#tw.implied kidnapping

The TV is the only light in the room. He left it on intentionally.

“Even when I’m not here, you’ll watch me. You’ll remember who you belong to.”

His voice is still in your ear, etched into your spine.

The crowd on the screen roars, dressed in designer gowns and thousand-watt smiles. Glitter rains from the ceiling of the grand theater. The host opens the envelope with ceremonial flourish.

“And the award for Best Actor in a Drama Series goes to… Caelum Ashford!”

You flinch.

Applause. Standing Ovation. Camera Flashes.

You grip the arm of the velvet couch tighter, the pressure grounding you. You’d known he’d win. Of course he would. The world is in love with him. They believe his portrayal of Lord Severus—the dangerously obsessive noble who would kill, steal, burn the kingdom down just to keep his wife—was the role of a lifetime.

But you know the truth.

He wasn’t acting.

The screen cuts to him rising from his seat. Hair immaculately styled. Sharp black suit hugging his tall frame. He walks with that haunting grace only Caelum possesses—like he owns the air around him. When he smiles, women in the audience swoon. Men clap harder. Critics nod, impressed.

But you—you freeze.

Because you know that smile is the same one, he gave you last night, when he held your wrists down against silk sheets and murmured, “Even if the world saw you naked in my bed, they wouldn’t know you like I do. Not like this.”

He takes the mic at the podium. Lifts the trophy. Looks straight into the camera.

“Thank you,” Caelum begins, voice velvet-smooth. “Portraying Lord Severus was… easy. Too easy, some might say.”

The crowd chuckles, charmed.

“When love consumes you… when it becomes your religion, your obsession, your purpose—it doesn’t feel like acting.”

A pause. Just long enough for you to notice the shift in his expression.

“You live it.”

There it is. That subtle smirk. One only you recognize. A private performance.

“I dedicate this award…” he continues, his voice softening. “…to the one who anchors me. My muse. My wife in heart, if not in law.”

Your stomach twists.

Your name is never spoken. It never is. Not even your shadow is allowed to touch the world outside these walls. But the message is for you. Always for you.

The camera zooms out. Applause. Cheers. Ovation.

And then—

Chime.

You go still.

It’s not a knock. Not a doorbell. It’s the discreet code-triggered chime that signals the villa gate has opened. A sound only those who live in this exclusive riverside estate would ever hear.

You scramble to your feet, heart hammering. You’re trembling before you even make it halfway across the room. The ache in your legs pulse like a warning. Your body knows before your mind accepts it—

He’s home.

Keys.

Click.

The door swings open.

Caelum Ashford steps into the villa, the golden trophy gleaming in one hand, a bottle of expensive wine in the other. His jacket drapes over his arm, hair tousled just slightly from the breeze outside. But his eyes—his eyes are on you the moment he crosses the threshold.

Predatory. Possessive. Burning with hunger.

“You watched, didn’t you?” His voice is low, silk around a blade.

He sets the bottle down, places the award beside the others on the black marble shelf. Unhurried. Precise. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, sleeves already rolled up.

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

“Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart.” His smile is all teeth now. “Did you see what the world gave me tonight?”

You nod.

“Good,” he whispers, stepping closer, his voice darkening. “Because now it’s your turn to give me what I really want.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

“And that’s why you’re the only one for me, darling! You get it, right?”

You force a bright laugh, leaning back in your chair as you twirl a pen between your fingers. “Of course, of course. You’re very… devoted.”

The caller on the other end giggles, their voice laced with exaggerated glee. “Right? Ugh, I wish I could just scoop you up and keep you forever!”

Fake.

Like so many others, their words lack the weight of true obsession. You’ve handled enough calls to tell the difference. The ones who call the Yandere Hotline for fun—playing pretend, enjoying the fantasy—are harmless. It’s the real ones you should fear. But, strangely, you never seem to get those.

“Unfortunately, our time is up,” you say, glancing at the timer on your screen. “Thank you for calling.”

“Aww, already? Well, I’ll call again soon, my love! Mwah!”

The line goes dead. You exhale, rolling your shoulders as the weight of another empty interaction slips off of you. The pay is good, but the work is draining. Playing the role of someone’s darling for hours on end wears at you in ways you don’t want to acknowledge. It’s why you’ve been looking for a way out.

You minimize the call interface and pull up the job listings you were browsing earlier. Nothing great. Mostly low-paying positions that won’t cover your expenses. Still, anything is better than this place. The way management ignores the disappearances. The way you feel eyes on you even when you’re alone. The way—

Your headset beeps. A new call. No caller ID.

Your stomach tightens.

You hesitate for just a second before answering. “Hello, and thank you for calling the Yandere Hotline. Who am I speaking with today?”

Silence.

Then, a soft sigh crackles through the line. “You’re still here.”

The voice sends an odd shiver through you. Familiar. Low, smooth, and intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle. You shift in your chair, eyes flickering toward the CCTV camera in the corner. The red light glows steadily, watching.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” the caller continues, voice lined with something almost… relieved. “I saw what you were searching for.”

Your breath stills. The job listings. The open tabs on your screen.

He knows.

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

A soft chuckle, almost sad. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.”

Your fingers tremble over the keyboard. There’s no flagging system, no way to report calls. The company doesn’t care what happens to you, as long as you keep answering. The only way out is to leave, but even that feels impossible now.

“I get it, you know,” the caller—no, Elias—continues. His voice is so gentle, so coaxing, like he’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. “You need money. You need stability. I understand. That’s why I’ve been helping.”

You swallow hard. “Helping?”

“I’ve been keeping you safe,” Elias murmurs. “Blocking the real ones. Letting the fakes through. They can pretend all they want, but they’re harmless. I made sure of that. I made sure you only had to deal with the easy ones.”

Your heart pounds. The rerouted calls. The strange drop-offs. The fact that you never—never—get the ones who are truly dangerous. It all makes sense now.

“How?” you whisper.

“I have access to the system,” Elias admits. “I wasn’t going to interfere at first. I was going to take down this whole disgusting place. But then… I heard you.”

His breathing stutters, as if just remembering that moment is too much. “I found you.”

Your mouth goes dry. He’s been there all along. Watching from the other side of the line. Pulling strings. Keeping you in a controlled bubble, away from those who would actually take you.

And now, you’re trying to leave it.

“I tried to be good,” he says, voice shaking. “I thought I could just listen. Protect you from afar. But you’re slipping away from me.”

A pause. A raw, desperate inhale.

“Please don’t leave.”

His voice is barely above a whisper now, reverent, pleading. “You don’t understand what it’s like for me. Knowing you’re there, but not being able to reach you. Not being able to hold you. I can’t—” He cuts off, his breath coming ragged. “I don’t want to do anything extreme. But if you go… if you disappear from me, I won’t have a choice.”

Your fingers curl into a fist. “You wouldn’t.”

Silence.

Then, so soft you almost miss it—

“Try me.”

A sharp shiver races down your spine. You glance toward the CCTV camera again, half-expecting something—someone—to be standing beneath it. But there’s nothing. Just the blinking red light.

Elias exhales shakily. “Say my name again.”

You hadn’t even realized you said it. But now, the air between you feels heavier, thick with something suffocating.

The line crackles.

“I could make it so no one else gets to hear you.”

The line hisses, the static thickening like something alive, slithering into your ears. The light on the CCTV flickers once. Twice.

Then, for the first time, it turns off.

And the screen of your computer—your only tether to the outside world—goes black.

A new message appears.

LOOK BEHIND YOU.

The office lights flicker—then cut out entirely.

The room plunges into darkness, the only glow coming from your now-useless monitor. Your breath catches, ears straining for any sound beyond the hum of the dead air.

A faint creak.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

Shadows shift against the dim glow of your screen. There shouldn't be anyone here. You're the only one working this late—

Then, the dim reflection on your blacked-out monitor shifts.

A shape. A figure standing just behind your chair.

A breath, so close it skims your ear.

And then, a whisper.

"I told you not to leave me."

noirscript © 2025

But there are days—like today—when you can’t ignore the gnawing unease crawling up your spine.

You glance over at Jake, your friend, who’s working on the other side of the room. He’s always been there, your rock, always nearby, always with a comforting word. The late-night shifts aren’t so bad when you’re together. But tonight, something feels off.

You can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

When the last call ends, you decide to confide in him. You wait until the others are off their calls, the noise of the office muted by the hour. The two of you slip into a quiet corner, and your voice shakes when you speak.

"Jake," you whisper, "I think I’m being stalked."

He looks at you, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. "What do you mean? Stalked by who?"

You hesitate, then reach into your bag, pulling out a piece of paper—one of the sketches you found in your locker that morning. The sight of it still makes your heart race. A detailed drawing of you, sitting alone at your desk. A figure standing in the background, a shadowed presence just out of focus.

"Look," you say, voice trembling. "It’s not just this one. Every day there’s a new drawing, and the worst part? There's always someone standing near me. Always. But not anyone I know. Someone I don’t recognize."

Jake takes the sketch, his brows furrowed as he studies it. His face pales as he glances up at you, then back at the drawing.

"That’s… That’s creepy," he mutters, his voice barely audible. "Who’s doing this? Do you have any idea?"

You swallow, the knot in your throat growing tighter. "I don’t know. But it’s like he’s always watching me. I don’t know how he gets into my locker, but every day, there’s another sketch waiting for me."

You stop, your fingers gripping the edge of your seat as you watch him. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as if making sure no one else is paying attention.

"Something doesn’t feel right," you continue, voice barely above a whisper. "He’s watching me. Following me. I don’t know what to do anymore."

Jake sighs deeply, setting the sketch back down on the table. His eyes are tired, haunted. "Maybe you should talk to Leo about this," he suggests. "He might be able to help. Leo always knows what to do."

You nod, trying to ignore the creeping dread in your chest. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. And that night, things get worse.

You get home after another long shift, the familiar creak of the door echoing in the silence. Your breath catches in your throat when you notice something odd—Jake’s stuff is gone. The apartment feels emptier, the silence too thick.

You text him, but there’s no reply. That’s odd. Jake always answers. You pace around the apartment, staring at his empty room, the unmade bed, the absence of his things.

He’s never left without saying anything before.

You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, but it grows as the days pass. His shifts no longer line up with yours. You come home to find his things still gone, and he doesn’t pick up his phone anymore.

You can't help but feel a gnawing sense of dread settling deep within you.

And then it happens.

You receive a package. A canvas, no return address. You open it cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment you see the painting, the room goes cold. It’s of Jake. His face twisted in a grotesque, disturbing way. His body painted with smears of red. His mouth open in a silent scream. It’s too realistic. Too graphic to be dismissed. Too vivid to be ignored.

A chill runs down your spine. What is this? The red… it’s too much. The detail is too real.

You don’t know what to do with it. You can't even look at it for too long, so you shove it into your drawer, hoping it’ll disappear, even though you know it never will.

The next night, you try to shake it off. But when Leo asks how things are going, you can’t hide the terror any longer. You tell him everything—the drawings, Jake’s disappearance, the painting. He listens quietly, his face unreadable, but you can see the concern in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Leo,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe. Every day is worse.”

Leo rubs his temples, his mind clearly racing. “You know the rules, right? We can’t flag him, not without proof. You’re stuck playing into his game.”

You nod, biting your lip. You’re fully aware of that. In this line of work, you play the role you're given. You pretend to be someone else, to be their darling. The job is lucrative, but it comes with a cost. You have to pretend, even when it feels like the walls are closing in.

Leo leans forward, his eyes softening with concern. “Do you suspect anyone, though? Anyone specific?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, then—against your better judgment—you answer, your voice barely a whisper.

“Adrien,” you say, your heart pounding in your chest. "Adrien is the one who’s been sending the sketches. He called in through Yandere Hotline, said he was a wealthy artist. He told me his family owns a conglomerate, but he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wanted to be a real artist. But he had an art block. That’s when he found me. He said I inspired him."

You pause, taking a shaky breath, the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you. "He said I was his muse. He wanted to create again, and I was the key. I played into it, Leo. I thought it was harmless at first. He just wanted me to talk to him, to make him feel heard, to give him some inspiration. But it… it got worse."

Leo watches you closely, his face unreadable. He doesn’t interrupt, but you see the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“Then he started sending me the sketches. At first, it was just one, a drawing of me sitting at my desk. But after that… he started showing up more in the pictures. Always standing near me. And it wasn’t just the drawings. He started talking about how he couldn’t wait to draw me ‘up close.’ Like I was his next masterpiece. He said it so casually, Leo. Like it was something that was just going to happen.”

Your voice cracks as you recall the worst part. "And now Jake’s gone. His things disappeared. His shifts don’t match mine anymore. And I just… I don’t know what to do. I’m trapped, Leo. He’s everywhere. I feel him watching me."

Leo’s face tightens, a flicker of something darker passing through his expression. But then, his voice softens, as though he's trying to calm you. “You’re right. You’re stuck playing his game. You’ve got no choice but to follow it. We all do.”

But as the conversation lingers, there’s a tension in the air that neither of you can deny.

That night, as you walk back to your locker, your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

You hesitate, the pit in your stomach widening. But something—something deep inside of you—makes you answer.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end makes your blood run cold.

“You’re still pretending, sweetheart,” he says softly. "But I see you. I know you."

Your pulse quickens. It’s him. Adrien.

His voice slides through the phone like silk, sending a chill through your body.

“I’ve been watching,” he continues, his tone too calm, too familiar. “You think I don’t notice? The way you look at the others. The way you pretend they’re all you need.”

You try to steady your breath, your hands shaking. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he whispers, his voice darkening. “Waiting for you to see me, to understand.”

You feel your skin crawl as he continues. “But it’s too late for that now. You’re already mine. And I’ll make sure you understand what it means.”

You shiver, every fiber of your being screaming to run.

But you can’t.

Your breath catches as you arrive at your locker. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you open it. And there they are—the sketches.

One of you and Leo.

The other... of you. Eyes wide with terror. A hand, not yours, gripping your jaw. Forcing you to look at yourself.

The sketch is too detailed, too real. You can’t breathe as you stare at it, the raw fear in your eyes captured in every stroke. The grip on your jaw, the force of it—the terror written all over your face.

You slam the locker shut, your heart racing. The call ends with Adrien’s final, chilling words.

“Run. I love it when you run.”

The phone drops from your hands, and you turn around—there’s no one there. But the air feels thick, the walls closing in on you. It’s not just the job anymore. It’s your life. It’s him. And there’s no way out.

You can feel his eyes on you even now, through the phone, through the sketches, through the very air you breathe. And no matter how many times you try to convince yourself that this is just a game, a twisted fantasy he’s playing—you know, deep in your gut, that it’s real. Every step you take, every breath you take, Adrien is right behind you, watching, waiting.

And the worst part? You’re trapped. You always have been.

You just didn’t know it until now.

noirscript © 2025

No card. Just an envelope. Sealed.

The wax is unmistakable—red, cracked, pressed with the imprint of an ecclesiastical ring you last saw on the hand of a dead priest. You know that seal. You know that theft. You know who sent it before your fingers even dare to tremble over the parchment.

You were always the altar. I only ever wanted to kneel. Let me wash the dust from your feet, one final time. —E.

James asks who it’s from. You lie. Something about a florist’s mix-up. He hums an off-key tune as he pours wine and scrolls through reception playlists, his fingers brushing yours on the stem of the glass. But you barely feel it. Your skin still remembers the seal—still pulses from the echo of it. That wax might as well have branded you.

Enoch Saintclair.

You haven’t spoken his name in years. Not aloud. Not since you taught yourself not to dream about thunder and stained glass. Once, he was just the silent boy in church with a spine like a cathedral beam and eyes like holy water spoiled in a silver chalice. He smelled of old hymnals and myrrh, always one shadow too still. A former altar boy turned antique dealer with the uncanny grace of someone who never quite belonged to this century.

You sang in the same youth choir. You shared breath in the same confessional box. He once handed you a rose during Lent and carved your name into the wax of a votive candle. You laughed at something small during a storm once—just a joke—and he wrote an entire psalm about the curve of your mouth when you said the word forgive.

He didn’t see you as a girl.

He saw you as a sacred thing.

And instead of running, you smiled.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The night before your wedding, you lock the door. Bolt the windows. You place James’ wine on the nightstand and watch him drink too deeply, his lips loose with affection and slurred vowels. He falls asleep to the sound of your silence.

You don’t listen for footsteps. You listen for the places where silence folds in on itself. For the way the air changes when something holy goes rancid.

At 2:18 a.m., it arrives.

The temperature dips. The stillness thickens, syrupy and strange, like breath caught in prayer. And you know. Before you open your eyes, you already know.

He’s here.

And when your eyes do open, he’s standing at the foot of the bed—not entering, not arriving, simply being, as though he was never outside the room at all. As though he’s been sleeping somewhere deeper inside you, waiting for this moment like a sacrament.

Enoch stands in the half-light with a porcelain basin in his hands. Ornate. Victorian. Its rim is chipped, kissed by time, and filled with water so dark it gleams like oil. Steam curls from it in rich spirals. The scent of roses hits you first—roses drowned in something metallic, something older, something wrong. Like rust and salt and the slick sweetness of rot.

You don’t scream.

You sit up, throat tight. “You drugged him.”

He waits. Then, calm as candlelight: “He was unclean. He would’ve touched you without reverence. Without worship.”

He moves closer, slow and barefoot, robes of shadow swaying as he kneels beside the bed. The basin rests between you like an offering. He folds his long body into the posture of devotion—head bowed, spine bowed, hands trembling in the space between sin and surrender.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

He lifts his eyes to you, and it’s like drowning in sanctified ink. “You don’t believe that.”

Your pulse kicks like a trapped bird. “I’ll call the cops.”

“You won’t.” His voice is velvet, soaked in certainty. “You’re already wondering what’s in the water. Whether it’s holy oil, or rose water, or something redder. You’re wondering if it’s blood.”

You flinch. Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

He reaches for your ankle. You jerk back.

He doesn’t chase. He waits.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You said those words once before,” he murmurs. “And then you kissed my hand.”

“I was seventeen—”

“You anointed me.” His smile is the ghost of something unholy. “You touched me, and I bloomed into reverence.”

This time, when he takes your foot, you don’t resist. He dips it into the basin. The water is hot—intimate, obscene, like a mouth against your skin. You feel the heat ripple through you, feel it curl into places untouched. His hands tremble again, but not with hesitation.

With restraint.

He lifts a cloth. Begins to wash you. Slow. Painfully slow. His fingers trace over your arch, between each toe, up the soft skin of your heel like he’s mapping scripture. With every pass, the act becomes more than cleansing. It becomes adoration.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, voice rasping at the edges. “To carry someone in your mouth for years. To speak their name at dawn and dusk. To whisper it into your own skin. To kneel at altars and know—know—that none of them hold your divinity.”

His breath warms your calf. He presses his lips there, a kiss so slow it feels more like a vow.

“I would’ve torn out my tongue if you’d asked. I would’ve burned down every church that dared take your name in vain.”

“Why now?” The question cracks from your throat. “Why not let me go?”

“Because he doesn’t kneel,” Enoch whispers. “He fucks. I worship.”

He switches feet.

You don’t stop him.

The water has gone darker, laced with crushed petals and something thicker. When he lifts the cloth again, it’s already stained red. Beneath the surface, a shimmer of gold catches your eye—a bracelet. Yours. The one you lost your senior year. A single charm dangles from it: a heart, split and hollowed.

“I followed you to college,” he says. “Sat through lectures. Counted how many times you laughed. Knew when it was real. Knew when it wasn’t. I memorized the sound of your lies.”

He kisses your foot again. Slower. Deeper. His lips barely part, but the heat lingers.

“I made a shrine,” he breathes. “Books filled with your notes. Clothes that smelled like you. Hair I gathered from your brush. It was never desecration. It was sacred.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m yours.”

He rises. The motion is fluid, reverent. His shadow drapes over you as he leans forward. Your back hits the headboard. There is nothing between you but breath and trembling will.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Enoch says, low. “You’re afraid of how right this feels.”

“I’m marrying him.”

“No.” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “He’ll sleep for days. The doctors won’t find a thing. And when they ask, you’ll say you don’t know what happened. Because you’re merciful. Because you’re kind. Because somewhere in you, I’m still the boy you never stopped blessing.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in love.”

He leans close. You feel his breath in your ear—hot, humid, consecrated.

“I’ve worshipped you in silence long enough.”

Then softer. Deeper.

“Let me serve you in sin.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

He leaves before dawn. No threats. No chains. No rage.

Only stillness.

You sit there, unmoving, the sheets heavy with him. When you finally rise, your feet leave damp, red prints on the wood. You scrub them. Again. Again. Until your skin peels.

But they stay red.

His scent clings to the sheets—roses and rust and old churches. You light candles. You pray. You try not to tremble.

When you glance out the window, you see it.

A cloth tied to the iron fence.

White. Folded. Bloodied.

An offering.

You want to look away.

But your eyes find the words, stitched in bruised thread along the fraying hem:

Blessed are the broken things... ...for they bend easier to worship.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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