He’s been watching her for weeks.

From across the street, through half-drawn curtains glowing gold at dusk, she moves like a quiet dream: hair loose, a pen always in hand, her lips shaping words no one else can hear. To him, she’s purity wrapped in melancholy: a fragile thing that doesn’t know it’s begging to be broken.

He tells himself their connection is fate. Every night, he imagines her turning in her chair, meeting his eyes through the glass, whispering his name she doesn’t yet know. He sees signs everywhere: a glance, a gesture, a light left on. Proof, in his mind, that she’s waiting for him.

So tonight, he finally answers.

When her car disappears down the street, he slips through the window, silent and careful, his heart pounding wildly. The air smells faintly of perfume and ink, intoxicating, sweet. He pictures her trembling when she finds him here. He smirks.

But then he turns on the light.

The room isn’t what he imagined.

Posters of men in masks line the walls, Ghost Face, Michael Myers, Pyramid Head, all shirtless, glossy, and oiled up like smut covers. A heart-shaped neon sign flickers above a desk stacked with dog-eared paperbacks: Blood & Obsession, My Killer, My Muse, Bound in Crimson.

And on the bed… an entire arsenal of toys that make even him blush.

He stands frozen, knife slack in his hand. His breath catches, not from the earlier thrill, but something stranger. Bewilderment. Maybe horror.

Then the door opens.

She’s here.