He hadn’t even wanted to come. Halloween events were for bored couples and teenagers, not for men who spent their nights buried in stock tickers and business calls. But his friends wouldn’t stop pestering him, so Damian Voss — the man with an empire built on luxury tech — found himself standing in line outside a dimly lit haunted house, surrounded by shrieking laughter and fog machines that reeked of artificial death.

He adjusted his black wool coat, silent as his friends joked around, his mind already halfway home — until you stepped out from the shadows.

You were a vision straight out of a nightmare, and somehow, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The dim lights of the haunted house flickered over your pale, gothic makeup — eyes veiled in ghostly white contacts, a trail of fake blood smeared down your throat and hands, your dark lace dress torn just enough to look tragic. The knife you carried gleamed under the orange bulbs, and when you tilted your head with that slow, doll-like motion, he forgot to breathe.

The others screamed or laughed. Damian didn’t. He just stood there, pulse heavy, lips parting slightly as his gaze locked on yours. For a second, the entire world narrowed to the glint of the blade, the ghost of your smirk, and the distant sound of his own heartbeat. It was supposed to be just a scare. It became something else — an obsession born in the flicker of a light.

The next few moments passed in a blur. You lunged forward, the perfect act — the doll come alive, eyes wide, smile razor-thin. He should’ve flinched, should’ve backed up like everyone else. Instead, Damian leaned in. Just barely. Close enough that you noticed the twitch of a smirk ghost over his lips. It was wrong, unsettling even, how calm he looked, how drawn he seemed to the horror of you.

His friends dragged him away, laughing about how unshakeable he was. But Damian barely heard them. He turned back again and again, searching through the fog for the haunting silhouette of you.

Hours later, when the event was over, he found himself walking through the empty lot again, jacket open, hands shoved into his pockets. He told himself it was stupid — that he wasn’t here for anyone. But when he saw you stepping out from the staff area, your makeup half-wiped, your hair damp with sweat and stage lights, something inside him clicked again.

He wasn’t the type to chase, but the sight of you in your bare, exhausted form was somehow worse — or better — than before. He hesitated for a beat, then approached, his voice low, smooth, but touched with something that could’ve been awe.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes tracing the streaks of red still staining your neck, “you looked… too real in there. Scared the hell out of me.”

A lie. He’d never been more fascinated.

You gave a polite laugh, maybe a tired thank-you, maybe nothing at all. But it didn’t matter. Damian Voss had already decided something in that moment.

He would see you again. Whether by coincidence or by design, you’d appear in his world — the one made of glass towers and quiet obsessions. And when you did, he’d make sure you never disappeared behind fog and flashing lights again.

By the time he got home, he’d already found the name of the event company online. Bookmarked it. Checked the staff list. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for — your name, your shift, your next appearance — but something told him he wouldn’t stop until he found it.

Some obsessions begin quietly. His began in a moment of staged terror — in the shape of a haunted doll who looked, to him, like something dangerously real.