Gojo mutters.

Shoko doesn’t respond. She just looks at you once, briefly, something quieter in her expression now before she turns away. “See you later.”

And then she’s gone.

That leaves you standing there with them.

Which somehow feels louder than the hallway.

Students pass by in waves now that Shoko isn’t blocking the path, and with it comes attention again—more obvious this time. You hear it before you see it. Whispered comments, laughter that doesn’t bother hiding itself, phones subtly angled like people are already recording without actually recording. Someone nearby whispers, “That’s her, right?” like you’re not standing two feet away.

Then another voice, louder, careless: “Bro she actually hit a reporter. That’s kinda hot”

You stop walking for half a second without meaning to.

Gojo hears it too, but instead of reacting the way you expect, he just tilts his head slightly and mutters, “Yeah, that was kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

“Gojo,” you say immediately, warning in your tone.

“What? I’m being supportive.”

Sukuna finally shifts his gaze slightly toward the crowd, eyes narrowing just enough that the people closest instinctively quiet down, like something about his stare registers as a line they shouldn’t cross even if no one says it out loud.

You don’t stay there long.

It’s too much attention, too many eyes, too many voices pretending they’re not talking about you while absolutely talking about you.

“I need to go,” you say suddenly, already stepping back.

Gojo lifts a hand slightly like he’s about to joke again, then seems to think better of it. “Bathroom break or emotional escape?”

You ignore him and keep walking.

Behind you, you hear Sukuna’s voice, lower than the rest.

“She’s not fine.”

And then Gojo, quieter than before. “Yeah. No shit.”

But you’re already gone before either of them can say anything else.

The bathroom is empty when you get there, which is the first relief you’ve had all morning. You shut the door behind you and just stand there for a second, hands braced lightly against the sink as your reflection stares back at you like it doesn’t quite match what you feel inside.

Because it doesn’t.

Nothing about today feels normal.

Nothing about you does either.

And for a moment, in the quiet, you let yourself breathe without anyone watching.

Just for a second.

The bathroom was quiet enough that you could finally hear yourself think, which was exactly why you stayed in the stall longer than necessary, sitting with your elbows resting on your knees while you stared down at the cracked tile floor beneath the door and tried to force your brain into something calmer than whatever the hell this entire day had become.

Ever since you got to campus it felt like every hallway turned into a spotlight the second you walked through it, conversations lowering just enough for you to notice, eyes flicking toward you and away again like people were trying to decide whether you were interesting or dangerous or just something to talk about until they got bored.

You closed your eyes for a second, not because you were relaxed, but because you were tired in a way that sat behind your ribs and refused to go away no matter how much you tried to ignore it, and the moment you did, everything from the last night started slipping back in anyway—the phone call, the voice, the way it spoke like it already knew how your life fit together better than you did, and the worst part was that even now, in a public bathroom with fluorescent lights buzzing above you, part of you still felt like it was somewhere nearby watching instead of gone.

The bathroom door opened suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts so fast your body went still without permission, and a group of girls walked in laughing like they owned the space, voices bouncing off the mirrors while they fixed their hair and leaned into each other like nothing outside of themselves mattered.

At first you tried to tune them out, staring down again and telling yourself it wasn’t worth it, it never was, until one of them said your name in that careless tone people use when they don’t think the person they’re talking about can hear them.

“Doesn’t it feel kind of off though?” one of them said, laughing a little like she already knew she was going to be agreed with.

Another voice cut in immediately, sharper, more certain. “Thank you, I’ve been saying that. Everyone’s acting like it’s all just happening to her for no reason, but it’s weird, right? Like what are the chances.”

You felt your shoulders tighten slightly at the sink even though you were still hidden in the stall, your body reacting before your mind fully caught up, because now you were listening even though you didn’t want to be.

“I’m just saying,” another girl added, “first the calls, then the whole campus situation, then she’s suddenly everywhere after that reporter thing? It’s like it keeps escalating around her specifically.”

A small laugh followed that didn’t sound like humor so much as curiosity being disguised as confidence. “People do weird things for attention, I’m not even trying to be mean, but like… it adds up.”

Your fingers curled slowly against your palm without you noticing at first, your nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you because otherwise you weren’t sure what you’d do with all the heat building behind your ribs.

Not because you believed them, but because of how easily they were saying it, like they were piecing together a story about someone they’d never actually looked at properly.

“Honestly,” one of them said after a pause, voice dropping slightly like she was enjoying it more now, “if she’s involved in something, that would explain a lot.”

That earned a laugh from the group.

“Stop, that’s insane,” someone said, but she was laughing too.

“Imagine though,” another added, “plot twist she’s actually the killer.”

More laughter, louder this time, like it was funny to make something like that into a joke instead of a person.

You pressed your tongue lightly against the inside of your cheek, trying not to react, because reacting would mean giving them something they didn’t deserve, but it was getting harder to stay still the longer they talked like your entire life was just a theory they were running for entertainment.

Eventually one of them checked her phone and sighed like she was bored already.

“We’re gonna be late.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Their footsteps shifted toward the door, voices fading back into the hallway like nothing had happened at all, and one of them laughed one last time before leaving.

“If she is the killer, I hope she doesn’t stab me for saying that.”

The door shut.

Silence dropped back into the bathroom like it had been waiting.

You stayed in the stall for a few seconds longer than you needed to, not because you were scared, but because anger didn’t really know where to go when there was nowhere to aim it, and when you finally stood up, you didn’t look at the mirror right away because you already knew what your face would look like if you did.

By the time you washed your hands and stepped out, you’d already rebuilt your expression into something neutral enough to pass for normal, even if it didn’t feel like it belonged to you anymore.

── დ ──

First period didn’t feel any easier.

Shoko noticed you the second you sat down beside her, not because you said anything different, but because you didn’t say anything at all, just dropped into your seat a little too carefully like you were trying not to spill something inside yourself, and when she glanced at you, her expression shifted slightly into something more observant than usual.

“You okay?” she asked, not softly, just direct, like she already knew what the answer probably wasn’t going to be.

You shrugged once, forcing it to look casual even though it felt off the second it left you. “I’m fine.”

Her eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than comfortable, reading the space between your words more than the words themselves, then she leaned back in her chair slightly with a small exhale.

“You look pissed.”

“I’m not,” you said, a little too quickly.

That earned a quiet look from her, the kind that didn’t accuse you of lying but didn’t believe you either.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said finally.

A small almost-smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it, but it didn’t fully land, so you just looked away instead and opened your notebook like that would fix anything.

“Can we not do this right now?” you muttered.

Shoko didn’t push it further, just nodded once and turned her attention forward again, but the silence between you didn’t feel empty, it felt full of things neither of you were saying.

── დ ──

The announcement came later in the day when nobody expected anything more than normal class updates, the intercom crackling overhead and pulling the entire room into attention out of habit more than concern at first, because announcements were usually nothing important, just schedule changes or reminders or things people ignored while scrolling on their phones.

“Students and staff,” the voice began, and something about the tone immediately made the room feel different.

It wasn’t calm.

It was controlled.

Like the person speaking was holding something back.

“Please remain calm. Due to an emergency situation on campus, classes are being dismissed early today.”

A few students straightened slightly, confused more than alarmed, but nobody fully reacted yet because “early dismissal” didn’t mean anything serious on its own.

Then the pause came.

A fraction of silence that lasted just long enough to feel wrong.

“We have received confirmation that the principal was found deceased earlier this morning.”

For a second, the room didn’t understand what it had heard.

It just hung there.

Too heavy to process immediately.

Then everything broke at once.

Voices erupted across the classroom, chairs shifting violently, someone laughing like they didn’t know how else to respond, someone else swearing under their breath, the teacher trying to speak over all of it and failing almost instantly.

You didn’t move right away.

You just sat there, staring at nothing in particular, because your brain was still trying to decide whether this was real or just another thing being added to a list that was already too long to make sense of.

And in the noise of everyone else reacting, one thought pushed through anyway, cold and unavoidable.

This wasn’t random anymore.

Not to you.

Not in your life.

Something was connected, even if you couldn’t see how yet.

And that realization made the room feel a lot smaller than it was supposed to be.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

(This a continuation to part 1 !!! If you haven't read, lmk if you wanna be tagged for part 3)

you blink, pulse stuttering. “what?”

“mmm. I like it when you sound confused.”

you sit up. “who the fuck is this?”

“wrong number,” the voice hums. “or maybe not.”

the call ends.

you stare at your screen. brow furrowed. a wrong number prank? a friend fucking with you?

you forget about it. for a while.

until the next night, and the one after that.

the calls keep coming.

every night around midnight.

always a different number. always that voice.

distorted. controlled. but always watching.

he never says your name, but you can tell he knows it. he makes references, to the show you’re watching, to what you’re wearing.

“that blanket’s not hiding much, is it?”

“I liked the red set you wore last night better.”

“do you always keep your hand under the waistband that long before you touch yourself?”

you try not to react. try not to let him know he’s scaring you. but your body gives you away.

he comments on that, too.

“you breathe faster when you’re scared.”

“I bet you’re wet now. don’t lie.”

“scared and turned on. my favorite combination.”

you call the police.

you file a report. they log it, tell you not to worry. “probably a prank,” they say. “don’t engage. don’t answer.”

you block every number. he always finds a new one.

your friends tell you to stay somewhere else. you refuse. you’re not going to be chased out of your own home.

but deep down, you know.

you’re not being pranked.

you’re being hunted.

then the murders start.

not far.

the first is downtown. a woman stabbed in her apartment. no signs of forced entry.

the second is just a mile away. a couple killed in their sleep. no witnesses. no suspects.

the media goes feral. “new wave of ghostface copycats,” they say. “modernized. smarter. crueler.”

and you start keeping a knife under your pillow.

the night it happens, you’re in bed. half-asleep. wearing nothing but one of your oversized tees and a thin pair of underwear.

it’s hot. the windows are cracked.

the air is quiet. dead quiet.

and then your phone buzzes.

unknown number.

you answer it without thinking. habit.

“...hello?”

you don’t even get a word from him this time. just breathing.

long. slow. controlled.

you sit up.

“…what do you want?”

the silence stretches.

“I want to fuck you.”

you freeze.

“I had other plans for you,” he says. “but you’ve been such a good girl. so obedient. answering every night. letting me listen to those soft little moans when you thought no one was watching.”

your skin prickles.

“and now… I want something else.”

you hang up.

you reach for the knife.

you don’t make it.

‘cause he’s already in the room.

you scream. loud. raw.

a gloved hand clamps over your mouth.

you thrash—kick, elbow, twist—but he’s huge. towering. broad. and strong enough to make it look easy.

you’re pinned flat on the bed in seconds, wrists trapped above your head. and that mask stares down at you.

ghostface.

except not the flimsy halloween kind. this one’s reinforced. tactical. matte black and bone-white, custom-carved. sharp edges. dark eyes.

his voice is even more distorted in person.

“even prettier up close.”

he lets go of your mouth just long enough for you to gasp, and for his other hand to catch your throat and squeeze. not hard. just enough to silence you.

“shhh. I don't want to hurt you… not unless you make me.”

you’re shaking. trying to scream again, but your breath won’t come.

he leans down.

“don’t worry, sweetheart. you’ll like it—eventually.”

he lets go of your neck.

you try to bolt.

he catches you by the ankle and drags you back up the bed like it’s nothing. like you weigh nothing.

you scream again. he pins you harder.

you hear the click of a knife unsheathing, then cold steel touches your cheek.

he doesn’t cut, just traces.

“so soft,” he murmurs.

the blade trails lower. down your jaw. your throat. between your breasts.

your chest heaves. your body shakes. but you don’t fight, not anymore.

you’re too scared.

too still.

too wet.

and he notices.

“already soaked?” he hums. “knew you’d be a little slut under all that attitude. so fucking ready to be taken.”

he cuts your shirt off.

just slices down the middle.

the fabric falls open. your nipples harden in the cold air.

you make a sound, something between a whimper and a sob.

“look at that. so shy now.”

he kneels between your legs.

you try to kick him again, and this time he laughs.

“cute.”

then he grabs your panties and rips them down.

“please,” you whisper.

you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

“you want me to stop?” his head tilts. “say it, and I will.”

you open your mouth.

nothing comes out.

you’re terrified. shaking. but there’s heat spreading fast between your legs. a pulse thudding low in your belly. your cunt is soaked and clenching for something you don’t want to name.

he sees it all.

“didn’t think so.”

his gloves come off.

his bare fingers are warm where they slide between your thighs and spread your folds open.

you choke on a sob.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re dripping.”

he leans in. presses the mask to your inner thigh. inhales.

“you smell like heaven. no wonder i couldn’t stay away.”

his mouth is on you so fast you barely have time to process it.

you cry out.

it’s wet, hot, overwhelming—his tongue flat and greedy, licking up your slit with filthy groans that vibrate into your bones.

he eats like a man starved. hands locked on your thighs, holding you open.

he doesn't stop when you shake.

doesn’t stop when you plead.

he licks and sucks until you’re crying and coming and trying to crawl away.

but he doesn't let you.

he just growls, “where do you think you’re going?” and buries two fingers inside you.

you arch off the bed with a sob.

“so fucking tight.”

“your pussy’s perfect. fuck.”

he curls his fingers, finding your sweet spot instantly.

you scream.

“louder.”

he adds a third and makes you come again.

harder.but you can’t stop it.

you’re sobbing, trembling, breaking, and he loves it.

“that’s it. let me see you fall apart.”

he pulls back just enough to press a gloved hand to your throat again.

“one more.”

“gonna make you gush for me.”

you do.

you come a third time with a scream that rips through your throat, soaking his hand, your sheets, everything.

you can’t think. you can’t breathe.

and then you feel it.

his big, meaty cock pressing to your entrance.

“ready for me, pretty girl?”

you shake your head. “n-no, I—”

“that’s not a no—that’s a scared yes.”

he pushes in.

all the way.

slow. deliberate. huge.

you sob. you’re so full it aches.

“tightest cunt i’ve ever felt,” he groans. “fuck, I was gonna gut you, you know? slice you open and watch the light leave your eyes... but then I thought, why waste something so fuckable?””

he starts to move.

and you break.

you lose track after the fifth orgasm.

you cry. you beg. you come. you plead again.

he doesn't stop.

he fucks you like he owns you.

whispers praise and filth in your ear.

“such a good girl.”

“so pretty when you cry.”

“you were made for this.”

“made for me.”

you don’t know what’s worse, the pain or the pleasure.

he presses his mask to yours. kisses you through it. you moan into the hard plastic, delirious, ruined.

“I was going to kill you,” he murmurs. “but i think i’ll keep you instead.”

when he finally comes, it’s inside you.

he groans like an animal. burying himself deep. holding you still.

“mine.”

he doesn’t pull out right away. just lies there. heavy. breathing hard.

then finally, he gets up. adjusts the mask.

you lie there. trembling. legs spread. slick everywhere.

dazed, ruined and empty.

he tucks himself away, leans over you one last time.

“you’ll see me again.”

you blink. your lips part. “w-what?”

he strokes your cheek through the glove.

“you’re mine now.”

he disappears into the dark.

the next morning, you wake up alone.

the front door’s locked. windows shut.

your knife, once hidden, is nowhere to be found.

there are no signs he was ever here except for the ache between your legs, the bruises on your hips and the cum dripping from your thighs.

your phone buzzes.

unknown number.

you answer it with trembling fingers.

a voice, low, amused, filters through the speaker.

“miss me yet, sweetheart?”

you don't answer.

you just lie back on the bed, eyes wide and your pulse racing.

and your body already aching for more.