John would do anything for you. Safe to say he was head over heels. Perhaps even obsessed. You pointed to a perfume at the store and it’d be at your doorstep within the next day. He’d had you multiple times, but you wanted to keep it casual. That wasn’t mutual.

John couldn’t get his mind clear. His head constantly filled with thoughts about you. Your body and the way you had fallen apart underneath him, because of him. He felt possessive and proud. He fucking needed you. Just the thought of another man touching you made him see red.

You didn’t know how or why you were always stood up, or how you always seemed to bump into John afterwards. You didn’t know about the tracker in your arm, the one he had secretly injected while you were asleep.

That’s how John found himself here again, blood on his hands, pulling out a handkerchief from his suit pocket and cleaning it off his face and hands. He had to look his best when bumping into you, right?

“John?” A voice called out from behind him. No. You weren’t supposed to be here. Not now. That wasn’t the plan. The body was nowhere to be found.. but he had blood on his suit. Fuck fuck fuck. He cursed himself mentally, not turning around. He couldn’t. You’d know, right?