#tw.implied murder

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.

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