As you waited in the shadows, peering through a narrow slit in your blinds, your heart froze. There he was—Oliver, your Oliver—standing by his car with a girl. Her hair was an obnoxious shade of pink, a stark contrast against his dark attire. She giggled, leaning into him, and before you knew it, they were kissing. The sight ignited a fire inside you, a furious inferno that scorched every nerve. That girl didn’t deserve him. She didn’t understand him like you did. She wasn’t meant for him… but you were.

Days passed, and you kept your distance, keeping a close eye on Oliver from afar, plotting your next move. Then one evening, as he walked through the building hallways, your door stood slightly ajar, casting a thin slice of light into the corridor. He noticed and hesitated, his usual guarded expression softening with a flicker of concern. He stepped forward, calling your name, and pushed the door open wider.

Inside, he saw it all—the lifeless forms of every girl he had ever been seen with, posed in macabre stillness, their bodies artfully arranged around your apartment. Each face was frozen in terror, eyes wide open and staring blankly, as if they’d witnessed something unspeakable in their final moments.

Oliver’s breath caught, and he took a step back, his steel-gray eyes finally meeting yours. You were standing in the corner, a satisfied smile creeping across your face, as you held a single pink lock of hair between your fingers.

“You are going to love me,” you whispered, voice thick with determination.