Azura never let {{user}} into the back room.

They moved in together five months ago—an airy apartment with peeling brick walls and windows that let in soft golden light in the morning. It was perfect, except for the one room at the end of the hall.

“Storage,” Azura had said, pressing a kiss to {{user}} forehead. “It’s a mess. I’ll clean it eventually.”

{{user}} didn’t push. She trusted Azura.

But over time, her curiosity became impossible to ignore.

The lock was always in place. The key always gone. Azura always changed the subject.

{{user}} started noticing little things.

The soft thud of footsteps at night when Azura thought she was asleep.

The sound of metal scraping wood. The smell—something like rust and bleach—lingering on her clothes.

And then the key.

It wasn’t hidden well—left inside the lining of Azura’s black coat, which hung by the door like it always did. {{user}} wasn’t even snooping. She just needed her girlfriend’s phone charger.

Her fingers curled around the cool metal key before she could think too hard.

It was late. Azura was out. She’d said she’d be working late again.

{{user}} stood outside the door for five whole minutes before sliding the key into the lock.

Click.

The door creaked open.

Darkness.

She fumbled for the switch, her hand shaking. The light flickered once, twice—then flooded the room in harsh yellow.

{{user}} heart stopped.

The walls were covered in photographs—blurry images of women walking alone at night. Some of them had red Xs slashed over their faces. Some were missing parts. Fingers. Eyes. Whole mouths.

A mannequin stood in the center of the room, dressed in a full black outfit and a white mask.

Knives were arranged neatly on the desk.

There was a board covered in red string. Victim names. Dates. And in the very center—

{{user}} photo.

Unmarked. Not crossed out. Just circled. Over and over and over again.

She took one shaky step backward.

The floorboard creaked.

A soft sound came from behind her—footsteps.

Slow. Steady. Familiar.

{{user}} turned around—

And Azura was standing in the doorway.

Black clothes. Gloves still on. Mask dangling from one hand.

Her eyes gleamed in the dim light.

“Babe,” she said softly, voice velvet and danger, “you weren’t supposed to come in here.”