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novaursa · 5 months ago

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The Broken Crown (1/2)

- Summary: Aegon the Conqueror's youngest sister, Y/N Targaryen, once bethrohed to Torrhen Stark, is forced into a marriage with her brother after he calls off her engagement out of jealousy. Struggling with her lost future and the life she never wanted, she repeatedly refuses Aegon's attempts to consummate the marriage. When she tries to escape to Essos on her dragon, Visenya intercepts her, and Aegon, in an act of control, chains her dragon to prevent any further rebellion, leaving her feeling trapped and broken.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 200+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

- A/N: Unexpected post. Let's see how it goes.

The wind howls outside your chambers, filling the air with the distant sounds of restless dragons, their cries melding with the deep, rolling growl of the sea beyond Dragonstone. The fire crackles in the hearth, sending flickers of light dancing across the walls. You sit alone, staring at the flickering flames, lost in thought. The glow reflects off the dark red and gold silk of your gown, the rich colors echoing the deep hues of Tesaerix's scales.

It has been weeks since your marriage to Aegon—your brother, your king—and yet your chambers remain cold. You know why he comes to you. You know what he desires. Yet every time, you turn him away, the bitterness of your broken future thick on your tongue.

You were supposed to be wed to Torrhen Stark, the former King in the North. A marriage of fire and ice, binding the Targaryens to the cold and ancient lineage of the Starks. You had imagined a life in the North, the fierce honor of the Starks, the warmth of a hearth shared between husband and wife, and the promise of a family. Torrhen would have been yours and yours alone. His loyalty and affection were clear in every letter, in every word whispered between couriers.

But Aegon... Aegon grew jealous. He called off the betrothal without a word to you, with a simple, royal command. And now, you sit here, a queen in name, yet more of a pawn than ever before.

The door to your chambers opens softly, the sound of boots upon stone barely audible over the crackling of the fire. You do not turn. You know who it is.

"Y/N," Aegon's voice rumbles low, rich with the quiet authority of a conqueror. He does not have to ask permission to enter; this is his castle, and you are his wife.

"You shouldn’t be here," you say quietly, your eyes still on the flames. "Not tonight."

"And yet, here I am." His voice is closer now, and you feel the heat of his presence behind you. "You’ve denied me time and time again."

You stand, your hands tightening into fists at your sides, still refusing to face him. "Because this was not meant to be. You took my future from me, Aegon. Torrhen was—" Your voice cracks, though you try to hold your composure. "I was meant to marry him. I was meant to be his only wife, to have his children. You stole that from me."

Aegon steps around to face you, his violet eyes, so like your own, burning with a mixture of frustration and something deeper. His silver hair, shining in the firelight, falls loosely about his shoulders, making him seem more a dragon than a man.

"You speak of duty as if you do not know it, sister," he says, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. "Do you truly believe you could have lived in the North? Away from your blood? Away from me?"

His words send a chill through you, a reminder of the bond that ties you both. You were born into the same fire, raised together, shared in the same dreams of conquest. But his love, twisted as it has become, feels like chains wrapping around your heart.

"I would have learned," you whisper, your throat tight. "For Torrhen, I would have made a home there."

"And you would have grown cold," Aegon replies, stepping closer, his hands reaching out to grasp your arms. "The North would have frozen the fire in your blood. You belong with me, Y/N. We were meant to rule together."

You yank your arms away from his grip, taking a step back, your eyes blazing. "No, Aegon. You and Visenya, you and Rhaenys, were meant to rule. I was an afterthought. You married me out of jealousy, not love. You couldn’t bear the thought of me in the arms of another man."

Aegon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, you see the flicker of anger in his eyes. He steps forward again, but you hold your ground.

"You speak as though I do not care for you," he says, his voice dangerously low. "I made a banner in your honor. You fly your own colors, the colors of Tesaerix, because you are more than just my wife. You are my queen, my equal."

"I never asked for that," you snap, your voice rising, the pain and anger finally spilling over. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon. I wanted a life. You took that from me when you sent Torrhen away."

He is silent for a long moment, his eyes searching your face as if looking for some hint of the sister who once stood by his side, unwavering in her support. But that girl is gone now, replaced by a woman hardened by the reality of her fate.

"Perhaps," he says finally, his voice softer now, almost resigned. "But we cannot change the past. You are mine, Y/N. Whether you accept it or not."

You turn your back to him again, the weight of his words pressing down on you. You hear him move toward the door, his boots heavy on the stone floor. For a moment, you think he will leave. But then, his voice breaks the silence once more.

"One day, you will come to understand why I did what I did. And when that day comes, I will be here. Waiting."

The door closes behind him, the sound echoing in the stillness of your chambers. You are left alone once more, the fire burning low, its warmth doing little to chase away the cold that has settled deep in your bones.

You sink to the floor before the hearth, staring into the dying flames, and wonder if there will ever come a day when you can forgive him—if you even want to.

The grand hall of Dragonstone feels heavy with silence as you sit at the long, stone-carved table. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the glory of Old Valyria, the ancestors watching with cold, lifeless eyes. You sit between Rhaenys and Visenya, with Aegon at the head, his silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. The air is thick with the unspoken weight of your marriage, lingering over the table like a shadow.

The food before you remains untouched. Plates of roasted meats, rich gravies, and spiced wine fill the room with tempting aromas, but you have no appetite. Your mind is elsewhere, churning with thoughts of the future that was stolen from you. Torrhen’s face, sharp and distant like the North itself, lingers in your memory.

Visenya breaks the silence, her voice sharp and direct, as is her way. "Y/N," she says, her violet eyes piercing as they settle on you, "when will you finally do your duty to our brother?"

Her words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of everyone's gaze upon you. Rhaenys shifts beside you, her warm, gentle nature a silent contrast to Visenya's cold command. You take a slow breath, gripping the edge of your goblet, the cool metal pressing into your palm.

"If this is about duty, sister," you reply, your voice calm but edged with steel, "then Aegon should come to you. Isn’t that what you care for most, Visenya? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes narrow, her lips a thin line. "It is our duty to secure the future of our house. You were born for this. You were married for this."

"I was married," you cut in, the words sharper than you intend, "because our brother couldn’t stomach the thought of another man having me." Your gaze flickers to Aegon, who has remained silent, watching the exchange with his usual unreadable expression. "Or is that something none of us are supposed to speak of?"

Rhaenys’ soft, musical voice tries to ease the tension. "We are family, Y/N. Aegon is trying to—"

"To what?" you interrupt, turning your gaze on her. "To make me love him as you do? If our brother seeks love and soft caresses, he should come to you, Rhaenys. You always give him what he desires, don’t you?"

Rhaenys flinches at the harshness of your tone, her eyes lowering to her untouched plate. You almost feel a pang of guilt for your words, but the storm of emotion inside you doesn’t let you stop.

Aegon’s gaze finally lifts from his plate, meeting yours. His violet eyes, usually so hard to read, flicker with something—anger? Hurt? Perhaps both. But he says nothing, allowing the silence to deepen, allowing you to stew in the consequences of your words.

Visenya’s voice cuts through again, colder than before. "You may think you are different from us, Y/N, but you are not. We all carry the same blood. We all have the same purpose. Do not forget that."

You push your chair back abruptly, the scraping of wood against stone breaking the silence. The sound echoes through the hall, reverberating off the high ceilings. You rise, standing tall, your hands clenched at your sides.

"I haven’t forgotten," you say, your voice bitter. "But perhaps I was never meant to be part of this."

Without another word, you turn and leave the table, your untouched meal forgotten behind you. You walk swiftly through the hall, your footsteps muffled by the heavy carpets, and once you pass the threshold, the cold air of Dragonstone greets you like a slap. It chills your skin, but you welcome it. It’s a reminder that despite everything, you are still free to make some choices. Even if only in small rebellions.

As you make your way down the corridor, the sounds of your siblings fade behind you. You are alone once more, with nothing but the distant cries of dragons and the pounding of your heart to accompany you.

The hall feels emptier once you’re gone, the echo of your departing footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the space. For a long moment, no one speaks. The air is filled with your absence, and the untouched food on your plate remains a quiet accusation of all that was left unsaid.

Aegon sits motionless, his hands resting on the table, fingers curled around the goblet he hasn’t touched. His shoulders slump slightly, the weight of something far heavier than a crown pressing down on him. His face, usually impassive and stern, is now unguarded, a mixture of frustration, pain, and an unfamiliar vulnerability etched into his features. The Conqueror, the dragon lord, looks fragile—broken, even.

Rhaenys watches him, her eyes full of concern, though she remains silent for once. Her gentle attempts to soothe the tension earlier had been met with resistance, and now she seems at a loss, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Visenya. Her hands rest lightly on her lap, fingers trembling just slightly as she resists the urge to reach for Aegon.

Visenya, on the other hand, is still as stone. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes remain cold, unreadable. The eldest of you, always the embodiment of purpose, of resolve, watches Aegon closely but makes no move to comfort him. Her hands, wrapped around her knife and fork, remain steady, continuing her meal as though nothing had happened, though she chews slowly, her eyes calculating.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, though it is barely more than a whisper. "She hates me."

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, no one speaks. Aegon’s grip tightens around the goblet, and one can see the whiteness of his knuckles as though the tension might shatter the cup. His head is bowed, and for the first time, he looks… lost.

"She does not hate you," Rhaenys says softly, her voice thick with sympathy. "She’s angry. Hurt. But hate?" She shakes her head, her dark curls catching the firelight. "That is not what this is."

Aegon’s lips twitch, a bitter smile flickering at the corners. "She does not love me, Rhaenys. And she never will."

Visenya’s voice is sharp, cutting through the fragile moment like the edge of a blade. "Love is not why she was wed to you, brother. Love was never the purpose." She sets her knife and fork down deliberately, the clink of metal against the plate unnervingly calm in the face of Aegon’s turmoil. "You knew that."

Aegon’s head lifts, his eyes wet and shining with unspoken emotions. He looks at Visenya, his usually hard gaze pleading now, searching her face for some kind of answer. "But I wanted it," he says, the words rough, torn from somewhere deep inside him. "I wanted her to love me, as she would have loved Stark. Is that so wrong?"

Visenya’s expression doesn’t change. Her voice remains cold, unwavering. "You are her brother, her king. You were never meant to be her lover in the way you want."

Rhaenys, sensing the deepening wound, reaches across the table, her hand hovering just above Aegon’s arm. "She’s young still, Aegon," she says softly, her voice filled with her usual warmth. "She has not yet come to terms with her place. In time, perhaps…"

Aegon pulls away from her touch, his hand falling from the goblet to rest heavily on the table. "No," he mutters, shaking his head. "She will never come to terms with this. She will always look at me as if I am the one who destroyed her life." His voice breaks slightly, and he presses his palms into his eyes, as though trying to hold himself together, to keep the pain from spilling out.

"Then stop chasing her love," Visenya says, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Do your duty. Take her to your bed, sire her children, and end this farce of a romance you have created in your mind."

Aegon’s hands drop from his face, and he looks at her, stunned. "Is that all you see in this? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes meet his, cold and unwavering. "That is all there ever was for us."

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Aegon turns his gaze to the fire, his shoulders sagging even further under the weight of Visenya’s words. The great conqueror, the king who united the Seven Kingdoms, is reduced to this—a man who sought love from someone who could not give it.

Rhaenys, her heart breaking at the sight of her brother in such despair, shifts in her seat, but she knows that no words of hers will soothe him now. Aegon has always carried the burden of their dynasty alone, but tonight, it has grown too heavy, even for him.

"You have us," Rhaenys says quietly, though her voice trembles with emotion. "You will always have us, Aegon."

But Aegon does not respond. His eyes remain fixed on the flames, and for the first time in your life, you see him not as the Conqueror, not as the dragon lord who tamed the world, but as a man—lost and alone in a castle full of people who love him, yet none who can give him what he truly desires.

And so the meal continues in silence, the clatter of cutlery and the crackling fire the only sounds in the hall. The untouched plates before you all bear witness to the shattered remnants of your family’s fragile bonds, while outside, the wind and the sea howl against the ancient walls of Dragonstone.

The sea winds howl outside your chambers, the sound haunting and relentless, like the cry of some distant, wounded beast. You sit by the open window, gazing out into the dark night, the vast ocean stretching far beyond the horizon, endless and full of promise. Your mind wanders to Tesaerix, resting in her lair below. You imagine her golden and cream scales shimmering in the moonlight, the crimson undertones beneath them gleaming like freshly spilled blood. She is your escape, your one chance at freedom.

You toy with the thought, turning it over and over in your mind—leaving this place. Far from Dragonstone, from Westeros, from the suffocating weight of duty and broken promises. Essos calls to you like a whisper on the wind, a distant land where dragons are still revered and feared, where you could carve out a life for yourself far from Aegon’s reach. You could mount Tesaerix tonight, ride her across the Narrow Sea and never look back.

The idea pulls at you, tempting you more with every passing moment. To be free of this cursed marriage, free of the bitter silence and the constant reminders of what you’ve lost. But it’s not just the present that haunts you—it’s the past, the memories of a love that was torn from you before it had the chance to bloom.

Your mind drifts back to Torrhen Stark, the man you were meant to marry. The King in the North, a man of honor and quiet strength, so different from the fire and chaos of your family. You think of the first time you met him, after he had bent the knee to Aegon. He had refused to take you as a war prize, refused to make you his by conquest, despite the whispers of your brothers. He had chosen to see you as something more, as someone worth knowing, worth loving.

You remember the way his eyes had softened when he looked at you, the way his gruff voice had gentled whenever he spoke your name. It had been a brief time, but intense—your feelings for him had grown quickly, like a wildfire racing through a dry forest. You’d fallen in love with him, hard and fast, and he with you. It was supposed to be an alliance not only of fire and ice, but of hearts.

You can still hear his deep, steady voice, promising you a future in the North. A future where you would be his only wife, where you would bear his children, where you could have the kind of life you dreamed of—one filled with love, respect, and loyalty. It had seemed perfect, a rare gift for someone of your blood, born into a family where duty always outweighed desire.

But then Aegon had taken that from you. He had changed his mind as suddenly as a storm sweeping over the sea, without explanation, without reason. One moment, your future with Torrhen had been certain, and the next, it was gone. Aegon had called off the betrothal, declaring that you were to remain in Dragonstone and marry him instead.

Your world had shattered in that instant. The life you had planned with Torrhen, the love you had begun to build, all of it ripped away before it had the chance to take root. You had cried out, fought against it, pleaded with Aegon to reconsider, but his decision was final. The bond between fire and ice, the life you had dreamed of in the North, vanished like smoke in the wind.

The memory of Torrhen’s face, when you told him of Aegon’s decision, still haunts you. His features had hardened, the quiet grief in his eyes breaking your heart all over again. He had not blamed you; how could he, when you had been as much a victim of your brother’s jealousy as he had? But the pain in his silence had cut deeper than any words could have.

You wonder, sometimes, what might have been. What your life would be like now, had Aegon not interfered. You can imagine yourself standing beside Torrhen in Winterfell’s great hall, the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth, the cold winds of the North howling outside but unable to touch you. You would have had a home there. A real home, with Torrhen by your side, with the love you had begun to build blossoming into something strong and unbreakable.

But here, in this cold, dark castle, you are alone. You are Aegon’s wife, yes, but in name only. There is no love here, only duty, only the weight of expectations and a future you never wanted.

Your gaze shifts to the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The pull to leave is stronger now. You imagine the wind whipping through your hair as Tesaerix soars above the clouds, the world falling away beneath you as you fly far, far from here. Essos, the Free Cities, perhaps even beyond the Shadow Lands. Anywhere that is not here, anywhere that is far from the suffocating grip of your brother and the life he has forced upon you.

You stand, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you move toward the window. Tesaerix waits, her powerful wings and fiery breath ready to carry you to freedom. All it would take is a single command, a whispered word, and you could be gone. You could leave this place behind, leave Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys and the weight of their expectations, and start a new life far from the shadow of the Iron Throne.

But then Torrhen’s face flashes in your mind again, and you falter. The North is lost to you, but would running away truly be any better? Would it bring you the peace you crave, or would it only leave you even more adrift, without even the faint hope of reclaiming what was taken from you?

Your hand rests on the stone window ledge, cold and hard beneath your palm. The choice stands before you, vast and open like the sea. Stay and endure, or fly away and risk everything for the chance at a new beginning.

For now, you remain. The wind howls, but the decision is not yet made.

For two weeks, Aegon comes to your chambers each night, his steps soft but purposeful as he approaches the door. You always hear him before he arrives, the distant echo of boots on stone corridors signaling yet another attempt. Every time, he brings something—a token of affection, as if material offerings could mend the chasm between you.

At first, it is fine silk from distant lands, robes embroidered with dragons and flames, the kind of luxury that would make others swoon. Then, he brings rare books, scrolls of knowledge written in the ancient Valyrian tongue, words meant to remind you of your shared heritage. One night, he brings a necklace of rubies, its deep red glistening like dragonfire in the low light. The next, a golden ring with the Targaryen sigil engraved on it, a symbol of the dynasty you are bound to by blood and duty.

Each gift you receive with a polite, distant nod, setting them aside, your heart unmoved. The weight of his gaze is always upon you, a mixture of hope and frustration lingering in his violet eyes. His words are softer now than they were in the beginning, his anger quelled, replaced by a quiet desperation. He is trying to win you, but the harder he tries, the more distant you feel.

The final gift he brings is a crown—delicate, finely crafted, with jewels of crimson and gold embedded in the pale metal. It is beautiful, a queen's crown, meant to match his. When he places it on your lap, he watches you with an intensity that makes the air thick between you, waiting for something—for approval, for gratitude, for love.

But you only stare at it, unmoving.

"This is yours," he says, his voice almost pleading now. "You are a queen in your own right, Y/N. Not just my sister, but my equal. You deserve this."

Your fingers brush the cold metal of the crown, but it feels like chains, not a symbol of power. You lift your gaze to meet his, your voice steady but firm. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon."

The hurt flickers in his eyes, but you have nothing left to give him. He leaves, the crown sitting abandoned on the edge of your bed, gleaming in the dim light as if mocking you.

One day, his words change.

Aegon enters your chambers, but there is a new tension in the way he moves, a sense of finality in the air. He doesn't bring a gift this time, only the weight of a decision made. You watch him, already knowing something is different.

“We leave for King’s Landing soon," he says, his voice more formal than it has been in weeks. "Aegonfort is ready for us. It will be our new home, where we will build the future of our house."

You feel the words like a cold wind sweeping over you. Aegonfort, the seat of his conquest, the beginning of the new kingdom he is carving out. The idea of leaving Dragonstone—leaving the sea, the cliffs, the only place you’ve ever truly known—sends a chill down your spine. Aegon might see King’s Landing as his victory, but for you, it feels like another cage.

"I don’t want to go," you say, your voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Aegon pauses, as if he didn’t hear you properly, as if he can’t comprehend that you would refuse. “You have to go,” he says slowly, as though speaking to a child. "You are my wife, my queen. You belong at my side."

You rise from where you’ve been sitting, facing him fully, your heart racing with the surge of rebellion that has been growing inside you for weeks. "I belong here," you say, gesturing to the stone walls, to the island that has been your sanctuary, even in the darkest times. "I do not want to go to King’s Landing, to sit in that castle you built, watching you and Visenya and Rhaenys pretend that everything is perfect."

He steps toward you, his face tightening, a flash of anger returning to his features. "You think you can remain here, alone, while the rest of us build our kingdom? This is not a choice, Y/N. You are my wife."

"I never wanted to be," you snap, the words finally breaking free from your lips, bitter and sharp. "You made me your wife, but you never asked me what I wanted. You took me from the future I could have had, from Torrhen—"

"Stark, again? Torrhen is not your future," Aegon interrupts, his voice hardening now. "I am."

"You stole my future, Aegon," you retort, your voice trembling with the weight of your grief. "You took away the one thing I had, and now you expect me to be grateful for this life you’ve forced upon me? You expect me to follow you to your new castle and wear this crown and play the role of your queen?"

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches between you, tense and suffocating. Then, slowly, he steps back, his eyes dark with something you can’t name—anger, yes, but there’s more. Regret? Hurt?

“You will come,” he says finally, his voice low and rough, almost a whisper. “Whether you wish it or not, Y/N. You will come with us.”

You turn away from him, your back to the man who has taken everything from you. You hear him leave the room, his footsteps heavy and final, but the emptiness he leaves behind feels like the deepest cut of all.

You are alone once more, staring out the window at the distant sea. Tesaerix calls to you from the depths of your soul, her distant roars echoing in your mind. The thought of running away comes back to you, stronger now than ever. But for now, you remain, standing at the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

The sun is high in the sky as you and your siblings take flight, the winds rushing past as your dragons soar over the shimmering sea. Below, the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone grow smaller with every wingbeat. Tesaerix flies gracefully beneath you, her golden and cream scales glinting in the sunlight, the deep crimson undertones flickering like blood in the wind. For a moment, you feel weightless—free. The burden of your marriage, of your crown, seems far away in the skies.

Ahead of you, Aegon leads the way on Balerion, the massive black dragon casting a long shadow over the sea. Rhaenys is beside him, her Meraxes keeping pace, and to your left flies Visenya, Vhagar’s powerful wings slicing through the air. The three of them are focused on King's Landing, their eyes set on the growing kingdom they are about to build. But your heart is elsewhere.

You glance down at the sea, endless and blue, stretching toward Essos. The temptation has been gnawing at you for weeks, the thought of breaking away, of flying far from here. Away from Aegon, from the fate that has been thrust upon you. The wind rushes through your hair as you tighten your grip on Tesaerix’s reins, your mind made up.

With a subtle shift in pressure, you command her to turn, pulling away from the formation. Tesaerix tilts her wings, veering off course, away from King’s Landing, away from your brother. Your heart races, a mix of fear and exhilaration filling your veins as you set your sights on the horizon, where the lands of Essos lie in the distance, beyond the reach of Aegon’s grasp.

Behind you, Aegon’s voice rises above the wind, calling your name, desperate and commanding. “Y/N! Turn back!”

But you don’t. You don’t even glance behind you. The sound of his voice fades as you fly farther, the space between you growing wider with every passing second. Tesaerix roars beneath you, as if sensing your resolve, her powerful wings beating faster as she surges toward freedom.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel alive. The weight of duty, of marriage, of everything that has kept you chained to this life begins to slip away, carried off by the wind. The open skies of Essos call to you like a promise, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you believe you might make it.

Then you hear the deep, thunderous roar of Vhagar.

Visenya.

You glance over your shoulder, and there she is—Visenya, fierce and relentless, closing the distance between you with terrifying speed. Vhagar, far larger than Tesaerix, cuts through the air with powerful, determined strokes. Visenya’s face is set in cold determination, her eyes locked on you with the same intensity she wears in battle.

“Y/N, stop!” she commands, her voice cold as steel, cutting through the wind like a blade. Vhagar roars again, a sound so deep and menacing it sends a shiver down your spine. But you do not stop. You push Tesaerix harder, willing her to fly faster, to escape the inevitable.

But Visenya is not one to be outrun.

Vhagar catches up, pulling alongside you with terrifying ease, her massive bulk dwarfing Tesaerix. Visenya leans forward in her saddle, her voice filled with authority. “Turn back, Y/N! Now!”

Your jaw clenches, your heart pounding in your chest. You meet her gaze for a moment, the defiance in your eyes clear. But Visenya does not waver. Her eyes are cold, unforgiving, and in that moment, you know she will force you back if she has to. She will not let you leave.

The wind whips around you as you pull Tesaerix to slow her flight, the moment of freedom slipping away from you as Vhagar looms beside you, a reminder of the chains that bind you. Visenya’s gaze does not leave yours, and she waits—waits for you to surrender, to accept the inevitable.

With a heavy heart, you tug on the reins, guiding Tesaerix back toward King’s Landing. The dream of escape fades into the distance as you turn, the pull of duty dragging you back toward the life you never wanted. Visenya does not speak again, but her presence is a silent command that you dare not disobey.

As you fly back toward Aegon and Rhaenys, the open skies of Essos behind you, the taste of freedom lingers on your tongue like ashes.

The moment Tesaerix touches the ground, the reality of your failed escape crashes down upon you like a wave. Her powerful wings fold at her sides, but there is no pride in her stance now—only the stillness of submission, forced upon you both by Visenya and Vhagar’s dominance.

You barely have time to catch your breath when Balerion descends, the great shadow of the Black Dread falling over you. His monstrous bulk blocks Tesaerix’s path back to the skies, his massive wings spread wide like an impenetrable wall. Aegon sits atop him, his expression dark, stormy, and unreadable. Rhaenys and Meraxes circle high above, silent witnesses to your humiliation.

The ground trembles as Balerion lands, his roar a deep, earth-shaking sound that makes the ground beneath your feet vibrate. You can feel Tesaerix shifting beneath you, uneasy but still under your control—for now. But even she can sense the finality of what is about to happen.

Aegon swings down from Balerion’s saddle, his steps heavy as he approaches you. His face, usually so composed, is a mix of anger and something close to disbelief. When he speaks, his voice is low, cold. "You would abandon us. Abandon me."

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat like a hammer against stone. "Aegon, I—"

"You fled from your duty, Y/N," he interrupts, his voice growing harsher. His violet eyes bore into you, as if he’s searching for some understanding of why you would run. "What were you thinking? Were you going to Essos? Were you going to leave us all behind?"

His words cut deep, the sharpness of his accusation stinging more than you expected. But you lift your chin, defiance still burning in your chest. "You took everything from me, Aegon. You took my future, my choice, my life. I wanted to escape—to find something that was mine."

For a moment, his expression softens, as though he might understand. But then, his gaze hardens again. He turns to the soldiers who have gathered nearby, his voice carrying a command that makes your blood run cold. "Chain her dragon."

You feel the words like a physical blow. "No." Your voice is a whisper at first, and then louder, desperation filling it. "No! Aegon, you can’t—please, don’t do this!"

But he does not waver. The soldiers begin to move toward Tesaerix, and she growls low in her throat, sensing the threat. You scramble down from the saddle, running to stand between the men and your dragon, your heart pounding in your chest. "She’s done nothing wrong! You can’t punish her for what I did!"

Aegon’s face is hard, his jaw set. "She’s your dragon, Y/N. You tried to flee on her back. This is to ensure it doesn’t happen again."

"I’ll stay, I’ll do whatever you ask, just don’t chain her," you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. You look into his eyes, hoping—praying—that somewhere inside him, the brother you once knew still exists. "Please, Aegon. Don’t take her freedom. She’s not like Balerion or Vhagar—she’s mine. Please."

But your pleas fall on deaf ears. His gaze flickers, but his resolve does not falter. "This is for your own good. You will not leave us again."

You watch in horror as the chains are brought forth, heavy iron links meant to bind Tesaerix’s limbs and wings. She lets out a deep, angry roar, thrashing against the soldiers who dare approach her, but they move swiftly, well-practiced in subduing dragons. The weight of the chains soon drags her wings down, grounding her in a way that feels like a betrayal to everything she is—a creature of the skies, bound to the earth like a prisoner.

You fall to your knees, tears streaming down your face as you reach out to touch her, your hand trembling as it presses against her warm scales. "I’m sorry," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I’m so sorry."

Tesaerix rumbles softly, her eyes meeting yours, but there is a sadness in her gaze, a reflection of the helplessness you both feel.

Aegon watches from a distance, his expression unreadable now, but you can see the faint trace of guilt in his eyes. He turns his back to you, as if unable to bear the sight of your anguish.

Visenya remains mounted on Vhagar, her gaze sharp and unyielding. She offers no comfort, no sympathy. This is what must be done in her eyes, a necessary lesson in control. Rhaenys, still observing from above, does not intervene either. Her silence speaks volumes, but her presence feels distant, like she is struggling with the sight of your suffering.

The chains rattle as they secure the last link, the sound like a death knell in the still air. Tesaerix lowers her head, defeated, and your heart shatters along with her spirit.

You rise slowly to your feet, wiping the tears from your face with trembling hands, your eyes hollow as you look at Aegon one last time. "You’ve broken her," you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Just as you’ve broken me."

Aegon does not respond. He does not even turn. And in that moment, you know that the brother you once loved, the brother who might have understood your heart, is gone—replaced by the conqueror who cannot allow defiance, not even from his own blood.

#house of the dragon #game of thrones #fire and blood #asoiaf #aegon i x you #aegon i x reader #aegon i x y/n #aegon i targaryen #aegon the conqueror #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #balerion #vhagar #meraxes #visenya targaryen #rhaenys targaryen

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fangdokja · 17 days ago

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"The first time I touched death, I vowed it wouldn’t be the last."

❤︎ Synopsis. In a world where death feels more intimate than life, a young criminal profiler hides a dangerous secret: an insatiable obsession with killers, driven by the thrill of catching them—and the forbidden desire to get closer than anyone ever should.

♡ Book. 🔞Forbidden Fruits (FF) : Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Serial Killer/s (?) x Fem. Detective! Reader

♡ Novella. Hybristophilia - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 9,380

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, suggestive themes, fear play, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, BDSM, depression and mental illnesses, implied suicidal tendencies, unhealthy coping mechanisms, descriptions of gore, implied abuse, unhealthy family dynamics

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr content guidelines involving mental illnesses, self-harm, and suicide, some plot details of the original story were purposefully made ambiguous to fit the platform.

♡ A/N. I was stuck in the plot introduction 70% since Dec. 22, 2024 with this work. I just couldn't get the vibes done right. Until I realized that this was 9k words and can be posted already, ahhhhhh. I literally could've posted this earlier hjadskadjdslad. This is technically really, really, REALLY old work, tbh dsfjjdfkdsl. Like same age as Paternal Privilege. Also, I was so formal before in this blog, now I'm just weird tbh. Crack energy. ngahhhh. low-key my writing vs. my personality wahhaah. Also that synopsis is just sheeeshhh. I'm so excited to write the Forbidden Fruits stories. Legit. Extremely challenging to write, but satisfying. I have an upcoming Yandere! Family, Yandere! Fans, and this one, Yandere! Serial Killers. Finally found what to do. Yes, ALL of it is smutty reverse harem stories. This Part 1 mostly focuses on Reader lore.

The rain poured like a ceaseless baptism, a torrent that washed the blood from the cracked pavement and whispered the sins of the dead into the gutter. The city was a wretched beast—a labyrinth of neon lights and suffocating shadows, where humanity festered and decay thrived. It was here, in this urban purgatory, that you carved your name into the annals of justice. Rookie detective, they called you, but you were more than that. A prodigy. A virtuoso of the macabre symphony that was murder.

You stood at the edge of the crime scene, your breath curling in the air like ghostly smoke. The corpse lay sprawled across the asphalt, limbs twisted in a grotesque parody of life. Blood had pooled beneath the body, glistening black in the dim, flickering light of the streetlamp. The victim’s face—what was left of it—was frozen in a rictus of terror, eyes wide, mouth agape in a scream that would never be heard. A masterpiece of brutality.

The others hesitated, their hands trembling as they cataloged the scene, but not you. You stepped closer, the leather of your gloves creaking softly as you crouched down to examine the remains. The scent of copper and decay clung to the air, an invisible specter wrapping itself around your senses. Your gaze traced the jagged lines carved into the flesh, the deep incisions that spoke of rage, of obsession. You didn’t flinch. This wasn’t chaos to you. It was a puzzle, and every grotesque detail was a piece waiting to be placed.

“Detective,” a voice called from behind, hesitant. “We… we’ve got a partial print. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

You straightened, the weight of your coat shifting as you turned to face the forensics tech. The young man’s face was pale, his eyes darting nervously between you and the corpse. He held out a tablet, the illuminated screen displaying a magnified fingerprint. You nodded, taking the device and scanning the data with a clinical detachment that belied the storm brewing within you.

“It’s a start,” you said, your voice as cold and sharp as the night air. “Run it against every known database. Focus on violent offenders, repeat killers. He’s not new to this.”

The tech swallowed hard, nodding before scurrying off. You turned back to the body, your mind already piecing together the profile. Male, mid-thirties to forties. High intelligence, methodical. The precise incisions suggested medical knowledge or at least anatomical familiarity.

This wasn’t a crime of passion; it was art. A performance meant to shock and awe. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to be understood.

“He’s watching us right now,” you murmured, your breath ghosting over the victim’s lifeless eyes. It wasn’t paranoia. It was intuition—a sixth sense honed through years of studying the darkest recesses of the human mind. You scanned the surrounding buildings, the windows like darkened eyes peering down at you. Somewhere out there, he was hiding, basking in the chaos he had created.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, pulling you from your thoughts. You answered without looking at the screen, your voice a curt acknowledgment. “Detective speaking.”

“You’re quite something, aren’t you?” the voice on the other end drawled, rich with mockery and amusement. Male, smooth, confident. “Standing there in the rain, piecing me together like a puzzle. You’re just as brilliant as they say, maybe even more.”

Your heart quickened, but your expression remained impassive. “Who is this?”

A low chuckle, dark and velvety. “Let’s not pretend, Detective. You know exactly who I am. You’re holding my work in your hands, aren’t you? How does it feel to touch my masterpiece?”

Your grip tightened on the phone, the rain sliding off your glove like quicksilver. “Why don’t you come show me yourself? Or are you too much of a coward to face me?”

“Oh, feisty,” he purred. “I like that. But no, this is much more thrilling, don’t you think? The chase. The anticipation. You and me, dancing in the dark.”

“You won’t get away with this,” you said, your voice a blade honed to perfection. “I will find you.”

“Oh, I hope you do,” he replied, his tone shifting to something almost tender. “I’ve been waiting for someone like you, Detective. Someone who understands. Someone who can truly see me.”

The line went dead, leaving you standing in the rain with the echo of his voice lingering in your mind. A shiver coursed through you, not from the cold, but from the thrill. The hunt had begun, and you were already neck-deep in the abyss.

As the city’s lights flickered and the shadows deepened, you turned back to the crime scene. The others glanced at you, their faces a mix of awe and fear.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. This wasn’t just a job for you.

It was an obsession, a dance with darkness where every step brought you closer to the edge. And you couldn’t wait to see how far you could fall.

────────────

The mansion you called home was a monument to perfection—gleaming marble floors, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and walls adorned with paintings worth more than most people earned in a lifetime. It was the kind of place where silence reigned, not out of peace, but from suffocating control. A mausoleum masquerading as a home. The air always smelled of polished wood and cold steel, sterile and lifeless.

Your family was the kind people envied. Your father was a titan of business, a man whose name alone could inspire fear or awe depending on who spoke it. Your mother was the perfect socialite, a porcelain doll of grace and poise who never let her painted smile falter. And then there was you—the heir, the eldest child, the one meant to inherit it all.

Except no one envied you. Not if they looked closely enough.

“You’re a disappointment,” your father had said, his voice as sharp and cold as the winter air that seeped through the cracks in the mansion’s walls. He loomed over you, his tailored suit immaculate, his cufflinks gleaming like little knives. His eyes burned into you, assessing, judging, and finding you wanting. “Do you even want this life? Or are you content to sit there like a damn ghost?”

You had stared back at him, your face a mask of apathy, your eyes dull and distant. “I didn’t ask for this life,” you said, your voice flat, emotionless.

His slap came fast, sharp, and deliberate. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to sting. “You don’t get to choose. You’re my child, and you will uphold this family’s legacy.”

Your mother had watched from the corner of the room, her wine glass clutched tightly in manicured fingers. She didn’t intervene. She never did.

You were a disappointment to her, too. You didn’t have your father’s drive or her charm. You were quiet, withdrawn, always lurking in the corners of rooms during parties, your shoulders slumped and your expression unreadable. People whispered about you. The heir to an empire, and yet you carried yourself like a ghost.

Your younger siblings—perfect in their roles—thrived under the weight of your parents’ expectations. They were ambitious, charismatic, eager to please. Everything you weren’t. You avoided them as much as you could, retreating to the library or your room where no one would bother you.

Books were your only refuge, but even they failed to hold your attention for long. You flipped through pages without absorbing the words, your mind drifting to an endless void of nothingness. School was no better. Teachers despised your lack of effort, your unwillingness to engage. You could solve equations and recite facts with ease, but you didn’t care enough to try.

“You could be top of your class,” one teacher had told you once, her voice tinged with frustration. “Why won’t you put in the effort?”

You had shrugged. “What’s the point?”

She had stared at you like you’d just confessed to a murder.

The truth was, everything felt pointless. The world was gray, flat, lifeless. Food tasted bland, music sounded hollow, conversations felt like static. The people around you moved like automatons, their voices blending into a dull hum that barely registered.

You dragged yourself through each day, waiting for something—anything—to spark life within you. But nothing ever did. You were a shell, empty and hollow, drifting through life like a leaf caught in a current.

At home, the pressure mounted. Your father’s glares grew colder, your mother’s smiles more strained. “Why can’t you be like them?” she had hissed once, gesturing toward your siblings as they basked in the glow of parental approval. “Why can’t you care about something?”

You didn’t have an answer. You didn’t care about anything.

Until that day.

———

It was a Wednesday—cold, gray, and unremarkable. You had come home from school, dragging your feet up the driveway lined with perfectly trimmed hedges. The front door was ajar, but you didn’t think much of it. You stepped inside, the sound of your shoes against the marble echoing through the empty house.

And then you smelled it.

Iron. Sharp and metallic, it filled your nostrils, cutting through the usual sterile scent of the house.

You paused, your heart giving the faintest flutter of something you couldn’t name.

“Mom?” you called out, your voice soft, almost hesitant.

No answer.

You moved further in, the silence pressing down on you like a weight. The air grew colder as you approached the living room, the scent of blood growing stronger. Your pulse quickened—not from fear, but from something else. Something that made your skin prickle and your breath hitch.

The door was slightly open, light spilling out onto the polished floor. You pushed it open, and the world changed.

Your parents were dead.

Your mother lay on the cold tile floor like a broken marionette, her body contorted into angles no living thing could endure.

Her neck had been slit from ear to ear, the severed carotid arteries gaping open like grotesque mouths. The blood spray, arterial and bright, had painted the walls in erratic arcs, a grotesque mural of violence. Her head tilted unnaturally backward, the deep incision almost severing the spinal column.

The skin of her neck had been parted with surgical precision, revealing the glistening white cartilage of her trachea and the dark, meaty coils of severed muscle beneath. Her eyes—wide, glassy, and unmoving—stared into eternity, their sclera stained pink by ruptured capillaries.

Your father was slumped against the far wall, his body a macabre tableau of suffering.

His chest cavity had been torn open, the rib cage shattered and spread like grotesque wings to reveal the glistening viscera within. His sternum had been cracked apart, jagged shards of bone jutting outward, some piercing the flesh around them like cruel splinters. The cavity was hollow now, organs displaced or missing entirely—perhaps taken as trophies or discarded in the frenzy.

The lungs and heart remained, barely recognizable, its walls torn and sagging like deflated balloons. Blood seeped sluggishly from its ruined chambers, mixing with the viscous, bile-stained fluid pooling around his torso. His intestines, severed and spilling, snaked out across the floor in tangled loops that glistened under the harsh overhead light.

But for the first time in your life.

...

You felt alive.

The apathy that had gripped you for years shattered in an instant. Your heart raced, your breath caught, your fingers trembled. You should have been horrified. You should have screamed, cried, run for help.

But you didn’t.

────────────

You stepped closer, your movements slow, deliberate, as if approaching a sacred altar. The blood seeped into your sneakers, warm and sticky, but you didn’t care. You crouched beside your mother’s body, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch her lifeless face. Her skin was cold, waxy, but your pulse raced. Your fingers brushed against her blood, smearing it across your skin like a ritualistic paint.

The door creaked behind you, and you turned sharply, your heart leaping—not in fear, but in anticipation. Standing there was the man responsible, his silhouette stark against the dim light filtering in from the hallway. He was tall, his face obscured by the hood of his jacket, but you could see his eyes—cold, calculating, devoid of remorse.

He looked at you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then, a slow, crooked smile spread across his face.

“You’re not scared,” he said, his voice low, almost amused. “Interesting.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes locked on his. You felt something stir within you, a connection, a pull. You didn’t hate him. You didn’t want to run or scream. Instead, you wanted to understand him. To unravel the mystery of the man who had brought such beauty into your sterile, empty world.

“You’re different,” he murmured, stepping closer. His boots squelched in the blood, the sound sharp and wet. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re like me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill that you couldn’t explain. You didn’t move as he crouched before you, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch was cold, but it didn’t bother you.

“You’ll remember this day,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “And one day, you’ll thank me.”

He stood, pulling the hood tighter around his face, and turned to leave. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t cry out or beg for help. You just sat there, staring at the blood-soaked floor, your mind racing, your heart pounding.

In that moment, something inside you shifted.

You weren’t afraid of death.

You were fascinated by it, drawn to its cold embrace like a moth to flame.

You didn’t tell anyone about the man or his words. He was your secret, a shadow etched into your soul.

With the memory of his smile lingered in your mind, he would be a ghost that would haunt you for years to come.

────────────

You didn’t know how much time passed. Minutes, hours—it was meaningless. You were kneeling in the middle of the carnage, your school uniform soaked in blood that wasn’t yours. The hem of your skirt clung to the sticky floor, and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room filled the void of silence. The bodies of your parents lay sprawled before you like grotesque marionettes, strings cut and discarded.

You tilted your head, staring, unblinking. You traced the patterns of blood with your eyes—the way it spidered out in thin, spindly veins, pooling in the cracks of the marble. It was beautiful in its brutality, the symmetry and chaos mingling in a way that stirred something inside you.

A distant noise pulled you from your trance. The sound of footsteps. Heavy boots against the floor, muffled voices carrying through the still air. The door creaked open further, and the cold wash of blue and red lights from the police cruisers outside spilled into the room.

“Jesus Christ,” someone whispered, the words trembling on their lips.

You didn’t turn to look. You stayed where you were, your gaze locked on the corpses. The air seemed to grow heavier, oppressive with the weight of death.

“Kid?” a soft voice called out, tentative, careful. A man stepped into view, his face pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. He was a detective, judging by the coat slung over his shoulders. His badge glinted faintly at his hip. “Are you… Are you okay?”

You blinked slowly, tilting your head as you finally tore your gaze away from the bodies to look at him. His eyes widened slightly, and he took a step back, as though your stare had unnerved him.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice devoid of emotion.

He crouched down, careful not to step into the blood. His face softened, his voice lowering into a soothing tone, the kind reserved for skittish animals or traumatized children. “It’s okay, you��re safe now. I’m Detective Shiu Kong. Can you tell me your name?”

You told him, your tone as flat as ever. He glanced at the carnage behind you, his jaw tightening. “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

You shook your head. “No. I just… found them like this.”

His eyes searched your face, looking for signs of tears, fear, something—anything. But you gave him nothing.

Another officer stepped into the room, his hand flying to his mouth as he gagged. “Oh, God… This is… It’s like something out of a nightmare.”

Detective Shiu shot him a look. “Pull it together, Itadori. Go secure the perimeter. Make sure no one contaminates the scene.”

Itadori nodded quickly and left, his footsteps retreating down the hall. Shiu turned his attention back to you, his gaze softening again. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out, I promise. But I need you to come with me, alright? Let’s get you out of here.”

He extended a hand, but you didn’t take it. Instead, you stood on your own, your legs stiff from kneeling so long. Blood clung to your shoes, leaving faint red imprints as you stepped back.

Another officer approached, this one a woman with kind eyes and a gentle demeanor. “We’ll need to ask her some questions,” she said softly, her gaze flickering to you. “But let’s give her some time.”

You allowed them to guide you into another room, away from the bodies, though the image was burned into your mind. The house felt colder now, emptier.

Behind you, the investigators began their work. You could hear their voices, low murmurs tinged with horror and disbelief.

“The killer had to have known them. This wasn’t random.”

“Look at the precision of the wounds. This wasn’t just rage—this was deliberate.”

“There’s no sign of forced entry. They let him in.”

The words filtered through the haze in your mind, but you didn’t react. You sat on the edge of a pristine white couch, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your bloodstained fingers leaving faint smears on your skin.

Shiu knelt in front of you, his face lined with concern. “I know this is hard,” he said gently. “But we’re going to catch the person who did this. I promise.”

You met his gaze, your expression blank. Inside, though, something stirred. Catch him? You didn’t want them to catch him. You wanted to understand him.

And for the first time, you spoke a question that sounded innocent, but carried a deeper, darker hunger. “What kind of person would do something like this?”

Shiu sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Someone broken. Someone dangerous. But don’t worry, we’ll keep you safe.”

Safe. You didn’t care about being safe. You cared about him. About the mind that had created that tableau of death. About the hands that had painted your parents’ blood across the floor.

As the investigation swirled around you, as officers snapped photos and collected evidence, you sat in silence, a strange, budding fascination growing in your chest.

The world wasn’t gray anymore.

For the first time, it was alive with color.

────────────

The interrogation room was a sterile box—a windowless void bathed in the cold fluorescence of a single overhead light. It smelled faintly of bleach and despair, the walls closing in with an oppressive, airless silence. You sat in the center of it, small and motionless, like a porcelain doll abandoned on a shelf. Your hands rested on the table, palms upturned, the faint streaks of your parents’ blood still etched into the creases of your fingers.

On the other side of the glass, the detectives gathered, watching you in a hushed conference of disbelief and unease.

“She hasn’t cried,” one of them murmured, his voice tight. “Not once.”

Detective Shiu, the man who had been first on the scene, leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His brow was furrowed, his expression grim. “She’s in shock,” he said quietly. “Or maybe she’s too scared to process what happened. It’s not unusual in kids this young.”

“She’s twelve, Shiu,” another detective said, his voice wavering. “Twelve. I’ve seen kids lose it over their goldfish dying, and she’s sitting there like… like she’s made of stone.”

A younger officer, fresh out of the academy, spoke up hesitantly. “Her siblings… They’re in the next room. Crying their eyes out, clinging to the social workers like lifelines. But her? She hasn’t even asked about them.”

Shiu glanced through the glass, his gaze hardening as he studied you. “Kids process trauma differently. Just because she’s not falling apart doesn’t mean she’s not affected. Hell, it might hit her later—when she’s alone. When there’s no one left to be strong for.”

“Strong?” The younger officer scoffed. “She’s twelve. She shouldn’t have to be strong. She should be screaming for her parents.”

Shiu turned sharply to face him, his voice a low growl. “And what exactly do you expect her to do? She came home and found her parents butchered. Her entire world’s been shattered. Maybe this is her way of surviving it.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of them. Beyond the glass, you sat unmoving, your eyes fixed on the corner of the table.

“She’s been sitting like that for over an hour,” the first detective muttered, his gaze flicking nervously toward the one-way mirror. “Not a single word unless we ask her something directly. No tears, no outbursts. Nothing.”

Shiu rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion etched into his features. “What do you want me to say? That it’s normal? It’s not. But we don’t know her. We don’t know what’s going on in her head.”

The younger officer swallowed hard, his voice dropping. “The scene was… It was bad, Shiu. Worse than anything I’ve seen in years. The bodies were staged, for Christ’s sake. Staged like it was some kind of art project. And she sat in the middle of it like she didn’t even see the blood.”

Shiu’s jaw tightened. “I saw it too, rookie. And I’m telling you, that girl isn’t our priority right now. The killer is. Focus on the evidence.”

But the rookie couldn’t let it go. “Did you notice her hands? The way she was staring at them when we brought her in? Like she was memorizing the blood. Like it was… I don’t know, fascinating to her.”

“That’s enough,” Shiu snapped, his voice a blade that cut through the room.

But the words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

The group fell into an uneasy silence as they turned their attention back to you. Inside the room, you shifted slightly, your fingers curling against the table. Your movements were slow, deliberate, as though you were cataloging each sensation—the cool surface of the metal, the faint stickiness of dried blood.

“You said she’s the eldest,” another detective said quietly, breaking the silence. “She’s probably been under pressure her whole life. Heir to the family fortune, right? Big shoes to fill, parents pushing her to be perfect. Maybe she was just… conditioned for this kind of detachment.”

“Maybe,” Shiu muttered, though the doubt in his voice was palpable. “But that doesn’t explain why she’s so damn calm. I’ve seen soldiers with less composure after a firefight.”

Another officer entered the observation room, holding a folder thick with case files and photographs. She set it down on the table with a heavy thud. “Preliminary findings from the scene,” she said. “And it’s… a mess. No forced entry, so the killer either had a key or they were let in. The wounds are precise—surgical, almost. We’re looking at someone with medical training, maybe an ex-surgeon.”

Shiu opened the folder, his eyes scanning the grisly photographs. “Anything else?”

The officer hesitated, then lowered her voice. “The way the bodies were positioned… It wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Like he wanted to send a message. And the kids’ rooms? Untouched. He had the chance to hurt them but didn’t. This was about the parents.”

“Deliberate,” Shiu echoed, his voice a low growl. He glanced at you through the glass, his gaze darkening.

“She’s a victim, Shiu,” the officer said firmly, sensing his hesitation. “Don’t let your gut get in the way of the facts.”

He nodded slowly, though his eyes remained on you. “Get a full psych eval on her as soon as possible. And keep an eye on her siblings. They’ve been through hell.”

As the others filed out, Shiu lingered, his gaze locked on your tiny figure in the interrogation room. Your face was a blank slate, devoid of emotion, your eyes distant, like you were staring into another world entirely.

“Kid,” he murmured under his breath, his voice heavy with pity and unease. “What the hell’s going on in that head of yours?”

Inside the room, you shifted your gaze to the one-way mirror, your expression unreadable. Somewhere deep inside you, beneath the calm, beneath the emptiness, a quiet, gnawing hunger began to stir.

────────────

The funeral was a cold, desolate affair. Rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming against the black umbrellas that formed a sea of mourners. The sky, a bruised expanse of gray, seemed to weep for the tragedy that had hollowed out an entire family. The scent of wet earth and wilting flowers hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sterile tang of grief and formaldehyde.

Six children stood in a line, each a mirror of their parents’ legacy. Their faces bore the delicate symmetry of their bloodline, but grief had marred their perfection. Red-rimmed eyes, trembling hands, and heaving sobs betrayed their anguish. They clung to the adults around them—grandparents, aunts, uncles—like lifelines in an unrelenting storm. All except you.

You stood apart from the others, a silent silhouette against the backdrop of the open grave. Your posture was unnervingly composed, your expression a mask of indifference. The black dress you wore hung loosely on your slight frame, rain streaking the fabric like tears you refused to shed. While your siblings cried openly, you remained still, your gaze fixed not on the caskets being lowered into the ground, but somewhere beyond—into the void.

Detective Shiu watched you from a respectful distance, his sharp eyes missing nothing. The rain plastered his raven hair to his forehead, and his trench coat was soaked through, but he didn’t move. There was something about you that gnawed at him, something that refused to be dismissed as mere shock or stoicism.

When the priest finished his sermon, the mourners began to disperse, their sobs fading into the sound of rain. Shiu approached you cautiously, his boots sinking slightly into the mud with each step. You didn’t acknowledge his presence at first, not until he stopped beside you, his voice low and measured.

“You’re a strong kid,” he said, his tone laden with the kind of empathy that came from years of witnessing human suffering. “Stronger than most adults I’ve met.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes still locked on the horizon.

He followed your gaze, finding nothing but the skeletal outline of trees in the distance. “Your siblings,” he continued, “they’ve got people to lean on. Family. Support. But you…” He hesitated, studying you carefully. “You’ve been handling this on your own, haven’t you?”

Still, you said nothing.

Shiu sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. “I know it feels like the world’s ended. Like nothing makes sense anymore. But it’s okay to let it out, you know. To feel something.”

Finally, you turned to look at him, your expression as blank as the tombstones dotting the cemetery.

Shiu’s jaw tightened, his instincts flaring. He’d spent decades reading people, peeling back the layers they tried to hide. And you… You were like a locked vault, impenetrable and cold.

But then he saw it—a flicker, brief but unmistakable. A spark of something behind your eyes when he shifted the subject.

“The case,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “We’re working hard to catch whoever did this. It’s not going to be easy, but we’ll get them. I promise you that.”

Your posture changed, barely perceptible. Your shoulders stiffened slightly, and your gaze, previously distant, sharpened just enough for him to notice.

“What do you know so far?” you asked.

The question was casual, but to Shiu, it was like a flare in the dark. Most kids in your position wouldn’t want to hear the details, wouldn’t want to relive the horror. But you… You were curious.

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Not much yet. We’re looking into suspects. Someone close to the family, maybe. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. It wasn’t random.”

Your head tilted slightly, your expression unreadable. “Knew what they were doing?”

“Yeah,” Shiu said, his voice lowering. “The wounds were precise. Almost surgical. This wasn’t someone acting out of rage or desperation. It was planned. Methodical.”

For the briefest moment, your lips curved into something resembling a smile, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Shiu’s stomach churned.

“You’re interested in the case,” he said, more of an observation than a question.

You shrugged, your gaze drifting back to the open grave. “I just want to know why.”

“Why?”

“Why they did it,” you said simply. “Why my parents. Why like that.”

Shiu studied you for a long moment, his mind racing. He could see it now, the faint glimmer of fascination in your otherwise dead eyes. It wasn’t grief that drove you—it was curiosity. And that disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

“I’ll let you know when we find something,” he said finally, his voice tight.

You nodded, turning away from him and back to the grave as the caskets disappeared into the earth.

As Shiu walked away, a cold dread settled in his chest. He didn’t have proof, not yet. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t just a victim of this tragedy. You were something else entirely. Something he couldn’t name.

And deep down, he wondered if the killer hadn’t just taken your parents. He wondered if, in some twisted way, they’d awakened something in you.

Something that would never go back to sleep.

────────────

Detective Shiu Kong leaned back in his chair, the muted hum of the interrogation room’s fluorescent lights buzzing in his ears. Across the table, you sat motionless, hands folded neatly in your lap, posture unnaturally straight for someone your age. The muted gray walls and steel table seemed to swallow you whole, a tiny figure in an oppressive void. Your face was calm, eerily so—no tears, no tremors, no reddened eyes like your siblings. Just that neutral, detached expression, as if you were waiting out a dull lecture at school.

The detective studied you, his brow furrowed. His years as a profiler had trained him to see what others couldn’t, to read the nuances of behavior that betrayed inner turmoil. But with you? It was a blank slate. No tells, no cracks in the armor. If anything, your stillness felt intentional, like the quiet before the eye of a storm.

“It takes a village to make a killer,” Shiu said, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was soft, a stark contrast to the clinical environment around you. “Someone doesn’t just wake up one day and decide to do what they did to your parents. It’s… fragile, the way a person breaks.”

You said nothing, but your gaze flicked to him for the briefest of moments before returning to the cold metal surface of the table. It wasn’t much, but he saw it—a faint glimmer of something. Interest? Annoyance? He wasn’t sure.

Shiu exhaled, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I know you don’t like to talk much,” he continued. “And I’m not here to force you. But… I’m curious. You’ve been through something no one should ever have to experience. I’d like to hear your thoughts. About the case.”

You finally moved, tilting your head slightly, your eyes narrowing as you studied him. For a moment, he thought you wouldn’t respond. Then, softly, you spoke. Your voice was quiet but carried a certain weight, an eerie calmness that unsettled even him.

“They weren’t sloppy,” you said, almost to yourself. “Not at all.”

Shiu leaned forward, elbows on the table, nodding for you to continue.

“The cuts,” you said, your tone clinical, detached. “Precise. Efficient. The carotid artery was severed on my mother. Do you know how hard it is to make that cut on the first attempt? There’s a lot of tissue in the way—muscle, skin. It’s easy to miss. But they didn’t. They knew exactly what they were doing.”

Shiu’s eyes widened slightly, but he stayed silent, letting you unravel your thoughts.

“And my father,” you continued, your voice taking on a rhythm now, faster, like a scientist presenting a theory. “They cracked his sternum. That requires force—an immense amount of it. Whoever did this either used a tool, or they’re physically very strong. Maybe both.”

You leaned back slightly, a faint crease forming between your brows. “But it wasn’t random. They didn’t damage the lungs. Or the heart. That’s unusual for a chest cavity opening, isn’t it?”

Shiu’s lips parted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in surprise. “You’re right,” he admitted. “It is unusual. We assumed they were interrupted before finishing.”

You shook your head, the first real emotion flickering across your face—a faint, almost imperceptible trace of impatience. “No. That wasn’t the point. It wasn’t an unfinished job. It was… intentional. A display. Like they wanted us to see inside him.”

Shiu stared at you, his mind working overtime to process your words. “A display,” he repeated. “You think it was symbolic?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice tinged with a strange, almost morbid fascination. “Or maybe it’s a message. They took care to leave certain things intact. Why? If it was just rage, they’d have destroyed everything. But they didn’t. It’s methodical. Almost surgical.”

The room felt colder now, the air thick with tension. Shiu leaned closer, his eyes locked on yours. “And what do you think they’re trying to say?”

For the first time, you hesitated, your gaze dropping to the table. Then you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “That they’re better than us. Smarter. More… evolved.”

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to drop. Shiu studied you, his chest tight with unease. There was something about the way you spoke—not just the content, but the tone. Detached, yet brimming with an almost manic curiosity. It reminded him of someone dissecting a rare specimen under a microscope.

“You’ve thought about this a lot,” he said carefully.

You shrugged, your shoulders barely moving. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Everything else is just… noise.”

Shiu’s brow furrowed, his gut instinct screaming at him. “You’re not like your siblings,” he said finally. “They cry. They grieve. You… don’t.”

Your gaze snapped to his, sharp and unyielding. “Is that what you want? Tears?” There was no malice in your tone, only a quiet challenge. “Would that make it easier for you to understand?”

Shiu didn’t flinch, but he felt the weight of your words settle heavily on his shoulders. “No,” he said softly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping back to the table. The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. Shiu sat back, exhaling slowly.

“You’re smart,” he said finally. “Smarter than you let on.”

You said nothing, but the faintest flicker of an annoyed smile ghosted across your lips—a blink-and-you-miss-it moment that sent a chill down Shiu’s spine.

He knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you weren’t just a victim in this story. You were something else entirely. Something he couldn’t quite put into words, but that set every instinct on edge.

And as he walked out of the room that day, he made a silent promise to himself: he’d watch you. Not out of pity or duty, but because deep down, he knew that whatever path you were heading down, it was one he couldn’t ignore.

────────────

Detective Shiu Kong had seen too many young lives derailed by tragedy, twisted by trauma, but you—there was something about you that unsettled him deeply. It wasn’t just the apathy, the emptiness that radiated off you like a thick, suffocating fog. It was the moments where that apathy cracked, and something far more dangerous seeped through—an unnatural hunger, a sharpness to your gaze that reminded him of a predator observing prey.

Your family, as it turned out, hadn’t cared for you in the way families were supposed to. It was in the brittle silences of the house you were now trapped in, the way the distant relatives who took over arrangements barely addressed you, their perfunctory actions revealing more about duty than love. Your siblings clung to one another, huddling for warmth against the cold, but you stayed apart.

Always apart.

Watching.

Thinking.

Silent.

———

Shiu didn’t know what compelled him to watch over you.

He was a man who worked alone, who didn’t believe in getting attached to anyone, least of all children with gaping wounds that no amount of therapy could stitch closed.

But every instinct in his body screamed that you were a ticking bomb, and he couldn’t ignore it.

He noticed the small, alarming habits first. The way you would skip meals for days on end, your thin frame growing even thinner. The way you could sit for hours, unmoving, staring at the same spot on the wall like you were seeing something no one else could. The way you seemed to breathe only out of necessity.

Yet when the topic of death, of cases, came up, you transformed. Your eyes would sharpen, your monotone voice would take on a rhythm, a tremor of something almost joyous.

“You know, not eating won’t make the pain disappear,” he told you one day, sitting across from you in the dim light of the room you had claimed as your own. The windows were closed, the air stale.

You didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him. But then, in the stillness, you said, “What was the autopsy report for the victim in the Wyler case?”

Shiu blinked, caught off guard. “You’re not eating, and that’s what you’re interested in?”

“Yes,” you replied simply, turning your head just slightly to meet his gaze. Your eyes weren’t those of a child’s. They were ancient and cold, dissecting him. “The way they were dismembered. There were inconsistencies in the photos. It didn’t seem... human.”

For a moment, Shiu wondered if he should leave, report you to someone better equipped to handle whatever this was.

But then he sighed, his professional curiosity outweighing his unease. “The dismemberment wasn’t human, not entirely,” he admitted. “The killer used a custom blade, likely self-made. Something serrated, designed to maximize tissue damage while minimizing effort. Efficient but cruel.”

You sat up, for the first time showing a glimmer of true interest. “Efficient but cruel,” you murmured, as if tasting the words. “Like they wanted to see how far they could go before the body failed. A test, maybe.”

Shiu raised a brow. “That’s a very specific theory.”

You shrugged. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Make theories?”

Shiu leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “You realize this isn’t normal for someone your age, right?”

“Normal is boring,” you replied, your voice flat but tinged with something darker. “And you keep talking to me. So, maybe I’m useful to you.”

Shiu didn’t have an answer to that. He didn’t want to admit you were right.

———

Over the weeks, he started bringing you details of cases—not the classified, sensitive material, but enough to give you a taste of what he was dealing with. It was against protocol, sure, but Shiu wasn’t stupid. He saw how your apathy shifted when you had something to analyze.

It wasn’t about healing you; it was about keeping you from descending into something far worse.

“What do you see here?” he asked one evening, spreading out crime scene photos on the desk between you. The images were brutal—blood splatter patterns streaked across concrete walls, a body slumped in the corner, its throat carved open with surgical precision.

You leaned in, your fingers tracing the edges of one photo. “The blood arc here,” you said, pointing to a particularly vivid spray. “It’s too high for someone who’s left-handed.”

Shiu frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Because if they were left-handed, the angle would’ve been sharper, closer to this direction.” You gestured with your hand, mimicking the trajectory. “They used their right hand to strike, but... they weren’t dominant with it. See how the arc stutters here? Like they hesitated.”

Shiu stared at the photo, then at you. “That’s... not bad,” he said cautiously. “But why would they use their non-dominant hand?”

“To confuse you,” you replied, your tone matter-of-fact. “Throw off the profile. They’re probably ambidextrous, but they want you to think they’re clumsy. A false lead.”

Shiu shook his head, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got a knack for this.”

You looked at him, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something almost resembling emotion.

“I want to do what you do,” you said. “Study them. Understand them. I think... I could be good at it.”

Shiu’s chest tightened. He wanted to tell you no, to tell you to choose something else, something lighter, but he knew it would be a lie.

You weren’t meant for light.

You thrived in the shadows, where the unspeakable lived.

“All right,” he said after a long pause. “But if you’re serious about this, you need to take it seriously. No more skipping meals. No more locking yourself away. You put in the effort, or you don’t do it at all.”

You tilted your head, as if considering his words, and then nodded. “Deal.”

Shiu watched you carefully as you returned your attention to the photos, the faintest hint of life returning to your features. He didn’t know if he was helping you or enabling something far worse, but one thing was certain: you weren’t a victim anymore.

You were something else entirely.

────────────

The years between 12 and 18 passed like a blur of clinical precision and relentless hunger. You became the youngest graduate in criminal profiling, earning honors, accolades, and the kind of begrudging respect that even the most senior officers had to acknowledge.

But for all the brilliance you displayed on paper, your presence unnerved people. Outside of work, you remained distant, a spectral figure with dead eyes and an air of quiet detachment. In social settings, you were polite but devoid of warmth, a mannequin in human form.

In the field, however, you were a force of nature. Cases brought you to life in a way nothing else could. It wasn’t just work to you—it was an obsession, an itch buried deep in your psyche that only bloodied crime scenes and twisted puzzles could scratch.

To most, your drive was admirable, a testament to youthful ambition. To those who worked with you, it was terrifying.

———

It had been a week since the “Red Veil Butcher” case had been closed. A particularly brutal spree killer who targeted victims with surgical precision, leaving behind bodies that were less human than anatomical exhibits.

The debrief was supposed to be routine, a moment of closure for the department. The victim’s family was present, a grieving mother clutching her child’s scarf like it was the last tether to her sanity. Officers murmured words of comfort, offering coffee and awkward pats on her shoulder. You sat in the corner, silent, observing the proceedings like they were an annoying obstacle.

When one of the senior officers asked you for your thoughts, you didn’t hesitate.

“The mother missed key signs,” you said bluntly. “The killer stalked her daughter for months, even sent warning letters. She should’ve contacted the police earlier.”

The room went silent, save for the soft, choked sobs of the grieving mother. Every pair of eyes turned to you, wide with disbelief.

“Jesus Christ, have some empathy!” one of the officers hissed. “That’s her child.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly. “It’s the truth. She ignored the signs, and the result was fatal. If anything, she should—”

“Enough!” The commanding officer’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Leave. Now.”

You left without another word, though the rage simmering behind you was palpable.

———

Shiu Kong didn’t call you immediately. He waited, as he always did, giving you time to simmer in your own thoughts.

When he finally summoned you to his office, the look on his face was enough to tell you this wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it.

You shrugged. “I said what needed to be said. She was negligent—”

“Stop,” Shiu snapped. “Do you think that helps anyone? Do you think saying that to a grieving mother is going to bring her daughter back? Or make her feel anything other than guilt?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s not about feelings. It’s about preventing the next victim. If people understood the consequences of their negligence—”

“This isn’t just about logic!” Shiu slammed his hand on the desk, making you flinch ever so slightly.

“Do you know why you’re still here, why you haven’t been pulled from this line of work entirely? Because you’re good. Damned good. But if you can’t figure out how to make people listen to you without alienating them, you’re useless. Do you understand that?”

You looked away, lips pressed into a thin line.

Shiu sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, I know you don’t care about people. I know empathy doesn’t come naturally to you, and I’m not asking you to fake something you’re not. But you need to learn how to communicate in a way that gets results. That means learning how to mask your apathy, at least enough that people aren’t too angry or upset to work with you.”

“That’s... illogical,” you muttered. “Why should I—”

“Because obstruction is your worst enemy,” Shiu interrupted, his tone softening slightly. “And you hate inefficiency, don’t you?”

You froze, his words striking a chord deep within you.

“You don’t do this for glory or fame,” Shiu continued.

“You do it because solving cases is what makes you tick. So think of this as another skill to master—another tool in your arsenal. Learn how to handle people, or you’ll be left behind. And I won’t be able to protect you.”

You hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “Fine.”

———

You weren’t perfect, but you adapted. You learned how to soften your edges, how to mimic the empathy that people expected. You nodded at grieving families, offered hollow condolences, and kept your cutting observations to yourself until you were behind closed doors.

It was exhausting, like wearing a second skin that didn’t quite fit, but it worked. People stopped glaring at you. They started listening.

But in private, in the confines of your work, you were the same. Clinical. Relentless. Brilliant.

———

Shiu handed you a file one evening, his expression unreadable. “This one’s tricky,” he said. “The killer calls themselves ‘Red Rose.’ They leave roses at every crime scene, but no fingerprints, no DNA. Just the flowers.”

You opened the file, scanning the photos. The victims were posed in strange, almost reverent positions, their bodies adorned with thorny vines.

“They’re making a statement,” you said after a moment. “The roses aren’t just a calling card. They’re part of the ritual.”

Shiu nodded. “That’s what we think too. But what’s the message?”

You studied the photos in silence, then pointed to a small detail in one of the images. “Look at the way the vines are arranged. They’re covering the victim’s mouth and eyes, but not their ears. It’s symbolic. They’re saying... ‘Listen.’”

Shiu raised a brow. “To what?”

“To them,” you replied. “The killer thinks they’re silencing liars, people who ‘speak falsehoods’ or ‘see evil.’ They want their truth to be heard.”

Shiu leaned back, impressed despite himself. “You’ve got a knack for getting into their heads.”

You allowed yourself a small, almost imperceptible smile. “It’s what I do.”

By 18, you had built a reputation as one of the youngest, most promising criminal profilers in the field.

But Shiu knew the truth—you weren’t doing this out of a sense of justice or duty. You were chasing something deeper, darker.

And he watched, always wary, always waiting, knowing that one day, he might have to make a choice: save you from yourself, or let you burn.

────────────

It began as a whisper, a quiet, insidious thought that crawled into the back of your mind during the early years of your work. It wasn’t the murders themselves that fascinated you—though you would sometimes lie awake at night replaying the crime scenes in your head, each bloody tableau etched with clinical precision.

No, it was the murderers. The way their minds worked, their audacity to play God.

It was intoxicating.

You told yourself it was professional interest.

Shiu Kong often praised your ability to get into a killer’s head, to see the world through their eyes. It was why you were the best.

But you knew better. There was something else, something primal and shameful, that pulled you toward them like gravity. You could feel it in your chest, a tight, hot coil of hunger every time you interrogated one.

———

The first time it happened, you told yourself it was a mistake.

A lapse in judgment.

He was a sadist, a monster who had strangled six women in their own beds. You were supposed to be observing him, studying him.

Instead, you found yourself leaning closer, your breath hitching when his hand brushed yours. He smiled—a predator’s smile, sharp and knowing. He saw right through you, into the dark, hollow place you kept hidden from everyone, even yourself.

“You love danger, don’t you?” he had whispered, his voice like velvet laced with barbed wire.

You didn’t answer, but your silence spoke volumes.

Later that night, you visited him in his cell. The guards had left for their rounds, and the shadows swallowed the room whole.

It was dangerous. Reckless.

But when he pinned you against the cold, unforgiving bars, you had never felt more alive. His hands were rough, his grip bruising, and you let him do whatever he wanted.

You didn’t care about the consequences, only the searing heat in your veins and the dizzying high of being so close to death.

———

After that, it became a pattern.

You were careful—always careful. You never left evidence, never allowed your encounters to interfere with your cases. To the world, you were still the brilliant, detached profiler who closed cases with surgical precision.

But in the shadows, you lived for the moments when a killer’s hands wrapped around your throat, when you could feel their breath on your skin and the sharp edge of a blade against your flesh.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust, not in the conventional sense.

You didn’t care about them as people, and you certainly didn’t want a relationship. It was the power, the thrill of standing at the edge of the abyss and staring into the void. You were the perfect submissive, but not because you wanted to be controlled. You wanted to be consumed.

And then, when the moment came, you turned the tables.

They thought they had you, that you were theirs to break and discard. But you were always one step ahead. You let them believe they had won, let them take their pleasure and their power. And then you crushed them. Every time, without fail, you closed the case.

They ended up behind bars, or dead, and you walked away unscathed. It was a game, a twisted chess match where you always had the final move.

———

But there was one killer you hadn’t found yet. The one who had started it all.

Your parents’ murderer.

He was the first, the one who had opened your eyes to the beauty of chaos and the fragility of life.

You didn’t hate him. You couldn’t. In a way, you were grateful to him. He had given you purpose, a reason to exist.

And yet, you wanted him more than anyone else.

Not to love him. Not even to kill him. You wanted to stand before him, to feel his hands on your skin, to let him carve his mark into you like he had carved it into your family. You wanted him to take you apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

And then you would destroy him.

Each case you worked on felt like a step closer to him, even though you knew it wasn’t. You chased every lead, interrogated every suspect with the same cold, detached intensity.

But when they weren’t him, you felt a pang of disappointment, a hollow ache that no amount of blood or violence could fill.

Every killer you encountered was a pale imitation, a placeholder to fill the void until you found him. You imagined what it would be like to face him, to feel his hands on your throat, to hear his voice whispering in your ear. The thought made your heart race, your breath quicken.

And, you never stopped. You couldn’t. He was out there somewhere, watching, waiting. And you would find him.

He was the endgame, the final piece of the puzzle.

────────────

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