you weren’t doing anything wrong. not really.

you were just laughing at something one of the gang members said — some half-stupid joke while you all lounged around the decaying funhouse hideout. it wasn’t even funny, but your smile had flashed, your laugh rang out, and that… was enough.

jerome’s head snapped toward you the moment it happened. his smirk faltered, eyes narrowing, like a predator clocking a rival in his territory.

and just like that, the air in the room shifted.

the guy who made the joke? toast. not that he knew it yet.

you caught jerome’s stare — those wild, glinting eyes boring into you like twin blades — uh-oh.

he didn’t say anything at first. he just walked over, the bounce in his step just a little too sharp, a little too purposeful. that grin he wore was plastered on, stretched tight and unsettling like it’d been nailed in place.

"sweetheart,” he purred, sliding behind you and wrapping an arm around your waist. his other hand? reaching down to twirl the knife at his belt. “you enjoying the joke? huh? real funny, wasn’t it?”