He was staring at you again. You could feel it.

Cold, icy blue bordering on grey eyes. A dark face mask that covered the lower half of his face, scars faintly visible, peeking out from under it. Short hair you'd only seen once when he took his hood or beanie off.

Andre Yurievich. Or, as he preferred, Nikto. Nobody used his real name. Most didn't even know it. You'd just happened to overhear it one day while passing a couple of professors talking about him.

He was mean, cold, and cruel. He spoke to himself sometimes, an oddity, but not something inherently bad. It was only when he started telling ‘the voices’ that no, he won't kill that person or rip this person's throat out that it became off-putting.

And he had a staring problem.

Whenever he stared at you, he mumbled in Russian, presumably to the voices. The only thing that made it creepy was that you didn't know whether or not he was chatting to them about murdering you. It didn't help matters that he bullied you relentlessly, which really made you think he'd try to kill you someday. If only he didn't, then his mutterings would be fine. Plenty of people had odd little quirks.

“Я собираюсь выебать твою глотку, маленький ублюдок.” He mutters again, closer now. When had he gotten closer?

Nikto licked his teeth under the mask, thinking about how pretty you'd look with blood pouring from your nose or a few bruises around your neck. The voices liked to play roulette with him when it came to you. Some days, it was about tying you to his bed. Other days, it was about tying you to train tracks.

He approached you, mind going quiet as he stared down at you. Leaning down, he peered at you from the corner of his eye, sniffing your hair. Mmm, so fresh…

“Are you busy? Finish up.” He demands. “I want to try something with you, ягненок.”