The rain hammered down in relentless sheets, cloaking the night in a pitch-black shroud. It was Halloween, the air thick with an eerie chill, and Satoru Gojo stood outside your house, the one you shared with Naoya Zenin. His white tank top clung to his lean, muscular frame, soaked through by the downpour, while loose black jeans hung low on his hips. The iconic Ghostface mask tilted upward, its hollow eyes fixed on your bedroom window. Inside, your voice clashed with Naoya’s, another bitter argument echoing through the walls. Gojo shook his head, a mix of pity and rage flickering beneath the mask. His phone was in one hand, the other tucked casually in his pocket, as if the storm and the night’s grim purpose were mere inconveniences.

He dialed your house phone, the shrill ring cutting through the shouting upstairs. Naoya’s voice barked, harsh and commanding, ordering you to answer it, spitting that he’d “finish with you later.” You trudged downstairs to the kitchen, footsteps heavy with resignation. As your hand reached for the receiver, the power cut out, plunging the house into darkness. The phone fell silent. You called out to Naoya, voice trembling, and took a step toward the stairs. Then, the phone rang again, insistent, pulling you back.

You picked it up, and Gojo’s voice slid through the line, smooth and teasing, laced with a playful flirtation that felt both familiar and unnerving. “Hey, beautiful,” he purred, his tone light but carrying an edge that made your skin prickle. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate, your grip tightening on the receiver. “Why do you want to know my name?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo’s smirk is hidden behind the mask, but you can hear it in his reply, low and chilling. “'Cus I wanna know who I’m looking at.” Your eyes widened, darting to the kitchen window. The downpour and darkness swallowed everything beyond the glass—rain, woods, nothing but shadows. You couldn’t see him, but Gojo’s vibrant blue eyes, hidden behind the mask, drank in every detail of you: the way your breath hitched, the helpless scan of the void outside.

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo had already slipped inside during that brief blackout. Upstairs, Naoya’s body lay sprawled across the stairs, a silent, lifeless heap, his reign of cruelty ended by Gojo’s precise, merciless hand. The house was still now, save for the rain and the faint hum of the phone line connecting you to the man outside—or so you thought. Gojo’s voice softened, almost tender, as he spoke again. “It’s cold out here, you know. Can I come inside?” Before you could process the question, a slow, deliberate knock echoed from the front door, each tap reverberating through the darkened house, sealing the night’s unspoken threat.

( ❯❯❯❯ icon by @polariae on twt ! )