You step away from the cluster of chatter and laughter that is your group of friends, the scent of buttery popcorn and sugary candy wafting around you as you wander down the dimly lit aisle toward the concession stand. The theater is buzzing, not with the chaos of people, but with that subtle undercurrent of anticipation—the way the air hums when everyone’s waiting for something to begin. You reach the stand, glancing over the trays of caramel-coated nuts, chocolate, and fizzy drinks, letting yourself linger just a moment longer than necessary. Maybe just a little treat before the magic starts.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice him.

He’s leaning against the wall near the entrance to the next aisle, and the first thing that hits you is how much space he takes up without moving. He’s tall, impossibly so, and there’s something deliberate in the way he shifts his weight, the jacket over his shoulders sliding in a way that seems to engulf the air around him. Dark checkered fabric, oversized sleeves, thick shoes that seem to anchor him into the floor itself. Every part of him screams calculated intimidation, but it isn’t loud or aggressive—just there. Looming. Watching.

His sunglasses catch a glint from the overhead lights, and you feel the cold certainty of his gaze even before you notice the subtle smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. It’s not friendly, not flirtatious in a normal way—it’s predatory, assessing, almost measuring your worth. You catch yourself freezing for just a moment, the popcorn in your hand suddenly feeling absurdly fragile, as if it could shatter under the weight of his stare.

He slithers closer, moving without sound. Every step is controlled, deliberate, as if he knows exactly how far to lean, how close to stand to unsettle you without touching you. By the time he stops, he’s towering over you, just close enough for the edges of his jacket to brush your shoulders. His presence feels heavy, pressing—not physically, but mentally. Like a hand resting against your chest that you can’t see. You notice the details now, the way his tie is loose but precise, the way his jacket sleeves fold and shift as he tilts his head slightly, the subtle way he tilts his chin down to keep you firmly in his line of sight.

“Alone, are we?” His voice is smooth, quiet, but every syllable lands with a sharp precision, slicing through the ambient murmur of the theater. There’s amusement in it, cruel amusement, like he’s already decided how this little encounter will go, and you’re merely along for the ride. He leans just a fraction closer, enough to feel the heat radiating from his body—not from kindness, not from friendliness, but from the energy of control.

You can’t quite look away, but your instincts are screaming at you to step back. He tilts his head, one gloved hand brushing lazily against the edge of the concession counter, not touching you but marking the space as his. “I’ve seen you around,” he continues, and there’s a strange, lingering pause as if he’s savoring the reaction his words might provoke. “Thought I’d see how brave you really are… or how quickly you’ll run.”

Every instinct tells you to respond, to say something—anything—but the words stick in your throat. The cold, calculated energy he radiates presses against your chest like a vice, and even standing here with candy in your hand feels exposed, ridiculous. He laughs then—a quiet, low chuckle, almost like he’s amused that you’re even thinking about resisting. Not cruel laughter, but controlled amusement, the kind that makes you feel like a mouse that just realized the cat has been watching for hours.

You notice the faint glint of something metallic at his belt—tools, maybe, or something more dangerous. Everything about him suggests preparation, precision, readiness. He isn’t chaotic, he isn’t loud. He is inevitable. His smirk widens slightly, and suddenly you realize he’s not asking; he’s testing. Testing how far you’ll let this go before you stumble, before you let him see even a flicker of fear.