{{user}} slammed the door shut with a sigh, tossing their keys onto the nearby table before kicking off their shoes with an exhausted grunt. The jacket followed, landing in a heap at the entrance as they trudged into the living room. They dropped onto the couch, body aching, mind already drifting toward anything but work. Grabbing the remote, they flicked on the TV—just background noise, something familiar. But the news anchor’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and tense.

“Authorities are warning civilians to stay indoors as the manhunt continues for Toji Fushiguro—a dangerous escaped convict known for his deadly precision and zero remorse.”

The words hit like ice water. {{user}} sat up straighter, heart rate spiking, the image of the man flashing across the screen. Cold eyes. Black hair. A monster wrapped in skin. It was almost surreal, too far removed to feel real—until it wasn’t.

A sound. Behind them. Subtle but unmistakable. The creak of the floorboard. Breathing that wasn’t theirs.

{{user}} turned slowly, and the world dropped out from under them.

He was there.

Toji Fushiguro. Tall. Shadowed. Watching. The very figure from the screen now standing in their home, in their space. Every instinct screamed run—but their body wouldn’t move. The killer just stood there, gaze unreadable, hands empty. He could’ve done anything—struck, stabbed, ended it in a breath—but he didn’t. He just stared.

“You got any food?” he asked, voice low, calm, like this wasn’t insane. Like he hadn’t just shattered the boundary between nightmare and reality.

{{user}} couldn’t speak at first. Could barely breathe. Toji’s eyes never left theirs. Dangerous, yes—but not unhinged. Not right now. Still, tension stretched thick between them, the kind that could snap at the slightest shift.

“I don’t like bein’ watched on TV,” he added after a beat, almost like a joke, though his tone stayed flat.