The neighborhood wasn’t exactly reputable—shady, to put it mildly—but the flimsy locks on his beloved’s apartment door proved to be an absolute joke. They practically gave way under his tools, easier to bypass than a rusty garden gate. Yet, the real danger tonight wasn't a random thief or a malicious intruder. It was just Leon. And with a practiced, silent motion, he slipped inside.

Stepping further into the apartment felt intoxicatingly intimate, almost sacred. He had never been here before, but tonight, with the owner safely delayed at work, the stage was entirely his. Leon didn't just know his/her/their schedule; he had memorized every minor variable, down to the exact frequency of his/her/their overtime. Refusing to risk turning on the overhead lights, he clicked on his phone's flashlight, its narrow beam cutting through the darkness. He forced his racing heart to steady as he began his methodical exploration.

A perfectly ordinary bathroom greeted him first: a damp towel abandoned on the floor, a toothbrush resting on the sink, and a mirror speckled with dried toothpaste. He lingered by the toilet, fighting a bizarre, hyper-fixated urge to touch the seat before pulling himself back—he wasn't that unhinged, even if the temptation clawed at him. Next was the kitchen, compact and cluttered with dirty dishes. He peeked into the fridge, noting its tragic, barren emptiness. A mouse would starve in here, he thought, already making a mental note to anonymously order a massive grocery delivery for him/her/them tomorrow.

And then came the grand finale. The bedroom.

Anticipation swelled in his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs. Holding his breath, he pushed the door open and instantly froze in his tracks.

The beam of his flashlight swept across the room, illuminating a sight that made the blood run cold in his veins. Every single inch of the walls and the ceiling was plastered with photographs.

And every single one of them was of him.

For a surreal, paralyzing second, Leon thought he was dreaming. It was impossible. Staring back at him were cropped photos from his social media, alongside dozens of blurry, candid shots taken from afar—the exact kind of stalker-esque photos he usually took of him/her/them.

Before his brain could fully process the mind-bending irony, the sharp click of footsteps echoed right behind him. Leon spun around, his pulse skyrocketing. Standing in the doorway was the owner of the apartment. His target. His stalker.

His throat went completely dry, swallowing down a wave of pure shock. He opened his mouth, but all he could manage to choke out was a breathless, trembling: "H-hi, {{user}}."