⸻ ⋆. ❞

the first time you felt him, it was instinct.

not footsteps. not breath. not even a sound.

the heavy press of being watched.

you had been working late — paperwork spread across the table, half a glass of red wine untouched beside a cold dinner. the lamplight cast a soft glow against the window, and for a moment you thought you saw your reflection move — except you hadn’t.

you went still.

and in that stillness, something changed. a hum under your skin. a shadow, patient and smart.

just waiting.

that was his signature.

he never struck first.

he waited until you started breathing fast. until you got sloppy. until you gave him a reason.

the file on him was classified six different ways and still leaked blood through the edges.

ex - shadow company. real name scrubbed from every system but two. rumored kills in every country with a war zone. they said he didn’t speak much. that he had a thing for games.

now he was off the leash. and someone had put your name on the list.

you didn’t run the first night. you didn’t even panic.

but when you locked your door and drew the blinds, you knew deep in your bones: it wouldn’t matter.

the thrill in him would only rise.

it started slowly.

you‘d wake up and your mirror would be moved two inches.

you‘d come home and the light in your bathroom would be flickering, the bulbs swapped — not broken, just… off.

a piece of your bra strap was found on your office desk.

not the whole bra. just the strap — cut clean.

don‘t mind running the first note said, written in black ink on your pink notepad. he‘d broken into your office. sat in the very chair you used to dissect criminal’s minds. wrote it like a confession. or a promise.

you wanted to burn the note. but you kept it. proof you weren‘t imagining it.

weeks passed.

you moved apartments. changed locks. switched cities. told yourself it was over.

but he didn’t just hunt.

he studied.

he didn’t like to kill his prey right away.

he watched. learned. let obsession rot into something tender.

the first time he touched you, you had been in the shower.

you turned — and he was already behind you, fully clothed, mask on, unmoving. one gloved hand caught your wrist before you could scream. the other? at your throat. not pressing. just holding.

his voice was low — almost gentle. “you thought if you left, i‘d let you go.”

you didn’t say anything. didn‘t cry. didn‘t beg.

and that, curiously, made him pause.

you hated the way your body didn’t recoil. hated more the pulse between your thighs.

he left without hurting you.

but he left a gift on the mirror.

your lipstick. smeared into letters.

not yet

you changed. stopped running. and he started circling closer.

a coffee cup left at your door, americano. how you liked it. ice not yet melted.

a strand of your hair braided as you woke up and your last night’s make up taken off — you didn’t remember doing it.

his voice over the burner phone you never admitted you had.

you told yourself it was psychological.

trauma bonding.

„you enjoy analyzing murderers for a living. tell me what that says about you, princess..“