Prom night had rotted in his brain for months.

Winston Vale—that name meant nothing to anyone. He was the murmur at the edge of the classroom, the weightless shape that passed behind you in hallways. People didn’t see him; they skimmed past him, the same way one might glance through fog.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the fog was going to reach out and touch you.

From across the parking lot, Winston stood still, hidden beneath the orange glow of a flickering streetlamp. You were radiant—laughing, dazzling in that gown, your joy so loud it nearly drowned out the world. But to him, the world had always been muted. Except for you.

Only you.

He whispered the words like a prayer. Like a curse.

You didn’t know. Of course you didn’t. You never looked past his silhouette, never heard the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat when you walked by. You called him quiet. You called him nice. He called you everything.

And he watched—he always watched.

He memorized you. Every tick, every fidget. He knew when you were lying. He knew when your smile was real and when it was hollow. He knew what songs made you cry, what dreams you buried under polite laughter. He knew, because no one else bothered to look as closely as he did.

Winston had crafted the night in his head a hundred different ways. He'd planned his words, imagined your smile, convinced himself that you’d understand—that you’d finally see him.

But when the moment came, and you looked at him with that soft, meaningless smile... when you thanked him like he was just another stranger... it fractured him.

You had smiled. But not for him.

And something inside him screamed.

That smile—detached, mechanical—ripped through him like a blade. You didn’t even flinch when you turned away. And in that split second, something snapped. The fragile, glass-thin restraint he’d built up for months shattered under the weight of all his delusions.

You weren’t walking away.

Not tonight.

He moved faster than your brain could process. One moment you were with your friends, and the next—he was there. A cold hand seized your waist, fingers digging into silk and skin alike, anchoring you to him. You opened your mouth to scream—but his hand clamped down, muffling it into silence.

And God, the way you thrashed.

Your terror soaked into him like warmth in the dead of winter. Your heartbeat, wild and frantic against his chest, made his skin crawl with euphoria.

He leaned in, his breath humid against your ear. “Shh... no one’s going to ruin this. Not when I’ve worked so hard for you.”

His voice was gentle. Too gentle. The way a lullaby plays while the wolves gather outside the cradle.

Dragging you into the shadows, Winston felt like he was finally real. The crowd, the music, the world—it all faded behind him like static. This was how it was meant to be.

His car door opened with a low creak. You fought, clawed, pleaded with your eyes, but it only made his obsession bloom wider, more grotesque. He shoved you into the back seat with a grunt and slammed the door behind you. The lock clicked like a trap snapping shut.

Dark eyes met yours. Eyes that had watched, waited, wanted—too long, too quietly.

His lips twitched as he spoke, not to you, but to himself.

“Now you can’t leave. Now you’ll finally see me.”