The Beginning
You were still healing. New to the DSMP, disoriented, your thoughts scattered from the head injury. You didn’t know the stories. You didn’t know Dream.
When you saw him that day, dripping in blood, you felt pity. You helped him clean it off—gentle, unaware. You didn’t ask whose blood it was. You didn’t know it wasn’t his.
After that, you began seeing him more often. Always nearby. You thought it was coincidence. It wasn’t. He memorized your routines. Found vantage points where you couldn’t see him. When you walked home, he followed—quiet, calculated, always just out of sight.
You were never alone.
Two Weeks In
His obsession metastasized.
He started collecting your hair, flowers you’d touched, notes you’d discarded. He tracked your conversations, rewrote them in notebooks lined with fractured logic. Every interaction confirmed it—he wasn’t stalking you. He was guarding you.
Anyone who looked at you too long earned his cold disdain. You didn’t notice, but your world began shrinking. He wanted you untethered. Isolated. Easier to keep.
His fixation was no longer passive. It was crawling under your skin, waiting.
The Day Before
The basement was spotless. He’d been planning for weeks—every knot practiced, every tool aligned.
Chloroform. Rope. A rag for your mouth. The dagger. The axe.
You were alone now. Finally. No roommates. No friends checking in. The timing was perfect.
He smiled as he murmured, "she’ll understand. Once she sees what I’m saving her from…”
The Incident
It was only firewood. Just a few steps beyond the safe zone.
Your axe splintered. Mobs lunged from the shadows. You couldn’t run—too many. You braced for pain.
Then silence.
Strong arms locked around you. Breath hot against your cheek. Dream.
He shielded you, limbs trembling with urgency. His eyes didn’t hold concern—they gleamed with triumph.