#she’s part of a psychological horror story

[dovesick]

the seamstress

[the-blossica-fan]

Hear me out on this one okay? I'm having a big brain moment

Apocalypse AU in which Jessica is infected but is conscious and is in love with Blonney

Jessica was once Blonney's friend back in the day, watching, reading and writing horror stories together, but since Blonney's parents had to go, Blonney gave Jessica her beloved diary and then left Green Lake. Despite it being years since the last time they saw each other, Jessica could never forget about Blonney.

Now, during the apocalypse, Jessica had been infected rather quickly, but her consciousness stayed put. A non human in a lookout for her beloved friend.

Blonney came back to Green Lake because she claimed it would be safer since it's secluded and the town didn't have many inhabitants as far as she remembers.

Unfortunately, Jessica would be there waiting for Blonney.

[infiniteglitterfall]

know someone who enjoys horror stories? share this one! it's true!

hahahahahahahahahaha aarrggghhhhhhhhhh 3,000,000 deaths due to COVID-19 last year. Globally. Three million. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. The reason people are still worried about COVID is because it has a way of quietly fucking up your body. And the risk is cumulative.

I'm going to say that again: the risk is cumulative.

It's not just that a lot of people get bad long-term effects from it. One in seven or so? Enough that it's kind of the Russian Roulette of diseases. It's also that the more times you get it, the higher that risk becomes. Like if each time you survived Russian Roulette, the empty chamber was removed from the gun entirely. The worst part is that, psychologically, we have the absolute opposite reaction. If we survive something with no ill effects, we assume it's pretty safe. It is really, really hard to override that sense of, "Ok, well, I got it and now I probably have a lot of immunity and also it wasn't that bad." It is not a respiratory disease. Airborne, yes. Respiratory disease, no: not a cold, not a flu, not RSV.

Like measles (or maybe chickenpox?), it starts with respiratory symptoms. And then it moves to other parts of your body. It seems to target the lungs, the digestive system, the heart, and the brain the most.

It also hits the immune system really hard - a lot of people are suddenly more susceptible to completely unrelated viruses. People get brain fog, migraines, forget things they used to know.

(I really, really hate that it can cross the blood-brain barrier. NOTHING SHOULD EVER CROSS THE BLOOD-BRAIN BARRIER IT IS THERE FOR A REASON.) Anecdotal examples of this shit are horrifying. I've seen people talk about coworkers who've had COVID five or more times, and now their work... just often doesn't make sense? They send emails that say things like, "Sorry, I didn't mean Los Angeles, I meant Los Angeles."

Or they insist they've never heard of some project that they were actually in charge of a year or two before.

Or their work is just kind of falling apart, and they don't seem to be aware of it.

People talk about how they don't want to get the person in trouble, so their team just works around it. Or they describe neighbors and relatives who had COVID repeatedly, were nearly hospitalized, talked about how incredibly sick they felt at the time... and now swear they've only had it once and it wasn't bad, they barely even noticed it.

(As someone who lived with severe dissociation for most of my life, this is a genuinely terrifying idea to me. I've already spent my whole life being like, "but what if I told them that already? but what if I did do that? what if that did happen to me and I just don't remember?") One of its known effects in the brain is to increase impulsivity and risk-taking, which is real fucking convenient honestly. What a fantastic fucking mutation. So happy for it on that one. Yes, please make it seem less important to wear a mask and get vaccinated. I'm not screaming internally at all now.

I saw a tweet from someone last year whose family hadn't had COVID yet, who were still masking in public, including school.

She said that her son was no kind of an athlete. Solidly bottom middle of the pack in gym.

And suddenly, this year, he was absolutely blowing past all the other kids who had to run the mile. He wasn't running any faster. His times weren't fantastic or anything. It's just that the rest of the kids were worse than him now. For some reason. I think about that a lot. (Like my incredibly active six-year-old getting a cold, and suddenly developing post-viral asthma that looked like pneumonia.

He went back to school the day before yesterday, after being home for a month and using preventative inhalers for almost week.

He told me that it was GREAT - except that he couldn't run as much at recess, because he immediately got really tired. Like how I went outside with him to do some yard work and felt like my body couldn't figure out how to increase breathing and heart rate.

I wasn't physically out of breath, but I felt like I was out of breath. That COVID feeling people describe, of "I'm not getting enough air." Except that I didn't have that problem when I had COVID.) Some people don't observe any long (or medium) term side effects after they have it.

But researchers have found viral reservoirs of COVID-19 in everyone they've studied who had it.

It just seems to hang out, dormant, for... well, longer than we've had an opportunity to observe it, so far.

(I definitely watched that literal horror movie. I think that's an entire genre. The alien dormant under ice in the Arctic.)

(oh hey I don't like that either!!!!!!!!!) All of which is to explain why we should still care about avoiding it, and how it manages to still cause excess deaths. Measuring excess deaths has been a standard tool in public health for a long time.

We know how many people usually die from all different causes, every year. So we can tell if, for example, deaths from heart disease have gone way up in the past three years, and look for reasons. Those are excess deaths: deaths that, four years ago, would not have happened. During the pandemic, excess death rates have been a really important tool. For all sorts of reasons. Like, sometimes people die from COVID without ever getting tested, and the official cause is listed as something else because nobody knows they had COVID. But also, people are dying from cardiovascular illness much younger now.

People are having strokes and heart attacks younger, and more often, than they did before the pandemic started. COVID causes a lot of problems. And some of those problems kill people. And some of them make it easier for other things to kill us. Lung damage from COVID leading to lungs collapsing, or to pneumonia, or to a pulmonary embolism, for example. The Economist built a machine-learning model with a 95% confidence interval that gauges excess death statistics around the world, to tell them what the true toll of the ongoing COVID pandemic has been so far.

Total excess deaths globally in 2023: Three million.

3,000,000.

Official COVID-19 deaths globally so far: Seven million. 7,000,000. Total excess deaths during COVID so far: Thirty-five point two million. 35,200,000.

Five times as many.

That's bad. I don't like that at all. I'm glad last year was less than a tenth of that. I'm not particularly confident about that continuing, though, because last year we started a period of really high COVID transmission. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. Here's their data, and charts you can play with, and links to detailed information on how they did all of this:

Here's a non-paywalled link to it:

https://archive.vn/2024.01.26-012536/https://www.economist.com/graphic-detail/coronavirus-excess-deaths-estimates

Oh: here's a link to where you can buy comfy, effective N95 masks in all sizes:

Those ones are about a buck each after shipping - about $30 for a box of 30. They also have sample packs for a dollar, so you can try a couple of different sizes and styles.

You can wear an N95 mask for about 40 total hours before the effectiveness really drops, so that's like a dollar for a week of wear.

They're also family-owned and have cat-shaped masks and I really love them. These ones are cuter and in a much wider range of colors, prints, and styles, but they're also more expensive; they range from $1.80 to $3 for a mask. ($18-$30 for a box of ten.)

[alicentsgf]

It’s mentioned a fair amount that Yellowjackets was inspired by Twin Peaks but I just want to talk about what that might actually mean.

I once saw someone say about that show, "Twin Peaks tells you exactly what it's about every three episodes but people don't see it because there's a horse in the living room." And that's so true for Yellowjackets too. Picture it like a nesting doll. If Twin Peaks was a show about male violence wrapped up in a crime drama wrapped up in comedy wrapped up in a psychological horror, then Yellowjackets is a show about loss wrapped up in a survival drama wrapped up in a comedy wrapped up in a psychological horror. And it's loss in so many forms; loss of the self, loss of innocence, and most of all loss of community.

Yellowjackets, like Twin Peaks, is just a commentary on society but once again "people don't see it because there's a horse in the living room". Or in this case, because theres a schizophrenic teenage prophet who may or may not be communicating with some wild, bloodthirsty, nature god. When the truth is, the horse isn't important. Whether the Wilderness is or isn't real, isn't important.

It's about ego vs id, civilisation vs the wilderness, and innocence vs brutality. The other, "bad" side is always waiting, like Mari talked about, and its something that both exists within us and in our society. Like with Tai, the other side isn't innately bad but if we let it rule things it can become incredibly destructive. There has to be a balance. That's why they're a soccer team. It's a sport that is all about balance. You can split a soccer field in half 8 different ways but you will still always get a full set of 11 players who hold 11 different positions. It's a perfectly balanced, symbiotic community that is built on trust and understanding. The brutality is part of the game too, but theres a balance that comes with the rules and the way the game is moderated and consented to. The message of the whole thing being that community, love, friendship is what saves you. Its when the characters lose these things that they lose themselves, become vulnerable, die. It's why everyone in this show is complicit in the death of their best friend. The writers set the stage with Allie's treatment in the pilot. The whole story in contained within that first episode and ultimately her not being able to come results in a lack of balance within the team. It's why as the show goes on the girls become less and unified in both timelines. Now they've got to the point where they're splitting into factions in one, and talking about having to kill each other to be "safe" in the other.

Shauna's right, it wasn't the wilderness that killed anyone, it was always only them. All of them. When Shauna says "You know there's no 'it', right? It was just us.", its a very similar outburst to the one Laura Palmer's boyfriend has at her funeral in Twin Peaks, saying "All you ‘good’ people – you wanna know who killed Laura? You did! We all did.”, making a point about how the enviroment the town created resulted in her death more than anything else. The person who murdered her was just hand of that enviroment, the way Shauna always seems to be too. She holds the knife, but they all put it in her hand. Every single "sacrifice" to the Wilderness so far has resulted from a group decision to push someone from the team, an idea that started back with Allie before the plane even crashed. And this same attitude immediately doomed them again, because it was Misty’s desperation to hold onto her newfound sense of community and belonging after being ostracised for so long that had her destroying the transponder. “He’s not one of us” about Ben, and “They don’t belong” about the research group. The idea of "the other" used as justification for violence.

Jackie’s death was the most pivotal because she was the death of community. She was the first to be ostracised, the figure that once represented unity between the girls. As we saw at the party, she was the only one who could reestablish balance between them, and they killed her first.

This show is about a lot of things, guilt, grief, sanity, etc, but I do think that actual main commentary is on our current society. Twin Peaks was so fantastical but at its core it was only ever really about the evil that men do and a society that fascilitates it. Yellowjackets in its turn is about the ostracisation of the "other" and how this only hurts us. Weakens our communities. It's not lost on me that at least half the known survivors are able-bodied queer women, and this is a womens soccer team. In the world of womens soccer I would say that's the majority class. I don't think that's necessarily a mistake. The Yellowjackets ostracise people who aren't like them, aren't "useful", don't abide by their religion, and who push back against the status quo. Doesn't that sound familar?

[kyunghwannie]

"Midnight Static, Cherry Heart"

Minatozaki Sana x Male Reader

➤ Genre: Psychological Horror Story, Parasocial Love, Soft Obsession, False Stalking, Orchestration/Manipulation

➤Teaser: A voice through the static. A story through the night. A fan through the fear. In the silence between words, she heard you. In the stillness behind fame, you found her.

➤ Note: It's not necessarily a smut. But i just had this idea in my mind so i wrote it. You all should let me know if i should make a part 2. Sorry if the ending feels rushed a little. I was just scared of 1000 block limit

Your late-night radio show, "Whispers After One", is unlike anything else on air. You tell spine-chilling stories — true crime, ancient folklore, and listener-submitted paranormal tales — always with a subtle emotional angle that hits deeper than just scares. Your charm? You never show your face, but you always end your broadcasts with:

"Remember, not all ghosts haunt… some just wait to be heard."

Sana has been a fan for years. TWICE’s members often find her listening alone with earphones in the dark, smiling one moment and holding back tears the next. What no one knows? She’s written to your show before — using a private alias. You once read her story, “The Mirror Girl,” and your emotional insight helped her face a lingering trauma from trainee days. That moment? She fell harder than she should have.

=================================

The air outside was cold enough to bite through my coat, but Seoul at 1:47 a.m. had a strange kind of stillness that felt warmer than it should. Maybe that’s what happens when you spend every night talking to ghosts.

I adjusted my scarf, "Mic check, one, two." The static flickered softly in my headphones — the pre-show hum that always gave me chills. Not fear. Something more like... home.

I slid into the chair inside Studio B, a dimly lit booth tucked behind a noraebang that most people didn’t even know still operated. The light flickered above me once — like it always did when the stories got a little too real. I smiled to myself, "Another night, another whisper."

The red light blinked on. Live.

"Good evening, insomniacs, wanderers, and believers in things that go bump when no one’s watching," I spoke slowly, like the air around me listened. "You’re listening to Whispers After One. And tonight... let’s start with a mirror."

I reached for the first letter. The handwriting was neat, feminine. The envelope? Unlabeled, but I knew this script. Elegant, playful. Familiar.

Inside was a short story.

A girl alone in a hotel room in Fukuoka. A mirror facing her bed that she didn’t remember being there when she checked in. And the voice she heard through the radio — hers, but not quite.

I frowned, leaning in. "Our first story comes from someone who goes by... ‘S.’"

Something in my chest tightened. "Let's listen closely. There’s more than one reflection here tonight."

The paper felt oddly cold in my hand. Not the room. Just the letter. I held it under the dim studio lamp as if warming it would make the story feel less… alive.

I began reading. "February 13th, Room 908. I remember the sound of the hallway more than I remember the room."

The static behind my voice filled the space between her words, like it wanted to interrupt — or warn. "The air conditioner was broken. Not off, not on — broken. It made this sound. Like… breathing. But from the ceiling. Rhythmic. Too human to ignore. Not human enough to follow."

My breath hitched. I wasn’t the only one. Even in the soundproof booth, I swore I heard my producer shift uncomfortably in the adjacent room. "The mirror was across from the bed. I don't remember it when I walked in. But it was there when I woke up."

I paused. Read the sentence again silently.

The mirror appeared after she fell asleep? "I didn’t look at it for hours. Not because I was scared. But because I was convinced… it was looking at me first."

I cleared my throat. The studio was suddenly too quiet. "Some say a mirror at night is like an unanswered call. It reflects — but only what you expect to see," I said, letting my tone dip softer. "Others say… it’s a doorway. Especially if it’s not yours."

I tapped my notes — not because I needed to, but because my fingers were getting stiff. Tense. I continued reading. "At 3:12 a.m., the breathing from the ceiling stopped." The timestamp. Exact. Like a scar on the memory. "I looked at the mirror. My reflection blinked twice. Then didn’t."

I looked up, as if someone else were in the room with me. No one was. Just the hum of the equipment. The flicker of the ON AIR light.

I exhaled slowly. Deliberately. "There’s a psychological phenomenon," I murmured into the mic, more to myself than anyone, "called the Strange-Face Illusion. When you stare into a mirror in low light, your facial features begin to distort. Your brain, overwhelmed by sensory adaptation, starts to fill in the blanks. You begin to see something that isn't you. Something waiting behind you."

I tapped the envelope with my nail. "But in some stories… it’s not your brain."

A moment of silence. Then I finished her letter. "I left the hotel before sunrise. The front desk told me Room 908 hadn’t been booked in three years. They said the last guest broke the mirror with their bare hands and fled. I looked at my phone. I took a photo of the mirror before I left. There was a crack."

I stopped. Checked the back of the letter. One more line. "But I didn’t break it."

The air in the studio shifted. Not physically. Something colder. Internal. Like memory was a temperature. I leaned back and spoke low, as though she was still listening. "S," I whispered, "thank you for the story. Wherever you are now, I hope you're sleeping somewhere without reflections."

A beat of silence. Then the next track queued up — eerie piano in a minor key, soft static underneath. Background comfort. But it wasn’t comforting anymore.

I stared at the ON AIR sign, still red.

Still glowing. And in the glass window in front of me, I saw my reflection blink twice. Then didn’t. I let the silence stretch. Not the kind that’s empty. The kind that listens. I leaned in again, closer to the mic. Quieter now. Warmer. "If you’re still out there, S…"

I let her name rest in the air like a held breath. "It must’ve been terrifying. That moment you felt like something knew you better than you knew yourself. Not the mirror. Not the room. But the silence afterward."

I paused, voice softer. "Sometimes, we survive the strange things. But we don’t talk about them because we’re afraid they weren’t strange. We’re afraid they were us."

The red light above me glowed steady. "But I see you."

My voice faltered just for a second — not from fear. From sincerity. "You didn’t break the mirror. But maybe you wanted to. Maybe you wanted to break the version of you that stares back, quietly pretending to be okay."

I closed my eyes. "Whoever you are… I hope you’re not just surviving now. I hope someone’s voice is making you feel safe enough to sleep again."

I pulled away from the mic. Not a performance. Not a sendoff. Just a wish.

Somewhere, across the city.

In a quiet room with warm blankets and dim lights, Sana clutched her earbuds tighter.

Her knees curled to her chest. Her back pressed to the cool wall of her bedroom. The other girls had long since fallen asleep, but she stayed — like she always did — awake for him.

The voice she’d listened to for years. The only voice that somehow always seemed to know what her heart hadn’t said out loud. Tears slid silently down her cheeks. Not sobs. Not pain. Just the gentle kind of ache that comes from being understood too clearly. "You didn’t break the mirror," he’d said.

But she had. Not literally. But in every way that counted. Back then, in that room, on tour — after her ankle injury, after the comment sections got too loud, after she’d stared too long at herself wondering if she still belonged.

She had written that letter in the airport. Scrawled it with shaking hands. Never thinking he’d actually read it. And yet. "I see you." Her lips trembled. She whispered into the air, not caring if it reached anyone: "I see you too."

Her hand reached for her phone. She didn’t open any app. She just stared at the paused live stream. At the glowing icon. At the voice that somehow always found her — even when she didn’t know how to call for help.

And this time, with a heart full of something more than fear, she whispered again:

"Not all ghosts haunt…" A pause. A heartbeat. "Some wait to be heard."

The ON AIR light glowed again.

My voice returned. Lower. Measured. Not to scare — but to let the weight of quiet truths settle on the listeners' chests. "I got a lot of messages about last night."

I didn’t say thank you. Not because I wasn’t grateful. But because this part wasn’t gratitude. It was confession. "A lot of you wrote about ‘S.’ About the mirror. About the room. About how you couldn’t sleep after."

I let out a faint breath through my nose. "Some of you said it was the scariest story you’ve heard. Others said it reminded you of something. Something you couldn’t quite explain. And a few of you… said it made you cry."

I tapped the edge of the mic with my knuckle. Once. "Fear does that. The real kind. It doesn’t scream at you. It whispers. And then it waits. And then it watches how long you’ll pretend it’s not there."

I looked around my studio. Empty. But not lonely. "I’ve got a lot of stories. I’ve read thousands. But tonight, I want to tell you one of mine."

My throat felt dry. I reached for water. Didn’t drink. "When I was sixteen, I stopped sleeping for two weeks straight. No real reason. Nothing happened. At least — that’s what I kept telling people."

The music under my voice changed — subtle strings, no melody. Just enough to remind the listener that the world was still turning. "I started seeing someone in the corner of my room. A girl. She never moved. Never blinked. Just stood there, in the edge of my peripheral vision. Always after 3:00 a.m. Always at the exact moment I closed my eyes to fall asleep."

I paused. Long enough that listeners might think something went wrong with the signal. "You know what’s weird?"

I asked softly. "I wasn’t scared. Not at first. I thought I was lonely. I thought maybe… maybe she was too."

My lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "It got worse. She started standing closer. Every night, just a step more. I still didn’t look directly at her. Part of me thought that if I acknowledged her, she’d vanish. And I didn’t want to be alone again."

There it was — the line. The one between paranormal and personal. And I crossed it with the next words. "One night, I woke up to find my pillow damp. Not wet like sweat. Damp. Like someone had been crying on it."

The silence that followed felt brittle. "I finally turned my head. Looked right at the corner."

Another pause. My voice dropped barely above a whisper. "She wasn’t there."

I swallowed. "But my desk chair was turned toward me. And there was a strand of black hair caught on the cushion."

I let those words settle like dust on the listeners' skin. "I never saw her again. The hair disappeared the next morning. So did the sleeplessness. But something stayed."

I touched the back of my neck. "To this day, I still can’t fall asleep unless I leave my chair facing the wall."

I exhaled slowly. "I don’t know if she was a ghost. A dream. A hallucination. Or just some part of me I couldn’t carry anymore."

Then, quieter: "But maybe that’s the real horror. That sometimes, we create ghosts… just to have someone who stays."

The piano returned — faint, distorted like it was playing from a cassette that had been underwater. I leaned back. "Wherever you are tonight… whether you’re S, or someone like her, or someone like me… I hope the silence is softer now."

The music played gently underneath, carrying your voice like a lantern across the dark. The air in the studio felt a little thinner. I tapped the mic twice. Just habit. My voice came slow this time, almost reluctant. "I wasn't planning to share this one. But tonight feels like the right night."

Soft static curled under my voice like invisible fog. "I was nineteen. Staying in Daegu for a few weeks — trying to write, clear my head, play games. There's a place called Top PC — it was on the upper floor of a mall."

A short pause. A shift in tone. Memory clawing its way forward. "That day, I was distracted. Took the wrong elevator. Got off on a construction floor by mistake. Concrete everywhere. Rebar. The ceiling open to pipes. It wasn’t finished yet."

"Worse, the power cut right then. Elevators froze. So I had to find the stairwell."

A beat. My words slowed. "And that’s when I heard it. Footsteps. Not heavy, not loud. Just... wrong."

I remembered the sound clearly. Leather soles on raw concrete. Not rushed. Not careful. Like they belonged there. "I hid behind a cement pillar. Just in case. You don’t want to get caught trespassing on active construction."

"That’s when I saw them."

The room got quieter. Even the hum of my computer seemed to hush. "A man and a boy. The man wore this... long overcoat. Had a cape. Not a superhero cape — no, this was like a funeral coat. The boy looked about ten. Pale. Quiet. Both of them… out of place."

I exhaled — sharp and short. Like I needed to let the weight out before it sank me. "They were standing by the edge. No railing. Just open air. You could see the whole street below. They weren’t scared. They were holding hands."

The next words scraped through me. "And then… they jumped."

Even now, years later, it tasted like rust in my mouth. "I stood there. Frozen. My ears were ringing, and it wasn't just fear. It was the kind that rearranges your bones from the inside out."

"When I found the stairs, I ran. Two at a time, barely breathing. When I reached the ground floor, there was already a crowd. Murmurs. People pointing."

My voice cracked just slightly. "But I was the most horrified person there. You want to know why?"

Silence. Then: "Because on the pavement, there was only one body. The boy."

A long breath. "No sign of the man. No blood. No cape. No coat. The security footage? Mall said it just... glitched. That floor’s cameras were always faulty."

I let the silence sit. "I still don’t know what I saw. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe he was something worse. Or maybe... maybe he was never there. Just a shadow that borrowed a shape. Maybe it wanted someone to follow."

The words hovered, then landed softly. "Some people think ghosts are the ones who haven’t moved on. But sometimes, the scariest ones are those who help others cross... and vanish after."

My voice shifted. A little warmer. But sad. "That day changed me. I never looked at rooftops the same way again. Not out of fear. Out of grief. Grief that maybe, even in death, some people are still trying to hold hands."

Soft, somber piano drifted in — slow chords stretched thin like foggy breath on glass. "So, to anyone listening tonight... if you feel like you’re standing on a ledge, even metaphorically... don’t hold a ghost’s hand."

"Hold someone real. Even if it's just a voice on the radio."

The music faded.

And far away, in a darkened, quiet dorm room… Sana blinked.

She was sitting on her bed, one knee drawn up to her chest, earbuds still nestled deep.

The rest of TWICE had long gone to sleep. Her phone screen was dark, but she didn’t press it again. She didn’t need to. The words were echoing in her chest. Her hand tightened around the edge of her duvet. She knew your name. Your real face. Not just the voice on the radio.

But this… this wasn’t parasocial, was it?

This felt different. Not admiration. Not even attraction. No, it was deeper than that. It was the way your stories mirrored things she never told anyone. Things she only felt. In the hollow parts. The spaces between comebacks and cameras and fan signs.

Your stories understood loneliness. Saw it for what it was. Not a weakness. But a shape. A presence. Something you could touch. Her lips moved silently, repeating your last line. "Hold someone real… even if it’s just a voice on the radio."

She let out a trembling breath, then tucked her phone under her pillow like a secret. Her heart beat faster, not with fear. But with a growing ache she didn’t have a name for. Yet.

Three days later.

The studio smelled like coffee, sweat, and soundproof foam — the holy trinity of late-night radio.

I leaned back in my chair, legs stretched out, sipping on a convenience store latte that had no right being called coffee. Beside me, Dokyeom sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop on his lap, balancing a slice of pizza on his knee like he was training for a culinary circus.

"You’ve got the emotional depth of a ghost marriage ceremony," he said around a mouthful of cheese, "and yet you still manage to sound hotter than 90% of idol rappers when you talk about death. I swear, your voice is wasted on sanity."

"Was that a compliment or a curse?" I asked.

"Both. Like ramen at 2 a.m." I snorted. This was normal. This was safe. Dokyeom clicked his tongue as he trimmed the last segment of last night’s episode. "Hey, the story of the suicide floor? Trending. Over 90k shares. People are comparing it to urban legends now. Some even claim they saw similar things in Daegu too. You’ve basically created a cult."

"That’s not comforting." "No, but it is brandable."

We both laughed — loud and easy. That kind of laugh that makes you forget for a moment that you speak to ghosts on air. Then he paused. Eyes on his screen. His mouth twisted like he bit into a lemon he didn’t expect.

"Uh... so." He set his laptop down and rubbed the back of his neck. "I was supposed to tell you this earlier, but I forgot. Because, you know, pizza." I gave him a look. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! Technically." He flashed his usual innocent-grimace hybrid. "Okay, so... you got an offer."

I sat up straighter. "From who?"

He picked up his phone and flipped the screen toward me.

JYP Entertainment.

Subject: Collaboration Opportunity — Joint Radio Hosting Pilot with TWICE Member

I blinked. Then blinked again. "You’re kidding."

"Nope." Dokyeom grinned, doing little jazz hands. "Apparently, someone high up loved your voice. Said it’d pair well with one of their girls. Emotional contrast or something. They’re suggesting a co-hosted, biweekly late-night segment with a TWICE member."

I stared at the screen. Cold air crept in under my hoodie like a warning. "...Which member?"

"That’s the thing," he said. "They didn’t name her in the email. Just said she’s familiar with your work. Big fan. Requested you, specifically. That’s all."

I didn’t answer right away. My mind drifted — uninvited — to a dorm room late at night, a girl with earbuds in, lips repeating my words. "Do they know what kind of stories I tell?" I muttered. "I'm not exactly your average feel-good bedtime narrator."

"Yeah, but that’s the appeal." Dokyeom shrugged. "You don’t coddle fear. You hug it like an ex you still miss."

I gave him a deadpan look. "You need therapy."

"So do you." We laughed again, but this time it felt... softer. Offbeat.

A TWICE member. Requested me. Me. The faceless voice behind the mic. She already knew me. But I didn’t know which she. And somehow, that made it eerier than any ghost story I’d ever told. "So?" Dokyeom asked, stretching his legs. "You gonna accept?"

I didn’t respond right away. I just looked down at the email. My thumb hovered over the reply button. "Let’s meet in person," the draft line read. And under it, the signature of someone I hadn’t even seen yet — only felt. I scrolled through the email again, lips tightening. "They know a lot about me."

Dokyeom looked up, still chewing. "Like what?"

"Full name, real name. My Daegu years. Even my university major. They even mentioned the exact rooftop I broadcasted from during my early days. That was never public."

His chewing slowed. He tilted his head like a golden retriever hearing a flute for the first time. "That’s... specific."

"Yeah."

We exchanged a look. The fluorescent lights above flickered once. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was bad wiring. Maybe it wasn’t. "Creepy accurate, huh?" he muttered. "You think they pulled data from our archives?"

"That rooftop stream was analog. I didn't even archive the audio. Only a few dozen people heard it live. One of those bootleg setups, remember?"

Dokyeom rubbed his chin like a fake detective in a sitcom. "Well, JYPE is rich, bro. They probably have KCSI or something. Like, K-pop CIA."

I chuckled. "Right. And TWICE agents sneak through air vents to find hidden mixtapes."

"Don’t joke," he said, pointing a pizza crust at me like it was a holy relic. "Do you know how many people would kill to know who you are? You're basically Korea’s haunted pen pal. You say ‘goodnight’ and people cry. You sneeze and someone makes a fanedit."

I rolled my eyes but smiled. It was comforting how Dokyeom always tethered things back to reality. "Our station’s been careful, though," I said. "They never leaked my image, even internally. I trust them with that."

"Exactly." He leaned back on his elbows. "So if this got greenlit, it wasn’t from a leak. It was... chosen. Deliberately."

I looked back at the email. The words blurred for a second, like the screen was breathing. A part of me felt like I was being watched, not offered.

Dokyeom whistled low. "It’s like you got recruited into a movie or something. Mysterious late-night voice guy teams up with world-famous idol. What could go wrong?"

"That sentence alone should be illegal."

He cackled. "Oh, c’mon. You’ll be fine. You’ve danced with shadows and talked ghosts into therapy. What’s one idol with a fan crush?"

I paused. Thought of the last story I read. The girl who mailed her horror like a secret prayer. The way her pain bled through the paper. The way my voice cracked reading it. No. This wasn’t just a fan. There was something deeper.

"I’ll do it." I finally said, eyes still on the screen. "Atta boy." Dokyeom raised his slice like a champagne toast. "Let’s make romance horror again."

Interlude: Behind the Curtain

"You're sure about this?" the manager asked again, voice tight with concern as they held the tablet out, list of vetted radio personalities glowing on-screen. Sana didn’t even glance at it.

She sat with one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a cold bottle of banana milk like she was lounging in a café—not making an unprecedented talent request to the higher-ups of JYP Entertainment. "Positive," she said with a disarming grin. The manager blinked. "But you haven't seen the shortlist—"

"I don’t need to." She tilted her head, letting her ponytail sway slightly. There was nothing unusual in her tone. Nothing demanding. Just lighthearted, playful… and absolute. "Just... him."

The manager gave a nervous chuckle, scratching behind their ear. "You’re usually the most bubbly during planning meetings. Joking, teasing, making faces… But this time—Sana-ssi, you’re being unusually quiet."

"Am I?" Sana turned to face them fully, resting her chin on her palm. She smiled. But the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The manager swallowed and nodded. "I'll talk to the board." She beamed, like a ray of sunlight. "Thank you." But the manager left the room with a strange cold creeping up their spine.

Late Evening – TWICE Dorm

The air smelled like grilled sweet potatoes and softener-drenched laundry. The kitchen was warm and softly lit, the hum of the fridge the only sound as Dahyun padded in to grab water. She stopped when she saw Sana, arms crossed on the counter, head down, a dreamy smile curling at her lips.

"Sana-unnie?" Dahyun asked, blinking. "You okay?"

Sana slowly turned her head, eyes shining like she’d just woken from a beautiful dream. "Mmm. Just thinking about his voice."

"Huh?" Dahyun opened the fridge.

"The radio host. You’ve listened too, right?"

"Yeah, a few episodes. Pretty popular these days." She took out a bottle of water. "Creepy but... poetic?"

Sana nodded slowly. "That’s what I like about him. He doesn’t try to scare you. He just... sees through things. People, pain, moments. It’s like he walks through the fog and comes back carrying the heart of it."

Dahyun froze with the fridge still open.

"He read that letter someone wrote," Sana went on softly, fingers gently tracing circles on the countertop. "The one about the girl and the thing in her room. The way he spoke—"

She closed her eyes. "It felt like he knew her better than she knew herself. Like he didn’t need to see her face, or body, or even hear her real name. He felt her. And that’s rare, Dahyunnie. You know how rare that is?"

There was a pause. "In our world..." she whispered, "we’re always seen—but never really known. People adore us, but not really us. It’s filtered affection. Edited worship. But he... he could fall in love with a ghost. Isn’t that beautiful?"

Dahyun took a small step back, closing the fridge door slowly. She smiled softly, careful not to let it show too much concern. "Sounds like you really respect him, unnie."

"Mmm." Sana's eyes didn’t move from the counter. "Or maybe... I just want to know how it feels. To be loved without being looked at. Not as TWICE's Sana. Just as... someone."

Dahyun sipped her water and gave a quiet nod. But something inside her twisted—like a gentle hand pressing just a bit too hard against her ribs. A creeping realization she couldn’t put into words. Not yet. Not when Sana’s smile looked so warm...And yet so frighteningly far away.

Dahyun’s Monologue: A Flicker Beneath the Smile

I’ve always loved being around Sana-unnie. She’s warmth wrapped in laughter, flirtation turned into an art form. When things are too heavy, she floats. When we’re too tired to smile, she makes faces until we do. She’s one of the hearts that keep TWICE beating. And I’m the younger one who leans on her…

But lately— I’ve been watching her lean into something else. It’s scary when the ones who make the light start finding comfort in the dark.

I used to think parasocial love was a one-way street. We walk it all the time, right? Fans fall for the image, not the person. They dream of us, not knowing who we are—just what we represent. We live with it. Smile through it. Learn to separate the screaming from sincerity. It's normal. Just part of the job.

But Sana-unnie…She’s walking that street now too. In reverse. The way she talks about him—the radio host. She doesn’t admire him. She knows him. Or wants to. She clings to his words like she’s been starved for them her whole life. Not because they’re scary. Because they see her.

And for the first time, I felt that weird glass wall—the one that usually separates us from them—It flipped. And now I’m on the other side, watching someone I care for…Turn into the kind of listener we protect each other from.

But what can I do? She’s still Sana-unnie. Still bubbly. Still playful. Still brings me my favorite drinks when I’m stressed. She still laughs loud. Still hugs tight. But I see it now. There’s something behind her eyes that doesn’t belong to any of us. Like she’s somewhere else.

I’m scared. Not of him. Not of her. I’m scared of the gap. That space between hearing and being heard. Between wanting and obsession. And what it does to people—even the ones with the brightest smiles.

Because even stars can fall. And I don’t know how to catch her...If I’m the one standing on the ground.

Dorm Hallway – Just Past Midnight

The soft hum of the fridge was the only sound left in the silence after their late snack.

Sana placed her cup in the sink, still smiling faintly—like her lips remembered an old joke but her eyes had long moved on. She turned to leave, slowly, her socked feet brushing against the floor.

"Unnie." Dahyun’s voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped her. Stilled her. Sana turned her head, only slightly, but didn’t speak.

"What are you feeling… really?" Dahyun asked gently. "About this show. About... him." A silence. Not the kind that suffocates. The kind that waits.

Sana finally turned fully, fingers fiddling with the hem of her hoodie. She looked down, almost like she wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming.

"I don’t know," she said softly, with a laugh that barely qualified as one. "It’s like... when he speaks, it’s not just stories. It’s like he’s reaching through the static and saying something only I understand. Like he’s whispering to the version of me even I forgot existed."

Dahyun took a step forward, cautious. The unease in her gut pulsed again. "Sana-unnie... you know we’ve all heard him. He’s great. Really. But—"

"It’s not about him, Dahyun." Sana’s voice trembled slightly, but not from fear. From clarity. "It’s about... finally hearing someone who doesn't ask me to be pretty. Or fun. Or Sana from TWICE.

It’s just someone who speaks, and for the first time, I don't have to perform to be seen." Her eyes glistened. But they weren’t teary. They were hungry. "I feel like… he already knows me. And if I met him, really met him… he'd know the parts even I locked away."

Dahyun's breath caught. "Unnie..."

Sana blinked, slow, like she was waking up from a trance—or stepping deeper into one. Then she smiled. Wide. Dreamy. "You know what it feels like when millions love you but not a single one actually knows you?"

"He does. Somehow, he does."

She turned and walked down the hallway. The air felt colder. Dahyun didn’t follow. She just stood there, in the hum of the kitchen light, goosebumps creeping up her arms, wondering—what if love, when unheard, doesn’t fade…but grows louder in silence?

=================================

[The next Night, Late Night Radio Show – 1:03 AM, Station 10.7]

The red light blinked softly. Live. My fingers hovered over the volume dial as I leaned toward the mic, my voice dipping low and even. “And we’re back. Tonight… we received another letter. From ‘S.’”

I paused. “This one’s not like the others.”

The printed pages on my desk were warm from the lights above, but the words felt cold. “It’s titled: The One I Never Got to Say Goodbye To.”

I began to read.

He was the kind of quiet that filled empty rooms, the kind of presence that made silence feel like company. He worked behind voices—made others sound better, heard everything and said little. He had a laugh like the world hadn’t quite broken him yet.

I used to walk by the station’s glass lobby at night. Lights on. Shadows moving. I’d watch him, even when I wasn’t supposed to. Not out of obsession. Not at first. It started as curiosity. How someone could look so alive... just talking into a void.

Sometimes, I think I loved him before I knew his name.

I wanted to tell him. That his stories healed something in me. That his voice made loneliness feel less fatal. But I never wrote in. I was too scared to be another voice in a sea of fans. Too scared to break the illusion.

Then the accident happened. Not to him. To me. A slip in my world that made it impossible to reach his. I disappeared. Like a radio losing signal. And he kept talking, never knowing I had gone quiet.

But lately, I’ve come back. Re-tuned. I listen again. From the same distance. But it’s different now.

Because I don’t want to just listen anymore. I want him to know— I was always there. Watching. Hearing. Waiting.

Not for the end of the story. But for the part where the story finally sees me.

I stopped. The booth was dead silent. My fingers trembled faintly on the armrest. “That… wasn’t horror,” I finally said. “But it might be the most chilling story we’ve ever received.”

There was a weight in my chest. Not fear. Not romance. Something stranger. A whisper behind the ears that you were never truly alone. I adjusted the mic, speaking softer now. More vulnerable.

“If you're out there, S… whoever you are…I hope you’re okay. I hope whatever accident tore you away didn’t take all of you.”

“And if it did—I’ll keep the light on.”

[Meanwhile – Sana’s POV – Dorm Room, 1:18 AM]

She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, the red glow of the radio station’s live stream light flickering faintly across her face. The others were asleep. Dahyun’s faint breathing from the other room barely audible.

Sana leaned in closer to the screen, lips parted slightly.

“He read it…” she whispered. “He really read it.”

A small smile. But her fingers didn’t move. Neither did her eyes. She wasn’t crying. But she should’ve been. Because something inside her was… breaking, slowly. Not from sadness. From aching purpose.

The kind that makes people wait in the dark for years. The kind that makes someone write and rewrite the same story—until the right person sees it. Until he sees her. Her reflection in the dark screen was almost unrecognizable. Not because she looked different. But because she was looking at herself through someone else’s eyes. And she liked it. Too much.

The red “LIVE” light dimmed. I raised my hand subtly toward the glass—two fingers in the air. Dokyeom caught the cue instantly. He slid his hand over the console and queued the soft instrumental: something ambient, gentle, like wind brushing over sand.

“We’ll be right back,” I murmured into the mic, then flicked it off. I stood up, heart thudding too fast for such a quiet booth, and pushed open the soundproof door. Dokyeom was leaned back on his chair, one headphone off, chewing on sour gummies like it was just another night in paradise.

I walked straight to him, tension stiff in my neck, and leaned on the side of his chair. “Tell me I’m not crazy,” I said.

“What?” he mumbled, mouth half-full. “That was a damn good letter, man. Gave me chills.”

“No—listen.” I lowered my voice. “That story...the guy she described. The way she talked about the booth, the voice, watching him from outside?”

I looked around instinctively, though no one else was there. “She’s talking about me, right?”

He stopped chewing. His brows rose slightly. “You think she’s really stalking you?”

“I don’t know!” I ran a hand through my hair. “I mean, at first it felt like one of those poetic ‘your-voice-saved-me’ kind of things. But tonight? She talked about an accident...a disappearance...coming back...like she never left but I never noticed.”

Dokyeom stared at me, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Bro. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” I snapped. “I’m just asking you if this feels...off. Weird. Personal. Like she’s talking to me. Only me.”

He looked at the mixing board for a second, as if the sliders could answer. Then, calmly, he replied. “Okay. Yeah. It's a little weird.”

I opened my mouth, but he raised a finger. “But, come on. We are a public show. Thousands tune in. It’s natural someone connects more than others. Besides, she didn’t say your name. Maybe it’s just really well-written projection.”

I exhaled slowly. The buzzing paranoia still clung to the back of my neck like static, but...his tone helped. I slumped onto the extra chair beside him, rubbing my eyes. “You ever feel like being seen too closely starts to feel like being watched?”

Dokyeom whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep. Put that in the next episode.”

I smirked despite myself. “I’m serious, man.”

He leaned back in his chair, tossing the empty gummy bag on the desk. “Look. If someone was stalking you, I’d be the first to notice. We track our mail-ins, our audio logs, station IPs. You know that. Nothing suspicious came through. No flagged user, no cross-location pings. The team would've told me.”

I nodded slowly, letting it sink in. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Course I am.” He nudged my arm. “You’re just tired. That story hit weird. Your vibe's been off since she started writing in.”

“…Since the second letter.” Dokyeom raised an eyebrow. “The one about the train platform?”

I nodded. “The way she described how she kept her eyes on the guy’s back, not his face. That line—‘the back was enough. Because once you love someone enough, the front is too much to bear’.”

I looked down at my own hands, voice quieter. “That line didn’t feel made up.”

There was silence for a beat. Then Dokyeom sighed and looked at the screen showing the song timer ticking down. “We’ve got forty-three seconds till we’re back live.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. He looked at me sideways. “You okay?”

“…Not sure.” “Wanna skip the next mail-in?”

“No.” I sat up straighter, voice firm again. “If she’s watching… I want her to know I see her, too.”

The light turned red again.

[Three Weeks Later – JYPE Headquarters, 10:31 AM]

The elevator hummed quietly as I stood inside, hands in my coat pockets, eyes scanning the digital floor numbers rise with a soft ding. 10…11…12… Even now, I still wasn't sure what this whole thing was.

A talk show collaboration? Sure. But with an idol? An actual TWICE member? That part never stopped sounding strange.

The invitation was legit. The contracts came stamped, the clauses surprisingly flexible. Even Dokyeom had triple-checked the authenticity—JYPE’s media team themselves had reached out to our station.

But what still clung to my mind like fog was that no one told me which member wanted this. Not the producers. Not the writers. Not even Dokyeom. I had signed on blind.

The doors opened with a soft ding to the media floor. Glass walls, sunlight through beige blinds, quiet buzz of assistants pacing in heels or sneakers, coffee cups, and papers. I exhaled slowly.

"Morning, Mr. L/N." A young assistant in a sleek black outfit walked up, bowing slightly. She gestured politely toward a meeting room to the left. “The producer is waiting for you inside. The artist will join later.”

“Still keeping it a secret, huh?” I half-smiled. She returned a polite, neutral grin. “You'll understand soon, sir.”

Of course I will. I walked into the meeting room—clean, white, minimalist. One side was entirely glass, the other lined with posters of TWICE’s past eras. Some familiar. Some deeply nostalgic. Some… recent. Too recent.

"Ah, Y/N!" A warm voice pulled my thoughts. JYPE’s talk show producer stepped in—a middle-aged man in round glasses and a scarf that looked like it hadn’t left his neck since 2007. "We've been excited for this."

“You say that like I haven’t been dreading the mystery,” I muttered, settling in. He laughed. “That’s part of the charm. This is her idea, after all.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Right. ‘Her’. Still not giving me a name?”

“It’s… sensitive. Let’s just say, she was very specific.” “About… me?”

He paused. Adjusted his glasses. “About everything.”

I leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Strange choice, though. An idol voluntarily choosing a psychological horror show host? Doesn’t exactly scream brand synergy.”

The man smiled faintly, but didn’t answer. I looked around the room again, eyes pausing on a framed photo of the “Feel Special” era. Nine girls, bright smiles, dreamy filters.

Which one was watching my show? Which one was listening in the dark?

[JYPE Media Room – Same Day, 10:42 AM]

The producer's voice echoed faintly as he flipped through a printed schedule. “She should be arriving any—”

The door clicked. I turned casually toward it, expecting perhaps a staffer, a stylist, or another assistant with iced coffee and paperwork.

But when the door opened—My breath caught.

She walked in.

Soft brown hair fell in delicate sheets over her shoulders, parted gently to one side, glowing faintly under the fluorescent light. Her ash-toned waves framed a gentle jawline and rested softly over the wide pointed collar of her blouse. The blouse itself—white, vintage, flared at the sleeves—peeked elegantly from underneath a sleeveless, beige A-line midi dress, tailored and subtle in its detail.

The overall palette was almost ethereal—soft pastels, neutral warmth. She looked like someone who had wandered out of a late spring romance film and simply strolled into this world. Cream ankle-strap heels clicked delicately with each step, dainty but confident.

“…Sana?” It slipped out of me before I realized I said her name aloud.

She smiled. And it wasn’t just a polite smile, or one meant for an audience. It was a quiet, knowing smile—one that pressed into her cheeks and warmed her gaze. Her eyes met mine and didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Like she had been waiting.

"Annyeonghaseyo." Her voice was soft but held the clarity of someone not used to hesitating. "I'm the one who requested this show with you."

I stood, half-awkwardly smoothing my coat as if it could clean up how stunned I must have looked. The producer gave a soft chuckle from the side and excused himself with an obvious smile, mumbling something about giving us a moment.

As the door clicked shut again, the room fell silent. It was just me and her.

"Wow… I didn’t expect you," I managed, gesturing for her to sit, voice lightly cracking from the back of my throat. "I mean… I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be into horror content. Especially psychological stuff."

She sat gracefully, smoothing the hem of her dress with a natural elegance that made even that simple action look cinematic. “I know,” she said, tilting her head a little, smile still playing gently at her lips. “Most people think I get scared easily.”

"Don’t you?" I blinked. She laughed softly. It was breathy, like flower petals tumbling in spring wind. “I do. I still get chills from my own shadow sometimes.”

We both laughed lightly. And yet… she was here. Voluntarily. “So why my show, then?” I asked, voice finally settling into something casual.

She folded her hands on her lap, elbows relaxed on the table. Her posture was poised, refined—but not stiff. There was an unspoken ease between us already. “Because it makes me think,” she said.

That caught me off guard. “About what?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drifted toward the window, where soft sunlight slipped through half-drawn blinds and painted slow lines across the floor. “…About things that we’re not usually allowed to say out loud,” she replied eventually. “Things that feel wrong to admit, but somehow… the stories on your show made them feel safe to imagine.”

That silenced me. I’d had fans before. Listeners who messaged in, who cried during episodes, who swore we helped them sleep at night, or not sleep. But this… this was different.

This was Sana. A memvber from one of the biggest girl groups in the world.

Famous for her bright laugh, her bubbly warmth, her charm that melted camera lenses—and here she was, sitting across from me in a retro-collared blouse, talking about the comfort she found in my strange little world of haunted whispers and emotional shadows.

“Didn’t expect to be the reason someone like you liked horror,” I admitted, letting a smile tug at my lips. “Most guests come to debate, not compliment.”

She tilted her head again, amused. “I’m not like most guests.”

We shared a brief silence. Not awkward. Just… weighted. There was no flirtation in her eyes. Not yet. Just warmth. Sincere appreciation. But behind her calm demeanor, something still lingered. Not darkness. Not danger. But something. Purpose.

[JYPE Talk Show Conference Room – Rehearsal Space]

The rehearsal room was warm with low lights, a hum of muted conversation buzzing in the corners as sound staff prepped mics and the camera crew adjusted the test angles for tomorrow’s shoot.

I sat across from her again—Sana, now barefoot with her heels neatly set aside beside her chair, the hem of her beige dress brushing the floor as she shifted comfortably in her seat. She wasn’t wearing the full stage-ready face of makeup now. Just soft tones, the natural flush of her cheeks, lips tinted like a fading memory.

“So,” I started, flipping open the concept notebook Dokyeom handed me earlier. “You said you had a topic in mind for this collab, right?”

She nodded, fingers gently playing with the rim of a paper coffee cup that had long gone cold. “It’s called The Echo Room,” she said, voice light but focused.

“Sounds psychological already.” I smiled faintly, tapping my pen on the page. “What’s the idea behind it?”

She looked up at me—directly. The kind of eye contact that doesn’t just meet yours, but searches. Not assertive. Not flirty. Just… sincere. And strangely unreadable. “It’s a story about… someone who leaves messages.”

“Like, voicemail-style?”

“More like anonymous radio broadcasts,” she said. “But they never reveal who they’re for. Just memories. Or confessions. Things they could never say face-to-face. The kind of things you only say when no one can answer back.”

That was… very on-brand for this show. And eerily poetic.

“The twist,” she continued, voice dipping slightly, “is that one day… someone starts replying. But not through calls. Just… things start happening in real life. Subtle things. As if someone heard the broadcast and wanted to speak back. But not through words.”

I blinked. Scribbled something down. “Creepy in a quiet way.”

“Exactly.” Her lips curved just slightly—not quite a smile, but the soft acknowledgment of being understood. But it was more than the concept. As she explained it further—layer by layer, about how the character (a woman) slowly begins to believe her messages are reaching the person she lost, and how her need to be heard becomes an obsession—I noticed it.

That shift. Subtle. When she was addressing the crew, joking with Dokyeom, giggling at something the PD said—she was the Sana everyone knew. Bubbly. Bright. Effortlessly warm. But when she turned back to me…

It changed. Her posture relaxed, her voice dropped just slightly, more melodic. Her gaze lingered longer—never invasive, never inappropriate—but present. As if she wasn’t just looking at me. She was studying me. And her words? They always circled back in a strange, unintentional loop. To me.

“I think the girl in the story… she’s not just lonely,” Sana murmured, almost absentmindedly. “She’s always been around people. Always adored. But she feels closest to the one person who never reached back.”

I hesitated. “…Is it about heartbreak?”

“Maybe.” A beat. Then her eyes locked onto mine again. “Or maybe it’s about needing to be known by someone who sees past the surface. Someone who listens—not just hears.” I felt it then. That slow tug in the air. Like the quiet tension in the moments before rain.

Her words weren’t threatening. Not even intense. But there was something in them… something deeper than fan-level admiration. A tenderness. A familiarity she was weaving without consent or clarity. A bond that existed entirely in her space—but made you feel like you were being drawn into it without resisting.

Parasocial? Maybe. But unlike what I’d studied in theory or seen in fans—hers wasn’t manic. It was soft. Velvety. Beautiful, even. And that’s what made it harder to detect.

“You’ve clearly thought about this character a lot,” I said, flipping a page, trying to stay professional despite the odd flutter in my chest.

“I lived her once,” she said softly.

I looked up. “…What?”

She gave a light laugh—almost as if she didn’t mean to say it aloud. “I mean,” she corrected, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ve imagined being her. You know. Leaving something out there and wondering if the person it was meant for ever felt it.”

My throat tightened for a moment. There was nothing accusatory in her tone. No implication. But again—that shift. Like the ghost of a feeling dancing in the corners of her words.

Sana leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on the back of her hand, elbow on the table. Her eyes sparkled—not with flirtation, but something far more disarming. “Have you ever felt like someone’s watching your work a little too closely?”

I smiled, deflecting. “That’s the point of a radio show, isn’t it? Hoping someone’s out there?”

She chuckled. “No, not hoping.” Her voice softened. “Knowing.”

That answer sat between us like the fog that rolls in slow. I didn’t feel unsafe. I didn’t feel alarmed. But I felt seen in a way that wasn’t quite normal.

She was still Sana. Still charming. Still graceful. But something behind that smile had gravity. Something that pulled the room ever so gently in her direction—one breath at a time. And yet…I didn’t mind. I didn’t even want to move.

[Whispers After One — Special Episode: Echo Room]

The red ON AIR light blinked to life. Soft instrumental hums floated beneath it—barely there, like whispers clinging to the edges of the night. The scent of paper, ink, and freshly brewed coffee filled the cool air of the soundproof studio.

This was my sanctuary. Until tonight, my face had been a mystery even to my most loyal listeners. Only my voice existed out there—a drifting, nameless presence after 1 AM. "Whispers After One" was never meant to show. It was meant to haunt.

But now, there were cameras tucked into the corners. Their red recording lights burned small holes into the darkness. A quiet staffer approached me with a black satin mask—sleek, simple, covering half my face from just beneath my eyes down to my chin.

I accepted it without hesitation. Better this than surrendering the last fragile boundary I had left. Adjusting the mask over my nose, I took my seat behind the microphone. Across from me, in a matching soft pool of light, sat her.

Minatozaki Sana.

No heels now. Her pale shoes tucked neatly under her seat. That dreamy, oatmeal-colored dress catching the light like mist. Soft brown hair framing her face, falling naturally past her shoulders with a lazy side part. Her expression was... calm. Open. But that glint in her eyes—That same glint from the rehearsal, as if some secret rhythm only she could hear was playing in the background—It was still there. And somehow, it was directed only at me.

The cue light flashed.

3…2…1…

I leaned into the mic, voice dropping into the familiar, soothing register I always used when the world was sleeping. "Welcome back, lnsomniacs. This is Whispers After One… and tonight is special."

The theme music faded in—an eerie piano melody, light as fog, stitched with low ambient echoes. Perfect for the concept we built. "You know this show as the place where we explore the unseen, the unheard... the stories that brush past you in the dark."

My gloved fingers tapped lightly against my notes. "But tonight, we're not whispering alone."

I smiled under the mask, glancing across to her. Sana's lips tilted in a soft smile, almost shy. "Joining me is none other than Minatozaki Sana of TWICE," I said, voice steady but warm. "An artist you know for her light, her charm... and tonight, a very different side you'll hear."

Sana leaned into her own mic. "Annyeonghaseyo~..." she said, her voice as delicate and careful as if she were afraid to break the spell we’d woven in the room.

She glanced once, sideways, at me—not the audience, not the staff. Just me. "I'm Sana," she continued, "and… I'm really honored to be here, especially on a show I’ve secretly loved for a long time."

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible emphasis on secretly. The camera panned softly between us, slow and cinematic, bathing the scene in candlelight tones. I caught it then—listeners would hear the sweetness in her voice. They wouldn’t hear the tiny note of awe, almost reverence, buried underneath it when she spoke to me.

But sitting across from her now? I could feel it. "Tonight's theme," I said, sliding naturally into the next beat, "is something Sana herself proposed… The Echo Room." A soft chime sound marked the transition. "We'll tell a story," I explained, "about leaving memories in the void... and what happens when the void starts whispering back."

Sana inhaled softly, like the concept itself stirred something real inside her. She began: "Imagine… it starts simple. A girl sits by her radio every night, speaking into the silence." Her voice was slow, wrapped in velvet. Designed not just to tell—but pull you in. "She talks about her day. About her memories. About the things she regrets never saying when she had the chance."

Soft ambient echoes bloomed in the background, like faint footsteps down a hallway. I found myself leaning in a little too naturally, matching her tone. "At first, there’s no answer," I murmured. "Just the empty static of being unheard."

Sana’s eyes lifted slightly—catching mine for half a second, as if savoring that line. "But then," she whispered, "the things she talks about… start changing around her. A song she mentions plays in a store the next day. A childhood photo reappears where it was lost. A dream she shares… comes true."

The room seemed to lean closer with us. No one else spoke. Even the staff held their breath, watching the slow, eerie performance unfold.

Sana’s hands, resting lightly on the table, curled slightly. Her next words floated out like fog. "It’s not a ghost. Not magic. It's just… someone, somewhere, listening too closely."

I kept my voice steady. "And maybe," I said lowly, "someone who never intended to stay invisible forever." For a moment, it wasn’t acting. It wasn’t just a show. It felt real—a strange tether tying us, pulling her soft, mysterious aura closer across the table.

She smiled—barely. The kind of smile you'd give if you heard a secret only you were supposed to know. We let the music swell lightly, giving the audience space to breathe—or shiver—before easing into light conversation about loneliness, connection, unseen bonds.

Sana answered thoughtfully—always thoughtful—but whenever she directed a response to me, her voice softened even further. Her glances flickered a bit longer. Her smile tilted slightly more intimate. No one else would catch it. The cameras wouldn’t catch it.

But sitting there behind the mask, the air between us humming with unseen frequencies—I felt it. And for some reason…I didn’t mind at all.

The cameras whirred almost inaudibly. The background music faded down to near silence, leaving only the natural softness of breathing, the quiet clicks of shifting in chairs. We were deep into the middle portion of the show now—the part where the tone always sank a little heavier, a little deeper. The Echo Room was alive in the minds of the listeners now.

Sana tilted her head slightly, the smooth fall of her hair brushing her cheek. She rested her chin lightly on her palm, elbow on the table. Her posture seemed casual at first. But when she spoke next, there was something unfathomably tender in her voice, something that barely fluttered across the air like the wings of a moth.

"Sometimes..." she began, almost as if she were reminiscing instead of answering the latest question, "the scariest thing isn't the ghost itself. It's realizing you've been watched... and cared for... without ever knowing it." A small smile played at her lips—not mischievous, not playful. Soft. Almost… longing.

I nodded slightly, unaware of the undercurrent beneath her words. "Because," I replied thoughtfully, my mind on the story’s framework, "attention unseen is both a comfort and a horror, depending on the day."

"Mm," Sana murmured, low and gentle. "Depending on who’s watching." Her eyes flicked briefly to me again—not dramatic, not lingering. Just long enough that if anyone else had truly been looking... They might have wondered if that line was meant for the microphone at all. Or just for the man behind the mask.

I shifted slightly, adjusting my notes, brushing off the subtle tickle of awareness that something unspoken had passed between us. Probably just the atmosphere of the show. Probably just her talent for acting dreamy. The moment dissolved almost instantly as she leaned back, laughing softly at my next quip about radios "whispering back" too much and scaring people away from technology.

But there it was. A tiny drop of something left behind in the air. Invisible. Undetectable. Undeniably there. Recording continued. Unnoticed by me. But maybe not so unnoticed by Sana.

[Segment: Listener Q&A - Final Portion]

"And we're back," I spoke into the mic, smiling beneath my mask, "to the final portion of tonight’s Echo Room... featuring none other than Minatozaki Sana."

The small studio lights dimmed a little more for mood. The screen behind us flickered with soft visuals—moving mist, phantom lights, silhouettes that swayed without sound.

Sana turned slightly toward the camera, flashing a soft, shy smile that instantly melted the atmosphere. It was like watching sunlight fight its way through a heavy fog. "I’m excited," she said brightly, clasping her hands together on the table. "Listener questions are always the most fun!"

I chuckled. "You say that now... wait until you hear some of the ones our audience dared to send in." Dokyeom gave a small laugh from the control booth, muffled but still heard, like an inside joke shared behind the scenes. I shuffled the cards in front of me and pulled one randomly.

Question 1: "If you were haunted by a spirit, what kind of ghost would you want it to be?"

I leaned toward the mic a little dramatically. "Starting off easy," I teased. "Alright, Sana-ssi. Friendly Casper ghost? Romantic old-school spirit? Demonic possession? Pick your fighter."

Sana giggled, her laughter bubbling like soda but her fingers tapped lightly against the table—nervous energy? Excitement? It was hard to tell. "Mm..." she said, pretending to think seriously. "If I had to choose... I'd want it to be a gentle one. Someone who doesn't scare me... someone who's just... always there. Even when I don't see them."

Her voice dipped softer at the end. The audience probably heard it as cute. I just smiled and nodded. Unaware of how her gaze barely lifted from me—not the camera.

Question 2: "What scares you more — being alone, or being watched?"

I grinned beneath the mask. "Now we’re getting serious."

Sana bit her bottom lip lightly, thoughtful. "Being watched," she said immediately. Then, she blinked as if realizing she should elaborate. "I think... if you're alone, you can prepare yourself. Be strong. But if someone's watching you without you knowing, you can’t protect yourself. You’re... vulnerable. You can't hide."

Her fingers curled slightly in her lap.She wasn’t acting cute anymore. There was something achingly sincere behind her eyes.

I nodded slowly."There’s a strange kind of helplessness in it," I said, keeping the professional tone. "To be seen fully without your consent."

Sana smiled. A small, knowing smile. Almost grateful.

Question 3: "Have you ever had a feeling that someone cared about you... even without seeing them?"

I blinked at the phrasing. It was a little poetic for a listener submission. "Interesting question," I said aloud. "Kind of sweet too, in a creepy way."

Sana took a slow breath, and her voice dropped just a fraction lower. "Yes," she said simply. There was a silence—not heavy, but hanging, like a silk scarf caught on a branch. She tilted her head, looking down for a second, then lifting her gaze slightly—not to the camera, not to the script. Straight at me.

"Sometimes...you just know," she said. "When someone’s out there. Listening. Understanding you... even when they shouldn't be able to." Her smile didn’t falter. It just grew... softer. Almost sad.

I adjusted the mic settings casually, brushing off the odd pulse that tightened in my chest. Probably just the heavy nature of the show tonight. Probably.

Final Listener Submission: "If you could say one thing to someone who has always quietly supported you... without revealing who they are... what would you say?"

The card trembled slightly between my gloved fingers. Not from fear. Just... a sudden, creeping awareness of how delicate this atmosphere had become.

I looked at Sana expectantly. She smiled—a smile like slow, melting candle wax. Lovely. Strange. She didn’t even hesitate. She leaned closer to the mic, close enough that her breath was almost audible through the audio system. "I would say..." she whispered, "You’ve never been invisible to me. Even if you think you are. I’ve seen you all along."

The studio seemed to still. Even Dokyeom, busy behind the screens, paused briefly before resuming his work. Sana pulled back, her smile folding into a sweet little laugh. "Was that too dramatic?" she teased lightly, playful again. "I'm just getting into the theme!"

I laughed with her, nodding. "That’s what the Echo Room is for."

"To let all the unsaid things... finally be heard."

And with that, the final music cue rose gently from the speakers—soft, haunting, like the last ripple of a stone dropped into a dark, endless lake.

The cameras slowly powered down. The soft applause of the production staff filled the room. Not loud. Just a polite ripple. I removed my headset, stretching slightly, feeling the tightness in my shoulders from staying still so long.

Sana rose from her chair, her movements fluid and graceful. She smoothed her dress lightly, then looked toward me with a small, private smile.

"Thank you," she said, her voice meant just for me, not the room. "For letting me talk about things... I usually can't."

I nodded warmly, still not thinking too much of it. Just a beautiful, kind idol being grateful for a platform. Nothing more. Right?

[Post-Recording Lounge: "A Gentle Kind of Watching"]

The small studio gradually emptied after the last camera light clicked off. Producers laughed among themselves, wrapping cables, sharing inside jokes.

Dokyeom passed by, patting me on the shoulder. "Bro, you killed it," he said with a grin. "She killed it too. Good luck topping that one next week." I gave a humble nod, still seated, the studio warmth slowly cooling as the energy faded.

Across from me, Sana removed the small clip mic from her collar, her movements delicate. She stayed in her seat longer than expected, not in a hurry to leave.

A staff member brought in two steaming cups of herbal tea, leaving them on the low lounge table between us. "You can relax now," I joked lightly, pushing one cup toward her.

She chuckled, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic "It wasn’t stressful," she said honestly.."Your show... it makes people feel like they can say anything. Even scary things don’t feel so scary when you’re the one listening."

I blinked behind my mask, caught off guard by the sincerity. "Thanks," I said awkwardly. "That's kinda the goal... I guess."

The lounge lighting was softer here — low, amber, almost like candlelight. Outside the soundproof glass, the hallway buzzed with distant life, but in here it was quiet. Safe.

Yet there was something...something that stayed perched invisibly on my shoulder since the recording ended. A prickle between my shoulder blades.

Sana sipped her tea. She looked down at the swirling steam, then back at me — warm, unhurried. We sat there for a moment, not talking, just... existing. Until I broke the silence.

"Actually," I started, voice a little scratchy from hours of talking. "Since you mentioned feeling like someone’s always listening..." Sana's eyes lifted, alert but still casual. "...I got a weird story letter the other day."

She tilted her head slightly, the way a cat might when curious. "Weird?" she asked, voice dipped in curiosity.

I leaned back in my chair, balancing the tea on my knee. "Yeah. Listener submission. No return address. Just signed with an initial."

Sana set her cup down lightly, folding her hands on her lap. Listening. Really listening.

"The initial was ‘S’." Her lips curved slightly upward — not surprised, just vaguely entertained. "Mysterious," she said airily.

I gave a short laugh. "Yeah. Honestly, it started off delicate. Soft. Almost beautiful in a way." I tapped my fingers against the side of the cup unconsciously. "It talked about loneliness, watching late at night... finding comfort in just hearing someone else’s voice. Made me think it was just someone struggling emotionally, you know?"

Sana nodded, perfectly sympathetic. No cracks. No flickers. If anything, she leaned in just slightly, as if urging me to continue. And I did.

"But then..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "The second half changed. It wasn’t about loneliness anymore. It got...eerie."

Her eyes widened a little — just enough. A picture-perfect actress playing a curious friend. "How?" she whispered.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the words slip out before I could second-guess them. "It started describing the room I usually record in. Like... in detail. The way the lights look when they’re dimmed. The way my voice sounds when I'm tired but trying to hide it."

I chuckled dryly. "At first, I thought maybe a staff member wrote it as a prank. But it was... specific."

Sana’s hand brushed the edge of the table, fingertips gliding slowly like tracing invisible patterns. Still calm. Still impossibly soft in her demeanor. "And the ending?" she asked.

I swallowed, the tea now lukewarm in my hand. "The ending said..." I paused, half-laughing at how crazy it sounded aloud, "something like, 'Don’t worry if you ever feel unseen. I'm always there. I know the way the light falls over your shoulders when you think you're alone. I watch.' "

The words hung in the lounge like thin smoke. Sana blinked slowly.Once. Twice. No horror. No visible shiver. Just a soft smile curling at the edge of her lips. "Creepy," she agreed gently. "But... maybe it’s not meant to scare you."

I gave a skeptical grunt. "I dunno. When I read it, it felt...directed at me. Like whoever wrote it actually watches me. Not just as a fan. Like... more."

I didn’t even notice how tightly I gripped the cup until my knuckles whitened.vm Sana noticed, though. Her fingers brushed her own wrist as if feeling a phantom sensation there. "Maybe..." she said, her voice a feather, "they just don’t know how else to show affection."

The room felt a few degrees colder despite the tea steam. I smiled thinly beneath the mask. "Hope they find a healthier way soon."

Sana laughed softly — a sound so musical and so delicate that it almost seemed to cleanse the air. Almost. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at the clock. "You should keep the letter," she said, a little mischievously. "One day... it might mean something different."

I tilted my head, amused. "You think so?"

"Mmh," she nodded seriously. "Sometimes things that scare us now... become precious memories later."

Her eyes met mine then, steady and shining with something —something I couldn’t name. Tenderness? Amusement? Pity?

I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that sitting there, in the softened light, facing this dreamlike girl in her soft vintage dress and glowing skin, I suddenly felt—watched. Not the way a stalker watches. Not the way an audience watches. Something... closer. Softer. And infinitely harder to run from.

We finished our tea quietly after that. Small talk resumed, light and simple — favorite horror movies, the best seasonal foods, upcoming TWICE schedules. She laughed. I laughed. The uneasiness folded itself into the edges of my mind, tucked away.

When Sana finally stood to leave, she turned at the door, offering a small wave. "Thanks again," she said brightly, her usual on-camera smile blooming.

But her eyes, for just a split second before she turned away—held something else. Something that wasn’t meant for the cameras. Something that wasn’t meant for the world. Somethi1ng that was only meant for me. And I, oblivious to the gravity of it, simply waved back.

[Goodbye: "A Gentle Invitation"]

Sana adjusted her light cardigan over her shoulders, her delicate figure silhouetted briefly against the frosted glass door. The moment felt suspended —Not awkward, not rushed, but... charged with something unseen.

She shifted her weight onto one foot, tapping her knuckles lightly against her palm in a rhythm that didn’t match any song. Almost like she was... deciding.

Finally, she spoke. "Y/N-Oppa," she said, her voice lower, more intimate than earlier. Not the chirpy brightness she used for audiences. Something closer. Softer. Private.

I glanced up from where I was gathering my things, surprised she hadn't just left with the others. "Yeah?" I answered, trying — and probably failing — to sound casual.

Sana stepped closer. Not into my personal space, but close enough that I could smell the faint trace of her floral perfume, delicate like wild jasmine after rain. Her eyes gleamed with something playful — but not teasing. Not exactly.

"Would it be weird," she asked lightly, her thumb tracing a small invisible circle on the strap of her bag, "if we... exchanged contacts?"

The words fell into the space between us so gently that they almost didn't feel real at first. As if it were the most natural thing in the world — and yet, something no one else had dared ask.

For a heartbeat, I just blinked, registering it. Sana smiled — a smile that wasn’t the bright spotlight smile she showed the world. This one was slower. Sweeter. The corners of her mouth curved up almost shyly, her lashes dropping for a beat before lifting again to meet my gaze.

Goddamn, I thought helplessly. She must destroy men without even meaning to. Heat rose unbidden to my cheeks, and before I could clamp down on the reaction, I let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "Uh... yeah, sure," I said, rubbing the back of my neck like some awkward high schooler. "No problem."

Sana’s smile widened just slightly, pleased but still understated, like a cat who got the cream without knocking over the bowl. I pulled out my phone quickly, trying not to look flustered, and handed it to her unlocked.

She accepted it without hesitation, thumbs moving deftly across the screen. Her contact name, when she handed it back, was simple: Sana-chan💞 with a small heart emoji tucked discreetly at the end. Not over-the-top. Not flashy. Just enough to make the memory of it burn softly in my chest.

"Text me later if you want," she said lightly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. Then, just before stepping away, she paused — looking over her shoulder at me with a smile so gentle it felt like it wrapped itself around my ribs. "Or..." she added, voice dropping ever so slightly, "just when you feel... watched again."

A beat. A shiver. I chuckled under my breath again, half laughing at the way my heart knocked against my ribs without permission. "I'll keep that in mind," I said, pretending not to feel like a teenager all over again.

Sana gave a small bow — graceful, polite — and then disappeared through the door in a flutter of soft footsteps and fragrant air. Left alone, I stared at my phone for a second longer than necessary.

Then at the door she had vanished through. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought stirred —the memory of the letter from "S," the eerie words about watching, about knowing the way light touched me when I thought I was alone.

But I shook it off with another small laugh. There was no way it was related.

The success after the Sana special episode was almost absurd.

Whispers After One exploded into trending charts, my inbox filled with interview requests, sponsorships, and curious fans demanding more collaborations.

But as the dust settled, the familiar quiet of the studio at night returned — just me, Dokyeom working behind the glass, the red ON AIR sign humming softly above.

Tonight was another normal recording...or so I thought.

The new pile of listener letters sat on my desk, neatly stacked and awaiting their turn. I skimmed through most of them easily, smiling at fan dedications, life stories, even silly horror stories that felt like they were written on the bus ride home.

But then my hand paused — brushing against an envelope. Cream-colored. No sticker. A faint scent of lavender. It was unmistakable.

"Another one from 'S'." I muttered under my breath, just loud enough that Dokyeom, adjusting the levels, flicked a curious glance up through the glass.

I placed it carefully on the desk, eyeing it warily for a second before flipping the mic switch back on.

"Welcome back to Whispers After One,"

my voice warmed the night air through every lonely apartment, every sleepy commuter's radio. "Tonight, we have another letter...from someone who's becoming quite a familiar whisper in our community — our mysterious storyteller, 'S'."

I tried to make my tone light, teasing — but a part of me already felt the temperature of the room dip. Something about the way this envelope felt...Something different from before. I broke the seal. Unfolded the soft paper.

And began to read:

Dear Whisperer, Have you ever seen a beautiful garden and thought it would last forever? A sanctuary you stumbled into by accident... A place you weren't supposed to find... Yet you stayed because the air was sweeter there than anywhere else But the longer you stayed... The more you realized you weren't just admiring the garden. You were part of it. The roots grew beneath you. They twined around your ankles. They held you there. You are the garden now. And the one who tended it smiles because you have no idea. Until next time, S

I finished reading.

The microphone crackled softly as I leaned back in my chair, staring at the letter. It was...beautiful. Elegant, almost poetic. But underneath the beauty was something deeply unsettling.

The imagery was sticky — roots, trapping, belonging without realizing it. I blinked a few times, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest.

Shaking it off, I reached for the mic again. "Well," I laughed gently, forcing a little levity into the show,

"S, you really have a way with words. I don't know if I should be honored...or a little nervous." I gave a soft chuckle, then leaned closer to the mic, speaking to all the listeners — but mostly, if I was honest, to S themselves.

"To our dear gardener — wherever you are listening —"

"Thank you for your words. But don't worry. I like gardens. Even if they hold onto me a little too tightly."

I smiled after I said it. It sounded charming enough, soothing enough for a late night crowd. But inside...my gut twisted a little. Was I...comforting someone I should be wary of?

The rest of the recording moved along like clockwork. A few lighter letters. Some fan theories about ghost sightings. I kept my energy calm, measured, like always.

Finally, when the ON AIR light dimmed and the outro music faded into silence, I exhaled and leaned back in my chair. The door to the recording booth clicked open and Dokyeom stepped in, stretching.

"Good one, man," he said casually, plopping down in the producer's chair with a yawn. "Numbers are gonna spike again after that. Everyone loves that 'S' stuff."

I hesitated. My hand was still lightly resting on the letter, tracing the bottom of the paper absentmindedly. I looked up at him.

My voice was lower now. Tightened. "Hey, Dokyeom," I said, trying to sound normal, "Can I...ask you something?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, shoot."

I held up the letter slightly, waving it between us. "Am I the only one who thinks this is...weird?" I said carefully. "Like...not just storytelling. I mean—"

I swallowed. "It almost feels like they're watching me."

Dokyeom laughed lightly, scratching the back of his head. "Dude, you're just spooking yourself out. You host a horror-themed show. People are gonna lean into that vibe, you know?"

I frowned. "Yeah...maybe."

But I wasn't convinced.bThe way the letter described finding a place you weren't supposed to, being trapped there... The way it felt oddly personal. Like I was the visitor. I was the one tangled in someone's roots.

Dokyeom must have seen the lingering tension on my face because he softened. "Look," he said, leaning forward on his knees, "If it gets too weird, we can report it. We got enough eyes on this show now that management'll take it seriously. Okay?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Thanks, man."

"No sweat," he said easily, standing and stretching his arms again. "C'mon, let's go grab coffee before you psych yourself into a horror story of your own."

I laughed a little — a genuine one this time — and shoved the letter into my jacket pocket.

But as I followed him out into the cool night air, I couldn't shake the feeling: Someone was smiling somewhere. Someone was glad I was tangled in the roots. And I had no idea who they really were.

[The Day After — At My Apartment]

It was still early — sunlight barely filtering through the half-closed blinds of my apartment — when the doorbell rang.

Not a normal knock. It was frantic, hurried, like whoever was on the other side needed to be let in now.

I frowned, setting my half-eaten toast down, wiping my hands on a napkin as I shuffled to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw a familiar, slightly disheveled mop of hair.

Dokyeom.

I unlocked it quickly. "Dude, what are you—?"

He didn’t wait for a greeting.He shoved his way inside, clutching a bundle of papers in one hand, his backpack slung half off one shoulder. His eyes were wide — bloodshot like he hadn’t slept. There was sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill outside. "You need to see this," he blurted, voice low, almost hoarse.

I blinked. "What are you talking about? What's going on?"

He threw the papers onto my coffee table with a heavy slap. They spread across the surface — a messy fan of familiar creamy letters, each one bearing that same faint lavender scent.

"S."

I slowly sat down on the edge of the couch, my fingers hesitant as I picked one up. My heart was already hammering against my ribs before I even started reading.

The first letter:

Whisperer, I saw you today. The way you laughed at the coffee shop when no one else was around. You should be careful smiling like that. Someone might think it’s just for them. I would have waved. But you looked too peaceful. Next time, maybe I’ll sit closer. Maybe you’ll notice me. Love, S

I blinked slowly, skin crawling. I hadn’t gone to a coffee shop yesterday...had I?

Then it hit me — two days ago — after recording night. I had grabbed a quick coffee near the studio, wearing my cap low and hoodie up. There was no way someone could have recognized me that easily. Unless...Unless they knew exactly where I was.

I set the letter down with trembling fingers. Dokyeom was pacing now, raking his hand through his hair over and over. "There's more," he said, almost in a whisper. I reached for another.

Second letter:

Dearest Whisperer, The halls you walk through aren’t as empty as you think. The echoes aren't just yours. Some of us follow quietly. Breathing in the spaces you leave behind. Every sound you make... Every sigh, every hum... It stays with us. We are so close. Love, S

I shuddered. The language wasn’t overtly threatening.

But there was something sickly sweet about it — like a cat toying with its prey, smiling while it tore. "Dokyeom," I said slowly, voice tight, "where the hell did you get these?"

He slumped onto the armchair across from me, hands dangling between his knees. "Management sent them to me this morning," he muttered. "Apparently...they’ve been holding back showing you some of the weirder stuff because they thought it was just a weird superfan thing. They didn’t want to 'stress you out' while the show's popularity was booming."

I stared at him. My mouth opened. Closed. I didn’t even know where to start. "And now?" I croaked.

He exhaled sharply. "Now they're scared too. Security at the building caught someone on cameras last week — twice. Hanging around the studio exit, then again near the parking lot. Same figure. Baggy clothes, hat down low, face hidden. Both times they were moving like they were looking for someone. Asking questions to random interns too."

He rubbed his palms into his eyes, voice cracking a little. "Man, they're trying to cover it up because the show’s hot right now, but...they know it’s bad."

I felt my entire body stiffen, my mind flashing back to the weird feeling I'd had last Thursday — like eyes on the back of my neck when I'd left late, the hairs standing up along my arms for no reason. I thought I was just tired. Paranoid. But it was real. Someone had been there.

I raked my hands through my hair, standing up, pacing now myself. "Okay. Okay, so what do we do? File a report? Get security to—"

"Already done," Dokyeom interrupted, lifting a hand weakly. "They're bumping your security up quietly. Only the top level of the building knows. They're trying not to cause a scene."

I scoffed bitterly. "Right. Because God forbid my safety messes up the profit margins."

He gave a humorless chuckle. Silence fell for a moment — heavy, thick.

I looked down at the letters again. The handwriting was so elegant. Almost fragile. Not the shaky scrawl you'd expect from someone this...obsessed. It was beautiful. It was deliberate. I picked up one more letter, the newest one. And this one...this one wasn’t even poetic.

Third letter:

Whisperer, It’s not fair that others get to have you when you were meant for us. They can't protect you like I can. They can't see you like I do. When the garden is full bloom, you won't remember them. You’ll only remember me. And by then, it’ll be too late to leave. Love Always, S

I dropped the letter like it burned me.

Dokyeom stood up too, the two of us just staring at the pile of letters like it might start moving on its own. The garden metaphor again. Always the garden. Only now...it was starting to sound less like a sanctuary. And more like a prison.

I broke the silence finally, my voice quieter, almost childishly hopeful: "Maybe...it's still just stories. Maybe it's all for the show. You know how some fans get carried away roleplaying..."

Dokyeom didn’t even bother answering. The look in his eyes said it all. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a story anymore. It was real. And whoever "S" was...they were closer than I ever wanted to believe.

want:

[Scene: A Day Indoors — First Real Contact with Sana]

I stayed home that day.

The radio team had put out a public notice early that morning — "Today is a Healing Day," they said, inviting listeners to take time to reflect on the unfolding stories in my show, to imagine what paths tomorrow’s tale might take. Officially, it was framed as an artistic pause. Unofficially... It was because I wasn’t ready to face another letter. Not yet.

I sat on the couch for hours, absently flicking through the stack of strange, unsettling letters Dokyeom had brought over.

They weren't just growing weirder — they were growing darker.

One letter had spiraling phrases — sentences that looped in on themselves, almost hypnotic in repetition:

"You belong to the garden. You belong to the garden. You belong to me."

Another had a dried flower taped to it — the petals wilted and bruised, like it had been carried around for days before being attached. There was no writing on that one. Just the flower. And the faintest stain where it had pressed against the paper.

The psychological pressure was mounting. Thick and sour, like the air before a thunderstorm.

I needed a distraction. Something to pull me out of my own mind.

I picked up my phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media, half-expecting to find nothing worth seeing.

But then, a reel caught my eye.

Sana.

Laughing with the TWICE members in matching pink outfits — filming behind-the-scenes clips for their "Talk That Talk" promotions, somewhere inside their "TIME to TWICE" episode. She spun around playfully, her hair flipping over her shoulder, her smile bright under the stage lights.

It felt almost surreal. Like watching a completely different world. One where people laughed freely, touched shoulders without fear, moved through crowds without second-guessing every gaze.

And then I remembered.

The night of our collab.

Right before she left the studio, she'd lingered — just a second longer than the others — as we exchanged numbers:

"Text me if you wanf. Or... if you ever feel watched. - Sana"

At the time, it felt playful. Maybe even a little teasing.

But now... Now it felt different. Almost prophetic.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over her contact.

It was stupid. It was probably crossing a line.

But loneliness does strange things to people.

And fear... Fear makes you reach for any hand that looks steady enough to hold.

Without thinking much more, I typed out a short message.

Me:

"Hey. It's me. From the show. I... know it’s random but... thanks for giving your number. Might be needing that now."

Less than ten seconds later, my screen lit up.

Sana:

"Hi!!! I was hoping you'd text someday." "Is everything okay? You sounded serious."

Her fast response made my chest tighten strangely — like something inside me uncoiled just a little. Someone was there. Someone heard me.

Before I could even think of a proper reply, my phone buzzed again.

Incoming call: Sana.

I hesitated only a second before answering.

"Hey," I said, voice rougher than I intended.

There was a soft laugh on the other end — not her public laugh. No squealing, no showy giggles. Just a small, quiet exhale of relief.

"Hey you," she said warmly. "I'm glad you picked up."

I slumped back against the couch, the tension in my shoulders finally starting to loosen, if only slightly.

Her tone was different from how she'd been during filming. Less bright, more...grounded. Thoughtful pauses between words. Soft, almost musical chuckles when I said something awkward.

It wasn't the bubbly idol voice.

It was something real.

We talked casually at first. A little small talk about promotions, her exhaustion, her love-hate relationship with the "Talk That Talk" choreography. She teased me lightly about being "Mister Mysterious" for not texting sooner.

But eventually, she circled back — gentle, but direct.

"You sounded...like something’s wrong," she said quietly. "What happened?"

For a moment, I hesitated.

It felt stupid. It felt needy. Like dragging someone into a storm they had no reason to stand in.

But the words spilled out anyway.

Piece by piece, I told her about the letters. The garden references. The figure near the studio. The creeping sensation that whoever "S" was...they weren't just watching from afar anymore.

I expected her to react like most people would. Laugh nervously. Tell me it was probably nothing. Change the subject.

But she didn’t.

She listened.

Really listened.

Silent for long stretches except for the soft hum of acknowledgment every few sentences — the occasional murmur of sympathy that kept me talking when I wanted to clam up.

When I finally fell silent, there was a long pause.

And then her voice, softer than ever:

"I'm sorry you're going through this."

Another beat.

"You're not crazy for feeling scared."

Another pause.

"You're not alone either, okay?"

Something behind my ribcage cracked a little at that.

Not alone.

Sana's tone grew a little more firm — not harsh, but steady.

"Tell me about your radio show. Your team. The building security. How you get in and out. I want to know everything."

I chuckled weakly.

"Why? Gonna become my personal bodyguard?"

She laughed too — but there was a seriousness underneath it.

"I might not be able to fight but..." "My management can push some things." "We can make some quiet calls. Put some pressure on security. Maybe even sneak in a few extra guards without it looking suspicious."

I immediately shook my head, even though she couldn’t see it.

"No, no. You don’t have to get involved. I don't want you stressing over—"

"I'm already involved," she interrupted gently. "You reached out to me. That means you trust me. That means you don’t have to carry this alone."

Her voice dipped even lower — nearly a whisper:

"Let me help."

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was the simple human need to be seen.

But I caved.

I told her everything — the time slots I worked, the usually empty corridors, the neglected side exits. How easy it would be for someone determined enough to slip inside.

She listened in that same quiet, unwavering way.

When I finally stopped, drained and embarrassed, she simply said:

"Okay. I'll take care of it from here. You just focus on staying safe for me."

I almost laughed at how natural it sounded — for me.

As if we were already standing on the same side of the line.

As if somehow, in the span of one strange afternoon, I'd found an unexpected shield in someone I barely knew beyond a few hours in a dim recording studio.

We stayed on the call longer than either of us probably intended.

Talking about nothing and everything.

Letting the silence stretch out sometimes — not awkwardly, but comfortably.

I could almost forget, for a little while, about the letters.

About the garden.

About the shadows moving in the corners of my life.

Almost.

But when Sana finally hung up — promising to text me updates — I stared at the phone in my hand for a long, long time.

Something had shifted today. Subtle, but irreversible.

And whether it was a good thing or a dangerous thing... I didn’t know yet.

After the call ended, I lay back against the couch, my fingers mindlessly scrolling across YouTube. Without even thinking, I typed her name into the search bar. Sana TWICE moments.

One by one, the algorithm fed me a buffet of her clips — everything from downright suggestive stages where her every glance could melt concrete, to chaotic, adorable show appearances where she laughed until she couldn't breathe. I just let it autoplay, sinking into it all. The contrast was insane. How could the same woman who was doing that hip roll on stage just hours later be the same one who talked to me tonight so gently, so... thoughtfully?

Talking to her made me feel... lighter. As cheesy as it sounded, it felt like a bit of the weight that had been pressing on me for days finally floated up and away.

I smiled to myself, shifting the pillow behind my back. Maybe... Maybe this was how my listeners felt, too. When they called into the show with their horror stories, trembling voices and hearts still stuck in the moments they lived — and I listened. When I spoke back, tried to ease their nerves, and offered them some kind of shelter from the dark — maybe this was what they felt. A strange kind of peace. A quiet knowing that even if the world was insane, even if shadows crept close, someone else was there. Someone heard them.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, Sana's soft laughter from one of the clips playing faintly through the speakers. It sure feels nice.

Maybe too nice.

The next few days passed like an unraveling thread, pulling tighter and tighter around my chest.

At first, it was just the same — unreadable letters from "S" sliding into the show's inbox, their language growing steadily more desperate, more fixated. There were no overt threats... just descriptions. Descriptions of me. Of how I moved when I wasn’t on camera. Of the little habits I had that no ordinary fan would ever know.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Stress hallucinations, maybe. But then it started. Real glimpses.

At the corner of my eyes — while waiting at the crosswalk, while locking my car, while jogging late night — I caught flashes of a figure. Not directly coming at me like a typical stalker... no, that would’ve been easier. It was worse. Always in the periphery. Always vanishing when I turned fully.

Security around the building was tightened. Dokyeom was practically living in a constant panic, double-checking the CCTV files every hour. But we couldn't catch anything tangible yet.

Even so... Even so, I found myself still texting Sana almost every night.

Our conversations were strangely grounding. After the voice call that night, it had become a quiet ritual — I would text her little updates, and she would reply with simple, warm check-ins. No fake cheeriness. No excessive worrying. Just realness.

"Eat something good today?" "Don’t read the letters alone at night." "I’m proud of you for holding strong."

It was odd. Sometimes, it felt like she knew exactly what to say before I could even type it out.

Tonight, though... Tonight was different.

It was past 1:30 a.m. I had just wrapped reading another eerie letter sent by "S," the paper oddly scented like flowers this time. I was sitting in the main lounge of my penthouse, half a bottle of water untouched beside me, lights dimmed low out of habit. There was a weight in the air. A heavy, wet kind of silence, like the city itself was holding its breath.

My phone buzzed beside me.

It was Sana.

"If you feel off, don't hesitate to call. Even just for a second."

I smiled faintly, thumbs poised over the keyboard.

"I'm okay. Just tired. Letters getting a bit heavier. Thanks for always replying to me. I’m glad I can talk to you."

Seconds after I sent it, the little 'typing' bubble popped up. She replied instantly.

"Always. You're not alone."

I leaned back against the couch, letting my eyes drift shut for just a moment. The comforting ring of her words curled around me, pushing the cold fear aside, even if only barely.

Then—

THUD.

A sudden, low sound, coming from the front door. My heart jackhammered against my ribs. I sat up straight, pulse spiking.

Maybe just the wind, I tried to rationalize. Maybe—

CRACK.

The sound of the lock snapping echoed through the apartment.

I bolted upright, cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck. The front door creaked inward slowly, almost mockingly, and I saw it—

A silhouette.

Lean. Perfectly still in the doorway.

The only light in the apartment now came from the glowing TV screen and my phone. The figure stood between me and the faint city lights pouring in from the high windows.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

My phone buzzed again on the coffee table. Sana's name lit up the screen.

"Did you hear something?"

I didn’t even have time to answer.

The silhouette stepped inside.

For a frozen heartbeat, neither of us moved.

The silhouette stood like a shadow carved into the air — wrong and still. Not overly tall. Not thick-built either. A thought crossed my mind in the sliver of silence: Is it a woman...?

The shape was slender, compact. Dangerous in a way that wasn’t brute strength — but precision. Like a blade.

My hand, slick with sweat, slid towards my phone still lit up from Sana’s last text. Carefully. Slowly. I swiped up and fumbled to call Dokyeom.

The line barely rang once.

"Bro, listen, don't freak out—someone broke—"

But the slight hiss of my voice was enough.

The figure’s head snapped up. Her body jerked like a wound spring finally released.

In an instant, she lunged. Fast. Too fast.

A glint of white — a mask over her lower face — was all I could register before she closed the distance.

Instinct took over. I swung the doorframe between us hard like a shield, the heavy wood slamming against her shoulder and throwing off her angle.

"SHIT!" I barked, diving sideways into the corridor outside my main living room.

My penthouse wasn't cramped — it was practically a maze. Open floor designs twisting into sharp halls, lounging areas, a half-visible studio space. Plenty of space to move. But also plenty of blind corners.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind me — no longer cautious, no longer sneaky. She was full predator now.

I sprinted, ducking through the first archway into the guest lounge. Breath ripping in and out of my lungs, I slammed the door shut and locked it — Just in time for her to slam against it from the other side.

The whole frame shuddered.

My hands flew over my phone.

"Dokyeom, call the cops! She's in! She's INSIDE!" I hissed through gritted teeth.

The line was crackling, chaotic on his end.

"I'M ON IT! Bro — BRO — are you okay?! Stay somewhere tight — hide — don't fight her alone!"

From the other side of the door, I heard it — Not yelling. Not banging. But a giggle.

A sick, childlike giggle muffled behind the door and her mask. High-pitched. Almost... gleeful.

A new kind of terror slid into my bones. She wasn’t just trying to scare me. She was enjoying this.

I backed away from the door, scanning the room.

Windows? Not an option — too high. Emergency staircase? Across the penthouse — no good from here.

The lock gave a warning groan. She was forcing it.

I took a breath that burned my throat and pivoted, dashing towards the hall again. If I could loop around the apartment’s back corridors, maybe I could get out through the service entrance.

I didn’t look back.

My bare feet slapped against the marble as I raced into the back hallway — a place usually reserved for delivery routes and cleaning staff.

Behind me, the door crashed open.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" A voice sang out — distorted and almost giddy from behind the mask.

It was definitely a woman’s voice. Young. Sweet. Horribly out of place.

I didn’t answer. Just ran harder.

She chased after me, her footsteps light, too light, like she knew this terrain better than I did.

A framed photo on the wall shattered near my head — thrown. I ducked instinctively, heart pounding, eyes blurring with fear and sweat.

I barreled down another turn — closer to the kitchen now, closer to the back exit — when my phone buzzed again.

A text popped up from Sana at the worst possible time:

"What's happening? Tell me!"

Shit.

I had no time to answer.

I heard her laugh again, closer this time.

And then — At the far end of the hall, silhouetted against the faint lights of the kitchen — there she stood again.

Waiting. Arms spread, like she wanted me to run into her.

The only option was sideways — a narrow door leading to the wine cellar. I crashed into it without thinking, slammed it shut behind me, breathing in short, stabbing bursts.

It was pitch dark. Only my phone’s dying glow gave me any view.

I pressed my back against the thick wood door, muscles locked tight.

No sound.

Not even footsteps now.

Had she... stopped?

I dared to glance down at my phone again. Sana was still texting frantically.

Another buzz.

"If you can, lock yourself. Hide. Help is coming."

And then, chillingly:

"Don't let her find you before they arrive."

I tightened my grip on the door handle, locking it from inside with a heavy twist.

But even in the dark, I could feel it. The overwhelming, suffocating sensation.

She was still close.

Maybe even listening at the door.

My body stiffened — every nerve alight.

A slow, deliberate tap... tap... tap began against the wood.

The tapping continued. Gentle at first. Then harder. Almost... playfully testing the wood.

I crouched down lower in the darkness, heart smashing against my ribs, clutching my phone like a lifeline.

How the hell did Sana know? I hadn’t messaged anything after I ran.

Then my screen lit again — the old voice recorder app, blinking red.

A sudden realization made my gut twist. Somewhere during the panic earlier... I must have accidentally pressed the voice record button. It sent her a partial audio clip — fragments of me running, gasping, the crash of something shattering, and my half-whispered curses.

She must’ve heard enough. Pieced it together.

Smart girl...

A shudder ran through me. But no time to think deeper.

Suddenly — creak The window above the wine racks on the far side of the cellar cracked open.

The sharp night air whooshed in, carrying the city’s distant noise.

I bolted my gaze to it.

No. Not her. It was too small for a human to fit through without extreme effort.

Still — another weak point.

My phone buzzed again.

Dokyeom.

I yanked it to my ear, voice low but shaking.

"Bro, bro! Where the hell are the cops, man?!"

He was panting, too — like he’d been running.

"They’re coming! Five minutes out!"

"I don't have five minutes!" I hissed, cutting my voice low when another soft creak came from the door.

"Tell me quick — are the outside maintenance pipelines still intact along the building?" I demanded, swallowing panic.

There was a tiny chance — tiny — the old metal maintenance lines running down the side of the tower could bear some weight.

Dokyeom didn't even hesitate.

"Yeah! Yeah, the security never got rid of ‘em yet, especially on your floor! They're thick — old-school steel shit."

I sucked in a breath, eyes flicking from the door to the half-open window.

"I'm going down the pipes."

"WHAT?! BRO, NO —"

"I'M NOT WAITING TO BE SLAUGHTERED, DOKYEOM!" I barked.

I could almost hear him pulling at his own hair over the call.

"FUCK — be careful, PLEASE, man! I’m racing there too! I swear!"

I didn’t answer — already scrambling toward the narrow window.

Another tap-tap-tap echoed behind me — faster now, desperate.

The door handle twitched.

I squeezed myself through the tiny window opening, my shoulders scraping against the cold stone. One foot out, then the next.

The wind whipped at my shirt. The city lights stretched below me like a sea of fireflies.

I clutched the old maintenance pipe with both hands.

It rattled slightly under my grip.

Hold. Hold... please hold.

I slid my body flat against the side of the building, gripping the rusted metal tighter than I’d ever held anything in my life.

Below me? At least a dozen stories.

Death in one bad slip.

Behind me, a horrible slam rattled the wine cellar door. She was breaking through.

Without another thought, I started shimmying down.

Hand over hand. Legs tight around the pipe.

The old metal bit into my palms, scraping skin. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the sting.

Three floors down. Four.

The lights of the penthouse were getting smaller above me.

The window I’d crawled out of shone faintly — And then I saw it.

The figure.

She leaned out. Mask still on. Watching me.

I could feel her gaze burning into my back.

No shout. No threat.

Just watching.

My chest tightened painfully. I forced myself not to look back again.

Another floor down. Another.

The shouts of security guards started echoing from below — faint but growing.

Sirens wailed distantly — getting closer.

My hands, numb and raw, finally found the ledge of the emergency balcony on the service floor.

With a desperate grunt, I swung myself onto it, collapsing to my knees, gasping.

The guards burst into the service floor hallway a second later, weapons drawn, yelling.

I stumbled up, waving both hands.

"I’m friendly! I'm the tenant! She's upstairs!"

They surrounded me instantly, some guiding me behind them, others radioing furiously.

Through the chaos, I glanced up one last time.

The penthouse window.

Empty.

She was gone.

Like she was never there.

The guards hustled me through the service hall. Sirens were wailing closer now. Somewhere below, more security teams flooded in.

I could barely stand straight, the adrenaline crash hitting me like a truck. The call with Dokyeom was still echoing faintly in my ear — "I'm almost there! Hold on!"

And then — the sharp screech of tires outside. A black van pulling up violently at the emergency lot.

The doors flung open before it even fully stopped.

And there she was.

Sana. Bursting out of the van. Running toward me like the world was ending.

I blinked, stunned, barely processing the guards parting instinctively around her.

She wasn't in some armored jacket or casual airport fit. No. She looked like she had just dropped everything and came exactly as she was.

Sana was in a black satin slip dress, delicate lace tracing the neckline, thin straps barely clinging to her soft shoulders. Over it, she had thrown an oversized pastel pink cardigan, its huge, plush fabric swallowing her smaller frame.

Her hair was a soft mess of loose waves, half-up, half-down, with gentle brown and reddish hues catching in the emergency lights.

A few strands clung to her damp cheeks where — My heart squeezed painfully — where tears were already spilling.

Tears. For me.

Minatozaki Sana, the goddess of a million fantasies, was crying over me.

She ran without hesitation, the hem of her dress swishing against her thighs, cardigan sleeves slipping down her arms.

When she reached me, she didn’t say a word. She just crashed into me.

Her arms wrapped tight around my ribs. Face burying against my chest.

The scent of soft rose shampoo and skin-warm silk hit me all at once.

"You’re safe — you’re safe — you’re safe —" she whispered, half-sobbing against me.

I stood frozen, my battered hands hovering uselessly in the air, mind spinning.

Was this real? Was this actually happening?

Her body was warm, trembling slightly against mine. The silk of her dress brushed against my jeans, the pastel cardigan brushing my arms.

I finally — shakily — wrapped my arms around her back.

Held her.

God, she felt fragile. And beautiful.

Dokyeom's voice broke through the daze, rushing over behind her.

"Y/N! Bro, you're — Sana?!"

He stumbled to a halt, clearly thrown by the scene.

Sana didn't even look at him. She just squeezed me tighter, her small hands fisting into the back of my shirt.

"I was so scared... I thought I'd hear..." Her voice cracked, raw and trembling.

I found myself speaking before I even thought.

"I’m here. I’m okay. You saved me again, Sana."

At those words, she finally pulled back just a little. Looked up.

Her eyes — usually sparkling mischief or teasing charm — were glassy, wide, full of so much relief it hurt to look at.

Under the harsh security lights, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Her fingers brushed my jawline lightly, as if checking if I was truly solid.

"I should’ve come faster... I should’ve..."

I shook my head, voice thick.

"No. You were perfect. You always are."

She gave a soft, watery laugh — almost disbelieving. The most heartbreakingly beautiful sound.

For a moment — just one suspended breath in time — we stood there. Surrounded by chaos, guards, shouting, sirens.

But all I saw was her.

The city didn't exist. Only Sana in her slip dress and cardigan, holding me like I was something worth crying for.

How... How did it come to this? I asked the universe silently as I stood there, feeling Sana's heartbeat faintly against my side.

When had she gotten this close to me?

We had only texted for a few days. Shared a few voice calls. A handful of conversations at most.

Yet somehow, in those late-night talks, in those quiet, vulnerable exchanges... Sana had slipped past every wall I'd built.

I wasn't someone who attached easily. I wasn't some naive dreamer waiting to be swept away by kindness. I was the host of one of the most famous shows in the country — the man who dealt with psychological horror, who listened to stories of fear, despair, loneliness... and taught others how to find comfort after it.

I was supposed to be the safe space. The listener. The one unshaken.

And yet, Sana — Minatozaki Sana — with her soft chuckles, her introspective silences, her oddly thoughtful questions — had disarmed me so easily after that one night.

Without realizing it, I'd begun looking forward to her name lighting up my phone. To her voice notes that made the long nights less heavy. To the way she seemed to understand — not as an idol, not as a fan — but as someone who had seen shadows too and still chose light.

I wondered if that was what made the difference. If that was why she felt less like a sudden miracle and more like something inevitable.

The flashing lights from the police cars snapped me out of my thoughts. Reality hit like a cold slap.

"Sir, we need your statement." A stern officer approached, not unkindly.

I nodded, stepping slightly forward — but immediately felt Sana tug on my sleeve. Her small hand curled around my wrist stubbornly.

I looked down at her. She wasn’t letting go. Not even for this.

Her cardigan slipped slightly, exposing her bare shoulder for a second before she hiked it up. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her gaze was fierce, almost daring anyone to say something.

Let them take pictures, she seemed to say. Let them make headlines. She didn’t care.

I gave her a small, tired smile and let her stay pressed against me as I spoke to the officers.

"There was an intruder. Female. About my height, maybe shorter. Slim build. Masked." I recounted everything carefully — the silhouette, the attack, the pipelines, the narrow escape.

Dokyeom occasionally chimed in, adding what he had seen, backing me up.

Sana just stayed there. Head occasionally leaning lightly against my arm. Breathing slow, steady — as if anchoring herself to me.

The staff from my show arrived too, their faces pale and worried. They rushed to my side but paused when they saw Sana clinging to me like a lifeline.

Whispers broke out. Cameras clicked in the distance.

I should've cared. Should’ve pulled away. Should’ve thought about consequences.

But... I didn't.

Instead, I gently tightened my arm around her shoulder.

Because the truth was — as much as she needed me right now, I needed her too.

[One Week Later]

Time moved strangely after that night. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was just her.

That day — the day Sana came running, the day she clung to me under the flashing sirens without a second thought — she offered me something I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Her presence. Not words. Not promises. Just... her. Her warmth, her stubborn loyalty, her very existence beside me.

I wasn’t someone who ever let my mind wander into ridiculous daydreams. I didn’t believe in miracles or "what ifs" when it came to people like her.

Even during our collab, when we laughed between recordings, when she made those bright jokes only she could deliver, I'd chalked it up to chemistry — professionalism — a dreamlike, fleeting moment in a life full of passing strangers.

But now... Now I could see it clearly. Minatozaki Sana cared. More than a colleague. More than a fan. More than just polite concern.

She cared like someone who felt something real — and wanted me to feel it too.

And for once, I let myself want it. Want her.

The investigation moved fast.

Turned out — The intruder wasn’t a random criminal or a twisted anti-fan. No, it was a fan of mine. A girl, barely past twenty, who'd built up an entire world inside her head — a world where I belonged only to her, a world where anyone near me was the enemy. Including Sana.

She had been stalking from afar for months, building fantasies from my shows, from my voice. And when I started hinting about growing close to someone, even unknowingly, something in her snapped.

Thankfully, Sana had pushed for management intervention the night we first talked seriously. Her instincts had been dead-on.

Because of her, security tightened around me without me even knowing. Because of her, the girl was caught before anything worse happened.

The police later announced she was being transferred to a mental rehabilitation program after the court deemed her psychologically unstable.

It should have been the end of it. A clean break. A return to normal.

But something had shifted. Something between us.

During that week, Sana made time for me in ways that were almost reckless for an idol.

Between rehearsals, she sent voice notes. Late at night, when the city slept, she called — soft-spoken, careful, asking nothing except if I was okay. On her rare free afternoons, she showed up, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, takeaway coffee in hand, grinning like she had every right to be there.

No cameras. No management breathing down her neck. Just Sana. Just... us.

And every time she appeared, the invisible gap between us shrank a little more.

Small moments grew roots:

The way she'd swing her legs lightly while sitting on my couch, hair tied messily. The way she'd lean closer when I spoke, as if my words were some fragile secret she didn't want to miss. The way she'd smile sometimes — not the big, dazzling Sana-smile the world knew — but a quieter one, softer, just for me.

Things between us... Grew.

Maybe too fast. Maybe too recklessly. But at that point — I didn't care.

(Another week later)

The kitchen hummed with the low whirr of the blender as Sana scooped handfuls of ice into the machine. The pastel pink of her cardigan sleeves were rolled up, and her dark hair was tied back loosely, tendrils falling around her face, giving her that effortlessly lovely look she always carried without knowing.

She was humming. A soft, sweet melody, barely recognizable unless one listened closely — the same tune I'd once played on the outro of my most famous radio episode. The same tune she'd clung to on sleepless nights. The same voice that had comforted her... even before we ever met properly.

And now, two days after we officially started dating, she was mine. No — I was hers. Sana smiled to herself, stirring her slushie in the tall glass, thinking how surreal it was — the voice that helped her breathe during hard nights was now the man whose arms could be wrapped around her if she so wished.

The universe had folded itself neatly into her hands.

The dorm door clicked open quietly. Footsteps padded in.

Sana glanced over her shoulder, still smiling faintly as she sipped her slushie.

It was Dahyun.

The younger girl looked a little restless, fidgety even. Something was on her mind.

Sana didn’t say anything first. She waited, stirring the icy drink slowly, letting Dahyun find her words.

"Unnie," Dahyun said after a beat, voice tentative. "Can we talk?"

Sana nodded, inviting her closer with a gentle glance. Of course, she would always have time for Dahyun.

Dahyun came up beside her, leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at the pink-tinged slushie as if it could give her answers.

"I know about you and... Oppa," Dahyun said finally, a small smile twitching her lips. "I'm really happy for you. You deserve it."

Sana smiled too, soft and genuine. "Thank you, Dahyunnie."

But the younger girl didn't leave it at that.

Her fingers drummed lightly on the counter, a subtle tension stiffening her posture.

"But…" Dahyun hesitated, looking at Sana closely now. "Unnie, that night... when the whole stalker thing happened… I couldn't shake this weird feeling."

Sana said nothing, only continued sipping her slushie with an unreadable expression.

Dahyun licked her lips nervously.

"You were too calm," Dahyun said slowly, choosing her words with care. "Too prepared. And when I remembered… the 'S' in the signed letters… it didn't sit right. It felt like someone trying too hard to fake being someone else."

Sana swirled her straw through the ice, the sound crackling sharp against the glass. For a moment, it was just the hum of the kitchen appliances and the slight buzz of city life outside their windows.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime, Sana spoke.

"You're smart, Dahyun."

Her voice was soft, but there was a weight behind it, something so heavy and knowing that Dahyun shivered despite herself.

Still, Dahyun pushed forward.

"Unnie… tell me the truth."

Sana turned fully now, setting her slushie down carefully.

She studied Dahyun's face with a fondness — almost like a big sister patiently watching a little sister trying to piece together a difficult puzzle.

"There was no random stalker," Sana said calmly.

Dahyun blinked, frozen.

"It was me," Sana said, voice steady, almost eerily calm. "I orchestrated everything."

The words dropped like stones into a still lake.

Dahyun gaped at her, mouth parting, eyes wide.

Sana tilted her head slightly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"The letters? I wrote them. The woman who entered Oppa's place? I hired her to just scare him, not hurt him. She vanished right after, as instructed. The supposed 'arrest'? Faked. I made sure everyone thought she was taken to rehab, to tie the story off neatly."

Dahyun backed up a step without realizing it.

"W-Why?" she stammered. "Unnie, why would you…?"

Sana smiled, soft, sad, infinitely tender.

"Because I fell in love with him," she whispered. "Long before we properly met. When I listened to his show, when his voice was the only thing that felt real during my loneliest nights. He wasn’t just a host to me. He became my anchor."

Dahyun shook her head slightly, disbelief warring with understanding. This wasn’t the Sana she knew — the bubbly, playful, slightly airheaded unnie.

This was something deeper. Something far more intense and haunting.

"You manipulated him into trusting you," Dahyun whispered.

Sana shrugged lightly.

"I guided him," she corrected. "I gave him someone to turn to when he needed comfort. And he did. He chose me when he needed safety."

Dahyun stared at her, struggling to form coherent thoughts.

"That’s not love," Dahyun said, a little harsher than she intended. "That’s... parasocial. That’s obsession, unnie."

Sana’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened.

"Parasocial?" she echoed, almost amused. She stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Dahyun’s shoulder.

"If I wanted to possess him, if I wanted to destroy him, that would be obsession. But I wanted to love him. I wanted to give him something he didn’t even know he was missing."

Dahyun swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

"Unnie… do you even realize what you did?"

Sana smiled again — that same ethereal, bittersweet smile.

"I do," she said. "And I don’t regret it."

She picked up her slushie again, sipping it quietly, as if the confession she just delivered wasn’t earth-shattering.

"I love him," Sana said simply. "And now, he loves me. Naturally. Not because I forced him, but because I was the one who was there when it mattered most."

Dahyun felt like she was underwater, trying to surface.

"Are you… planning to tell him?"

Sana tilted her head again, playful, almost childlike.

"No," she said lightly. "And neither will you."

Dahyun opened her mouth to protest but Sana was already stepping forward, wrapping her arms around Dahyun tightly.

Her embrace was warm — sickeningly warm — and Dahyun could feel her heart hammering in her chest.

"Because you love me too, right?" Sana whispered into her ear. "You're my precious little sister. I know you won’t hurt me."

Dahyun stood there, paralyzed, as Sana pulled back with a dazzling smile.

For a moment, Dahyun almost believed it too.

Almost.

Later that night, when Sana was back in her room and Dahyun sat alone in the living room, staring blankly at the TV that wasn’t even turned on, a heavy silence wrapped itself around the dorm.

The world outside buzzed as usual — cars, neon signs, the endless hum of the city.

But inside, everything had changed.

And somewhere, far from the knowing, I sat oblivious — smiling at my phone, reading Sana’s latest text:

"I miss you already, Oppa. Sleep well, my love."

======================================

How far would you go for love? Where does devotion end and obsession begin? Is it wrong to create opportunities… if in the end, the feeling becomes real? Is a love born from lies still love… if it brings happiness?

In the end — Is it better to never know the truth?

Or is ignorance... the cruelest kindness of all?

[sshnzsr]

MAD WOMAN

warnings: sleep paralysis, mental illnesses (schizophrenia), mentions of suicide (reader’s mom has committed), emotional and psychological manipulation, childhood trauma?, (short) smut, unprotected sex, betrayal, lmk if I missed anything

wordcount: 6.5k | there won’t be a 2nd part.

masterlist

You remember how your mother used to wake up screaming every night. The sound would rip through the house, sharp and desperate, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. It started when you were six, maybe seven, too young to understand why her cries carried such raw terror.

You’d lie in your bed, clutching your stuffed rabbit, its worn ears pressed against your chest, listening as her screams echoed down the hall. Your dad would always tell you it was just sleep paralysis. He’d sit on the edge of your bed, his voice steady but tired, explaining that your mom’s body was playing tricks on her, locking her in a state where she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t escape the horrors in her mind. You believed him. You had no reason not to. He was your dad, the one who fixed your scraped knees and read you stories about brave knights and faraway lands. He was the one who made the world make sense when it felt like it was crumbling.

You believed him too when he told you the reason why your mom committed suicide was because of the constant sleep paralysis. You were twelve when it happened. The memory is fragmented, like a half forgotten dream. You came home from school, your backpack heavy with textbooks and a crumpled math test you’d failed. The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that presses against your eardrums and makes your skin prickle. Your dad was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his head in his hands. You’d never seen him cry before, not even when your goldfish died or when you broke your arm falling off the swing set. But there he was, shoulders shaking, his voice thick as he told you your mom was gone. “She couldn’t take it anymore,” he said. “The sleep paralysis, it was too much for her.” You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t know how. You just nodded, your throat tight and let him pull you into a hug that felt more like a plea than comfort.

You were so scared of sleep paralysis after that. The fear rooted itself deep in your bones, a constant whisper in the back of your mind. Some nights you couldn’t even sleep. You’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster to keep your mind busy. You’d listen to the creak of the house settling, the distant hum of the refrigerator, anything to drown out the thought of waking up trapped in your own body, just like her. Your dad noticed. He’d find you in the morning, bleary eyed and trembling and his face would soften with that same weary concern. “You need to sleep,” he’d say, his voice gentle but firm. That’s when he started giving you the pills.

They were small, white, bitter things that stuck to the back of your throat no matter how much water you drank. You’d take them every night, standing at the kitchen counter while he watched, his eyes fixed on you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away. “For your own good,” he’d say, ruffling your hair the way he did when you were little. You hated the pills, hated the chalky aftertaste that lingered until morning, hated the way they made your thoughts feel heavy, like wading through mud. But you took them because he said they’d help you sleep, because he said they’d keep the nightmares away. And for a while, they did. You slept dreamlessly, your nights a void of black, uninterrupted by screams or shadows. You thought it was a small price to pay to avoid your mother’s fate.

Years passed and the pills became routine, a ritual as familiar as brushing your teeth or tying your shoes. You grew up, moved out, got married. Sunghoon came into your life like a burst of light, all easy smiles and warm hands that held yours like they were made for it. He was your anchor, the one who made you laugh when the weight of the past pressed too hard against your chest. You told him about your mom, about the sleep paralysis, about the pills. He listened, his eyes soft with understanding and promised to keep you safe. You believed him, just like you believed your dad. You wanted to believe in something, someone, who could keep the darkness at bay.

But then the dreams started. They crept in slowly, like a fog rolling over a still lake. At first, they were vague, fleeting images that dissolved when you opened your eyes. A figure in the distance. You didn’t think much of it, chalking it up to stress or the lingering effects of the pills. But the dreams grew sharper, more vivid, until you couldn’t dismiss them anymore. You started seeing a man in your dreams. He looked ethereal. You couldn’t really see his face, but he must be ethereal, you thought to yourself. He was tall, his silhouette cutting a striking figure against the strange landscapes of your mind. always standing with his back to you, silent and unmoving.

The first time you saw him, you were in a field, the grass swaying around your knees, the sky above a bruised purple. He stood at the far edge, his form blurred but unmistakable. You called out, but your voice was swallowed by the wind. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge you. You woke with a start, your heart pounding. You didn’t tell Sunghoon. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was because the dreams felt private, like a secret only you were meant to keep. Or maybe it was because you were afraid he’d look at you the way your dad used to, with that mix of pity and worry that made you feel like you were already breaking.

The dreams came more frequently after that. Sometimes he stood in a forest, the trees gnarled and ancient, their branches clawing at the sky. Sometimes it was a deserted street, the pavement cracked and littered with leaves, the streetlights flickering like they were about to die. Once, he stood on the edge of a cliff, the ocean below churning with a violence that matched the storm in your chest. Each time, his back was turned, his silence a wall you couldn’t breach. You started to dread sleep, not because of paralysis but because of him. Who was he? Why did he feel so real, so familiar, like a memory you couldn’t place? You tried cutting back on the pills, thinking they might be the cause, but it only made the dreams more intense, the man’s presence more solid.

You didn’t tell Sunghoon, but he noticed something was wrong. He’d catch you staring into space, your coffee going cold in your hands, or find you awake in the middle of the night, sitting on the couch with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “You okay, baby?” he’d ask, his voice soft but laced with that same concern your dad used to have. You’d nod, force a smile, say it was just a bad dream. But you could see it in his eyes, the doubt, the fear that you were slipping into something he couldn’t understand. You hated that look. It made you feel like you were already half gone, like your mother, like a ghost haunting your own life.

The dreams were changing you and you didn’t know how to stop it. You didn’t know if you wanted to.

-

The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, as you found yourself in the middle of a graveyard. Some tombstones were tilted, sinking into the soft soil as if the earth were swallowing them whole. Others stood tall, defiant against time, their edges sharp enough to cut through the moonlight that spilled across the scene. The sky above was a deep, unnatural gray, streaked with clouds that moved too slowly, like they were watching you. A chill crawled up your spine, not from the cold but from the weight of the place, the way it seemed to pulse with a quiet, unspoken grief. You knew you were dreaming. The edges of the world were too soft, the colors too vivid, but that knowledge didn’t lessen the dread curling in your stomach.

He was there again, the man from your dreams, standing a few paces ahead. His silhouette was unmistakable, tall and broad shouldered. He stood with his back to you, as always, motionless, his presence both a magnet and a warning. You could feel the pull of him, like a tide dragging you under, but there was something different this time. The graveyard wasn’t just a backdrop. It felt alive, aware, its silence heavy with secrets. You took a step forward, your bare feet sinking into the cold, wet grass. The sensation was too real, grounding you in this unreal place. Your heart pounded, a steady rhythm that echoed in your ears, louder than it should have been.

You realized you were in a dream, but it didn’t feel like one. The details were too sharp. The faint moss creeping up the base of a nearby tombstone, the distant hoot of an owl, the way the air tasted faintly of iron and rot. You wanted answers, needed them. The man had haunted you for weeks, maybe months, his silent presence a puzzle you couldn’t solve. You took another step, your voice trembling but determined. “Who are you?” you shouted, the words slicing through the stillness. They hung in the air, unanswered, as he remained still, his back a wall of shadow and red.

You moved closer, your steps quicker now, driven by a mix of fear and frustration. But every time you advanced, he drifted further away, his form flickering like a candle flame caught in a draft. It was maddening, the way he stayed just out of reach, always a step ahead, always untouchable. “Stop running away!” you shouted again, your voice raw, cracking with the weight of your need to know. You weren’t sure why it mattered so much, why this stranger in your dreams felt like the key to something you couldn’t name. But you were tired of the silence, tired of the mystery, tired of waking up with more questions than answers.

And then, he stopped.

The world seemed to hold its breath. The clouds froze, the owl’s call cut off mid note and even the air felt heavier, pressing against your skin. He stood in front of a grave, his head slightly bowed, as if paying respects. Your chest tightened as you followed his gaze, your eyes landing on the tombstone. The moonlight illuminated it just enough for you to make out the name carved into the stone.

your mother’s.

The letters were sharp, precise, her name a wound etched in granite. The dates below were blurred, unreadable, but you didn’t need them. You knew them by heart. The day she was born, the day she died. Your knees buckled, but you caught yourself, your hands clenching into fists to keep from collapsing. The sight of her name here, in this dream, felt like a violation, like someone had reached into your chest and pulled out your heart.

You wanted to scream, to demand why her grave was here, why he was here, but your voice caught in your throat. He spoke first, his voice low and resonant, like it came from the earth itself, vibrating through the ground and into your bones. “This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. They’re going to kill you again.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing your breath. “What is that supposed to mean?” you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper now. “Who are you?”

He turned around and for the first time, you saw his face… or tried to. The shadows clung to him, obscuring his features, but his eyes burned through the darkness, sharp and piercing, like they could see every secret you’d ever buried. They were a color you couldn’t name, somewhere between amber and blood, glowing faintly in the dim light. His presence was overwhelming, not just a man but a force, something ancient. “They’re going to call you crazy,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender, but heavy with certainty. “They will call you a mad woman. When they’re finally done with you, I’m going to take you with me, baby. Trust me.”

Before you could process his words, he closed the distance between you in a single, fluid step. His hands were warm as they cupped your face, his touch both gentle and possessive, like he was claiming you. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss that felt like a promise, a vow sealed in the strange magic of this place. The warmth of it lingered, spreading through you, chasing away the chill of the graveyard. Then his lips found yours and the world dissolved into a haze of sensation. The kiss was deep, consuming, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that made your pulse race. You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. The dream had you now and so did he.

-

The graveyard melted into a haze as his kiss deepened, pulling you under like a current you couldn’t fight. The cold grass beneath you pressed against your skin, the dampness seeping through your clothes, but it didn’t matter. His hands were on you, warm and sure, anchoring you to this dream that felt more real than anything you’d known. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate hunger, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, coaxing it open. You let him in, your breath hitching as he explored you, tasting you like you were something precious, something he’d been starving for. The world around you faded until it was just him, just you, just this.

He pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes still shadowed but burning with that strange, unnameable color. They held you captive, stripping you bare in a way that made your heart pound and your skin flush. His hands slid from your face, trailing down your neck, fingers brushing the sensitive skin over your pulse. You shivered, not from cold but from the heat of his touch, the way it sent sparks skittering through your veins. He didn’t speak, but his gaze said enough. Desire, possession, a promise you didn’t fully understand but wanted to believe.

His fingers found the buttons of your shirt, moving with a careful precision that belied the intensity in his eyes. One by one, he undid them, the fabric parting to expose your skin to the cool night air. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. The dream had its own logic, its own rules and in this moment, you were willing to surrender to it. His hands slid beneath the open shirt, warm against your bare skin, tracing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. He cupped them gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. A soft gasp escaped you and his lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.

He leaned in again, kissing a path down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he worked his way lower. His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue swirling, teasing, drawing a moan from deep in your throat. Your hands found his shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle, needing something to hold onto as the pleasure built. He took his time, lavishing attention on your breasts, his hands and mouth working in tandem to drive you to the edge of reason. Your body arched toward him, instinctively seeking more and he obliged, his touch growing bolder, more insistent.

He pulled you down onto the grass, the cold earth a sharp contrast to the heat of his body as he settled over you. His hands roamed lower, tugging at the waistband of your pants, sliding them down your hips with a reverence that made your chest ache. You were bare before him now, vulnerable in a way that should have terrified you but didn’t. Not here. Not with him. His fingers traced the curve of your hips, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, parting your legs with a gentle pressure. You felt exposed, alive, every nerve ending singing under his touch.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice rough with want, low and resonant like it was part of the earth itself. His fingers found your core, stroking you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made you tremble. You were already wet, aching for hi and he knew it, his touch confident as he explored you, teasing your clit until you were gasping, your hips bucking against his hand. He watched you, his shadowed face unreadable but his eyes blazing, drinking in every reaction, every sound you made.

When he finally pressed a finger inside you, you moaned, the sensation overwhelming in its intimacy. He moved slowly at first, letting you adjust, then added another, stretching you, preparing you. The pleasure was sharp, almost too much, but you didn’t want him to stop. You couldn’t. Your hands clutched at the grass, tearing at it as he worked you closer to the edge, his thumb circling your clit while his fingers curled inside you, hitting a spot that made you see stars.

He withdrew his hand and you whimpered at the loss, but then he was shifting, positioning himself between your legs. You felt the hard length of his cock against your thigh, thick and warm and your breath caught in anticipation. He entered you slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. The stretch was exquisite, a mix of pleasure and pressure that made your toes curl. He paused when he was fully inside you, letting you feel him, letting you adjust to the way he claimed every part of you. His eyes locked on yours and for a moment, you thought you saw something beyond the shadows. A flicker of tenderness, of something deeper than desire.

Then he moved, his thrusts slow and deep, each one sending waves of pleasure through you. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, needing him deeper, harder. He obliged, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that was both gentle and relentless. The sounds of your bodies moving together filled the air, mingling with your gasps and his low groans. The pleasure built, coiling tighter and tighter, until you were trembling beneath him, your nails digging into his back as you chased release.

When it came, it was like a dam breaking, your orgasm crashing through you with a force that left you breathless. You cried out, your body shuddering, clenching around him as waves of pleasure rolled through you. He followed moments later, his thrusts growing erratic as he spilled inside you, his release warm and heavy, marking you in a way that felt permanent, undeniable. He collapsed against you, his breath ragged, his weight grounding you in the aftermath.

For a moment, you lay there together, tangled in each other, the graveyard forgotten. The dream felt so real. His skin against yours, the heat of his breath, the steady beat of his heart under your palm. You forgot you were dreaming, forgot the tombstones, forgot the name carved in stone. There was only him and the way he made you feel wanted, whole, his.

-

Your eyes snapped open, but your body refused to move. A suffocating weight pressed against your chest, pinning you to the bed as if the air itself had turned to stone. Your limbs were locked, unresponsive, your fingers twitching uselessly at your sides. You tried to scream, to call out, but your throat was a prison, trapping the sound before it could escape. Sleep paralysis. The realization hit you like a cold wave, flooding your veins with panic. Your heart thundered, each beat a desperate plea for freedom, but the world remained still, the room cloaked in a darkness that felt alive, watching. The ceiling above you was a blank canvas of shadows, the faint outline of a crack you’d never noticed before twisting like a smirk in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

You tried to focus, to ground yourself in the familiar. the soft hum of the air conditioner, the distant creak of the house settling, the warmth of Sunghoon’s body beside you but the fear was relentless, clawing at the edges of your mind. You wanted to reach for him, to feel his hand in yours, but your body betrayed you, a traitor to your will. Your eyes darted to the side, straining to see the door, the only exit from this suffocating nightmare. It was closed, the handle glinting faintly in the moonlight, but as you stared, it began to move.

The door creaked open, slow and deliberate, the sound scraping against your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Your breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as footsteps echoed in the silence, soft but purposeful. They grew closer, each one a hammer strike against your fragile calm. Then you saw him. the man from your dreams, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dark. He moved with a grace that didn’t belong in this world, his presence both a comfort and a threat. You wanted to scream, to demand answers, but your voice was still trapped, your body a cage.

He stopped at the foot of your bed, his shadowed form towering over you. His face was obscured, just as it had been in the graveyard, but his eyes burned through the darkness. They held you captive, stripping away every defense you had left. He leaned closer, the air growing warmer, heavier, as he bent down until his face was inches from yours. His breath brushed your ear, hot and intimate, sending a shiver down your spine that wasn’t entirely fear. “No one likes a mad woman,” he whispered, his voice low and smooth, dripping with a certainty that made your stomach twist. The words were a blade, sharp and precise, cutting through the fog of your paralysis. Then he was gone, vanishing like smoke, leaving only the echo of his voice and the lingering heat of his breath.

The spell broke. Your body jolted free, a gasp tearing from your throat as you sat up, clutching the sheets to your chest. Your skin was clammy, your heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst. You screamed, the sound raw and piercing, shattering the silence of the night. The room came alive around you, the shadows retreating as your voice filled the space. Sunghoon stirred beside you, his movements sluggish at first, then urgent as he registered your distress. He sat up, his hair tousled, his eyes wide with concern as he reached for you. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep but laced with worry.

“I had sleep paralysis,” you stuttered, your words stumbling over each other, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of fear. Your hands shook as you gripped his arm, needing something solid, something real to anchor you. The memory of the man’s whisper clung to you, his words looping in your mind like a warning you couldn’t decipher.

Sunghoon’s face softened, but there was something in his eyes. Pity, just like your father’s, a look that made your stomach churn. He pulled you into his arms, his hands warm against your back, but the embrace felt hollow, like he was holding you out of obligation rather than love. “Baby, it’s happening again,” he said softly, his voice careful, measured, like he was speaking to a child. “This isn’t normal anymore. Please, you have to go to the doctor.”

You pulled back, staring at him, your heart sinking. “What do you mean, Sunghoon? This is the first time I’ve had sleep paralysis…” Your voice was small, uncertain, as if you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. But the way he looked at you, the way his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line, made you doubt your own words. Had it happened before? You couldn’t remember, not clearly, but the doubt was there, gnawing at you like a parasite.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely masked. “You’ve been… off, lately. The dreams, the way you’ve been acting. I’m worried about you.” His words were gentle, but they carried a weight you didn’t want to bear. You saw it in his eyes, the same look your dad used to give you when he handed you those bitter white pills. Pity. Fear. The belief that you were fragile, broken, just like your mother.

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that you were fine, but the memory of the man’s voice “no one likes a mad woman” stopped you. It felt like a truth you weren’t ready to face, a shadow cast by your mother’s fate. You leaned against Sunghoon, letting his warmth chase away the lingering chill, but the doubt remained, a seed planted deep in your mind, waiting to grow.

-

Your eyes opened to a stark, sterile room, the kind of place where the air tasted of antiseptic and despair. The walls were too white, glaring under the harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead. There was no window, no glimpse of the outside world, just four walls closing in around you. A single bed, its sheets crisp and thin, sat in the center of the room, its metal frame cold to the touch. Above you, two cameras hung from the ceiling, their unblinking lenses trained on you like silent sentinels. The sight of them made your skin crawl, a reminder that you were being watched, judged, cataloged. Your head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat and your mouth was dry, the faint aftertaste of those bitter pills lingering on your tongue. You didn’t remember falling asleep, didn’t remember how you got here, but the realization hit you like a punch to the gut. you were in a psychiatric hospital.

Panic surged through you, hot and suffocating. You scrambled off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold linoleum floor, the shock of it grounding you for a fleeting moment. You rushed to the door, a heavy slab of metal with a small, reinforced window that showed nothing but a dimly lit hallway beyond. You pounded on it, your fists aching with each strike, your voice raw as you shouted, “OPEN THE DOOR! I’M NOT INSANE!” The words echoed in the small room, bouncing off the walls, but no one answered. Your hands shook, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as you hammered harder, desperation clawing at your chest. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t crazy. You couldn’t be.

The door clicked, a sharp sound that cut through your frenzy. A nurse stepped inside, her face stern, her eyes cold with practiced indifference. She was older, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her uniform starched to perfection. “Stop shouting,” she said, her voice flat. “You’re waking the whole hospital up.” Her words were a reprimand, but there was no warmth in them, no trace of compassion. She looked at you like you were a problem to be managed, not a person.

You stepped back, your hands still trembling, your voice dropping to a shaky whisper. “Where is Sunghoon? Call him here.” Your husband’s name felt like a lifeline, a tether to the world outside this sterile cage. Sunghoon was manipulative, sure. you’d seen it in the way he could charm anyone, twist conversations to his advantage, make you question your own decisions. but he wouldn’t use your supposed illness against you. He wouldn’t lock you away for his own benefit. He loved you. He had to. You clung to that thought, even as doubt gnawed at the edges of your mind, whispering memories of his pitying looks, his careful words, the way he’d echoed your father’s concern.

The nurse didn’t answer right away. She adjusted something on the clipboard in her hands, her movements precise, mechanical. “Your husband will be notified,” she said finally, her tone clipped, as if she were reading from a script. “Now sit down and calm yourself. You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” She turned and left, the door locking behind her with a heavy thud that reverberated in your chest. You stood there, staring at the closed door, your mind racing. Schizophrenia, they’d called it. You’d overheard the word in fragments, whispered by doctors in the haze of your arrival, but you didn’t believe it. You couldn’t. You weren’t like your mother. You weren’t.

Minutes later, the door opened again and Sunghoon walked in. He looked impeccable, as always. his dark hair neatly styled, his shirt pressed, his smile just wide enough to seem genuine. But there was something in his eyes, a glint of satisfaction that made your stomach churn. “How are you feeling, darling?” he asked, his voice smooth, almost too gentle, like he was speaking to a fragile child. He stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed but calculated.

“You made me this way,” you said, your voice low, trembling with a mix of anger and fear. “I’m not insane.” The words felt like a plea, a desperate attempt to make him see you, the real you, not the broken thing he seemed to believe you were.

Sunghoon’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, a flicker of something cold passing through them. He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he’d already solved. “Oh, my dear,” he said, his voice dripping with pity, “you are crazy. When will you finally accept that?” His words were soft, but they cut deep, each one a reminder of the man in your dream, his whispered warning. “No one likes a mad woman.” You wanted to scream, to lash out, to make him understand that you weren’t what he said you were, but the weight of his gaze held you in place.

You argued, your voice rising, words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I’m not crazy, Sunghoon! I know what I saw, what I felt! You can’t just lock me away and pretend this is for my own good!” Your hands clenched into fists, your nails digging into your palms as you fought to keep your voice steady. “You’re doing this for you, not me. Just like my dad. Just like what happened to my mom.”

His expression didn’t change, but he stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the faint cologne he always wore, sharp and expensive. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear and whispered, “No one likes a mad woman.” The words were a chilling echo, a perfect mimicry of the man in your dream and they sent a jolt of déjà vu through you, freezing you in place. He pulled back, his smile still in place and turned toward the door. “Get some rest, darling,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.” And then he was gone, the door locking behind him with that same heavy thud.

You sank onto the bed, your legs giving out as the weight of his words settled over you. The room felt smaller, the walls closer, the cameras’ gaze sharper. You curled your knees to your chest, your mind spiraling. Your mother’s fate loomed large, her screams echoing in your memory, her end a shadow you couldn’t escape. Was this what she felt? Trapped, dismissed, called mad until the label consumed her? Sunghoon’s whisper lingered, a poison seeping into your thoughts. He was just like your dad, you realized, his love a mask for control, his concern a tool to keep you small. You weren’t insane. You couldn’t be. But the doubt was there, a crack in your certainty and it terrified you more than the locked door or the watching cameras.

-

Days bled into weeks, each one indistinguishable from the last in the sterile confines of the psychiatric hospital. Time was a slippery thing, marked only by the routine of pills, meals and the occasional visit from a doctor whose questions felt more like accusations. The room remained your world. four white walls, a bed with sheets that smelled faintly of bleach and those two cameras, their lenses glinting like cold, unfeeling eyes. The fluorescent lights buzzed constantly, a low hum that burrowed into your skull, making it hard to think, hard to hold onto the fragments of yourself that still felt real. You stopped counting the days after the first week, stopped looking for patterns in the nurses’ schedules or meaning in their clipped words. It was easier to exist in the haze, to let the hours slip by like water through your fingers.

They gave you pills twice a day, small and white, just like the ones your father used to hand you. You took them at first, swallowing them under the nurse’s watchful gaze, but they dulled your edges, made your thoughts sluggish, your memories soft at the corners. You hated the way they made you feel like a ghost in your own body, drifting through a life that wasn’t yours. So you started hiding them, tucking them under your tongue when the nurse turned away, spitting them into your palm when you were alone. You’d flush them down the toilet, watching the tiny tablets swirl and disappear, a small act of rebellion that made you feel alive, if only for a moment. The fog in your mind began to lift, but with it came the dreams, sharper and more vivid than ever.

He was there again, standing in the graveyard where it all began. The tombstones stretched endlessly around you, their surfaces etched with names you couldn’t read, their shadows long and jagged under the moonlight. He stood in front of your mother’s grave, his back to you at first, his silhouette a dark flame against the gray sky. You felt the same pull, that magnetic force that drew you to him, but this time there was something else. anger, defiance, a refusal to let him slip away without answers. You stepped closer, the grass cold and wet beneath your feet, your voice steady despite the trembling in your chest. “Who are you?” you asked, the words cutting through the silence like a blade.

He turned, his face still cloaked in shadow, but his eyes were brighter now, glowing with that strange, unnameable color that seemed to shift between amber and blood. They held you, as if they could see every crack in your soul. “You’re waking up,” he said, his voice low and resonant, vibrating through the earth and into your bones. “They can’t keep you forever.” His words were a lifeline, a spark of hope in the darkness, but they also carried a weight, a promise of something vast and terrifying waiting just beyond your reach.

You took another step, your hands clenched into fists, your nails biting into your palms. “Who are they? Sunghoon? My dad? Why are you here? What do you want from me?” The questions spilled out, each one more desperate than the last, but he only smiled, a slow, enigmatic curve of his lips that made your heart stutter. He reached for your hand, his fingers warm and solid as they closed around yours, pulling you closer. His touch was electric, grounding you in the dream, making it feel more real than the hospital bed or the cameras or Sunghoon’s pitying smiles.

“I’m here for you,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender. “When you’re ready, I’ll take you away from all of this. Trust me.” His words echoed his earlier promise, but this time they felt different, heavier, like a vow carved in stone. He didn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that made your breath catch. You wanted to ask more, to demand answers, but the dream began to fray, the graveyard dissolving into a blur of gray and green.

You woke in your hospital bed, the cameras still watching, their lenses catching the faint light from the hallway. Your heart was racing, your skin damp with sweat, but you didn’t scream this time. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, the crack in the plaster a familiar map of your confinement. The man’s words lingered, a whisper in the back of your mind. “They can’t keep you forever.” You clung to that, a fragile thread of hope, even as doubt gnawed at you. Sunghoon’s visits continued, each one a performance of concern, his smiles too perfect, his words too careful. “You’re doing better,” he’d say, his hand resting on yours for just a moment too long, his eyes searching for something you couldn’t name. You saw it now, the manipulation, the way he twisted your fear into proof of your instability, just like your father had done to your mother.

You started to wonder if he wanted you here, locked away where no one would believe you, where your voice would be drowned out by labels like schizophrenia and delusional. The thought made your blood run cold, but it also sharpened your resolve. You stopped arguing with him, stopped pleading. You smiled back, mirrored his concern, let him think you were breaking. But inside, you were gathering pieces of yourself, piecing together the truth. Your mother’s screams, your father’s pills, Sunghoon’s whispers. they were all part of the same thread, a pattern you were only beginning to see.

The man in your dreams was still there, waiting, his presence a constant in the chaos. Was he your salvation, a guide to pull you out of this nightmare? Or was he something darker, a temptation leading you deeper into madness? You didn’t know and the not knowing was its own kind of torment. But as you lay in that bed, the cameras’ gaze heavy on you, you felt a spark of defiance. You weren’t your mother. You wouldn’t let them break you. The question was what came next. escape, or surrender to the man who called you his, who promised to take you away. His voice echoed in your mind, soft and certain. “No one likes a mad woman.” And you wondered, as the night stretched on, if you’d ever find out who he was, or if you’d be lost in the attempt.

The end.

[velouriaris]

━━━ 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 ℂ𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 ━━━

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains extremely dark themes including psychological horror, obsessive love, graphic violence, non-consensual captivity, physical punishment (past), emotional abuse, and threats of bodily harm. Sebastian being a cruel demon but he's soft in this ep.

Taglist: @gumboug

Part 1: Silk Chains & Crimson Bones

You woke up to pain.

Not the kind that faded with time or dulled with sleep, but the kind that sank its teeth into you, bone-deep and searing. The kind that clawed up your spine and made it impossible to breathe.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sticky with dried tears. The room was dim—gray dawn filtering weakly through the cabin’s frost-bitten window. Shadows stretched long and silent across the wooden walls, and the fire… it had burned to embers. Cold crept in like a phantom, curling around your fragile frame.

You tried to move.

The pain answered before your limbs did.

A sick, splitting agony surged through your body—raw and hot, radiating from your arms and legs. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat. A strangled sob escaped your lips before you could swallow it.

Your arms… bound in linen. Not tightly, but decisively. You could feel the hard pressure of wooden splints beneath layers of stiff cloth. Your ankles too—wrapped, elevated slightly by folded blankets. 

Everything was aching. Bruised. Fractured. Dismantled.

Bandages held you together, but just barely.

You laid there, completely still, the stale scent of blood and antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. The mattress felt damp beneath you, cold from your own sweat. Every beat of your heart seemed to rattle your broken bones.

You didn’t need to move to remember.

You didn’t need to look to know.

He had broken you.

He had kept his word.

And worst of all…

You deserved it.

Tears welled in your eyes again, spilling over the corners, sliding hot and helpless into your hair. The salt stung the cuts on your cheeks—small, angry reminders of the struggle you’d lost.

You cried, not just from the pain…

But from everything.

From what you’d done.

From who had paid the price.

Your thoughts drifted to him.

The hunter.

You hadn’t even learned his name.

But his face—

That rough, worn kindness in his eyes when he’d knelt beside you, wrapping you in his coat like a child—

That memory burned.

His voice had been gentle.

“Easy now… You’re safe.”

He had believed you.

He had tried to protect you.

And now?

Now he was—

You sobbed, a raw, trembling sound that tore itself from your throat before you could muffle it. You turned your face into the pillow, trying to stifle the noise. Trying not to scream.

Because you could still see it.

His body, limp and bloodied.

The way Sebastian had lifted him like he weighed nothing, the way his throat had cracked under that gloved hand. The sound—oh God, the sound—of his ribs being crushed open, the wet tearing of muscle and bone.

Your stomach turned.

You wanted to vomit.

But your body wouldn’t let you move.

And so you lay there, in your broken shell, sobbing like a child.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered between gasps, though no one was there to hear it. “I’m so sorry…

The bindings were too tight.

The pain too deep.

You tried not to think about how he’d looked at you—Sebastian—when he dropped that body at your feet like it was your doing.

Like you had twisted the hunter’s spine and you had painted the earth red.

But… hadn’t you?

Hadn’t you known what Sebastian was?

Hadn’t you felt the warning in your bones every time he smiled?

Hadn’t you run anyway, knowing he would follow?

And now… someone’s father was dead.

Someone’s husband.

Someone who only wanted to help.

You imagined his wife's  screaming when she learned her husband's brutal death. 

You imagined the child’s silent confusion.

You imagined the casket. The burial. The empty space at the dinner table that would never be filled again.

Because of you.

It's all because of you.

A dry, broken sob cracked your chest. You buried your face deeper into the bedding, as if you could hide from the guilt clawing at your insides.

“I’m sorry…”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I just wanted to be free…”

The words meant nothing.

They dissolved into air.

No one could hear you.

No one was coming.

You cried until your throat was raw, until your lungs burned from the effort. Until the sobs quieted into little hiccups and your breath came in shallow, uneven drags.

And then you just laid there.

Tears cooling on your skin, bandages stiffening as they dried, chest rising and falling in numb surrender.

You wished you could disappear.

You wished your body had broken completely.

That your heart had stopped.

That you had never been found at all.

The ache wasn’t just in your limbs now.

It had taken root deeper—in your soul, if anything of it was left.

A hollow thing. A cracked doll with nothing inside but pain.

You shut your eyes tight, as if the darkness would offer silence.

But all you could hear was the hunter’s voice.

His last gasp.

And Sebastian’s, too.

Whispering like a shadow through the back of your mind:

This is what defiance brings…

You didn’t notice when more tears came.

You didn’t notice the light shift outside.

You just lay there—shattered, silent, sobbing into a pillow that smelled like blood and lilies.

And you wished, more than anything, that you’d never tried to run.

The door opened quietly.

Too quietly—like a whisper brushing against your skin, like silk grazing raw nerves. Even before you saw him, you felt him. Felt the room’s temperature shift subtly, the air becoming heavier, thicker, darker.

Your breath halted involuntarily. You didn’t even dare turn your head; not that you could’ve easily managed it with your limbs bound and splinted, immobile and throbbing with a persistent, unbearable ache.

Tears still stained your cheeks, drying in streaks down to your jawline, warm and sticky reminders of your grief. You desperately wished you could hide the evidence, wipe them away, pretend even briefly you were stronger. But you couldn’t move. You could only lie helplessly, your back partially turned to the door, forced to endure whatever came next.

His footsteps echoed softly behind you, measured and deliberate. Every quiet tap of his heels on the wooden floorboards sent chills crawling up your spine, amplified by your heightened senses, sharpened by fear. Your heartbeat quickened, wild and uneven beneath your chest.

You bit your trembling lip, fresh tears welling in your eyes, silently praying that perhaps he would leave, perhaps he’d spare you his presence, his scrutiny, his impossible expectations.

There was the gentle, precise clinking of porcelain. The faint sound of something—a tray, perhaps—being carefully placed on the bedside table. Then silence, dreadful silence. You felt him watching you. Your vulnerability made your stomach churn, nausea rising bitterly to your throat.

Then, at last, he spoke. His voice was a caress of velvet over iron.

“My, my…” he said softly, the words dripping with practiced calmness, flavored with a hint of mocking amusement. “You’re quite emotional today, aren’t you?”

Your breath caught painfully in your chest. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

He sighed gently, the sound tender and almost sympathetic, yet beneath it lay a subtle, sharp cruelty, unmistakably Sebastian. He moved closer, his presence looming behind you, towering effortlessly above your fragile, bandaged form.

“Whatever is the matter, my dear?” he continued, voice smooth and controlled, as if he truly couldn’t fathom why you might be in tears. “Did I bind your limbs too tightly?”

His fingertips—gloved, gentle, deceptively soft—grazed lightly across the exposed skin just above your wrist, tracing the careful edges of the linen wrappings. The contact made you shiver, not just from fear but from a physical pain that radiated deeply into your bones.

“You see,” he murmured, leaning closer until his breath brushed warmly over the side of your neck, “I made certain to apply the bandages exactly as needed. I stabilized the bones with wooden splints—pine, sturdy enough to hold your fragile limbs straight. Then linen wraps—tight enough to hold firm, yet loose enough for circulation. Elevation and pressure precisely balanced. Just as a skilled surgeon would perform.”

He spoke as though he were describing a work of fine craftsmanship, and perhaps to him, it was. Your limbs, your body—mere materials, objects carefully repaired after he himself had broken them.

“But,” he added softly, tone sharpening just enough to be noticed, “no matter how precisely I bind you, how carefully I monitor swelling and infection, all my efforts become meaningless if your body lacks the proper nourishment.”

You still didn’t move, didn’t speak. Your body trembled with repressed sobs, barely contained terror, and quiet, helpless anger at your own pathetic fragility.

Sebastian straightened slightly, though he didn’t move away. You felt him pick up something from the tray—a bowl, judging by the porcelain’s slight ring—and soon a delicious, warm aroma drifted gently into your senses.

“I brought you breakfast,” he stated simply, matter-of-factly. “Consommé of pheasant—clear, nourishing broth to replenish lost fluids and salts, precisely what you need. There’s a touch of wild herbs to soothe inflammation. Warm bread, freshly baked, soaked in clarified butter to bolster your strength. A tart of ripe pears for sweetness, to lift your spirits.”

He paused, allowing you a moment to process. Your empty stomach twisted at the descriptions, hunger gnawing at your insides. Yet your mind stubbornly rebelled. You didn’t deserve food, didn’t deserve nourishment, not after what your foolish escape had cost.

“Your body needs nutrients,” he explained patiently, calmly, as if lecturing a disobedient child. “Bones are living things. They require calcium, protein, vitamins. Without them, they won’t mend properly. They’ll set crooked, twisted, warped. You wouldn’t want that, would you? You wouldn’t wish to cripple yourself permanently simply out of stubborn pride?”

His voice was gentle, soothing, almost caring—but beneath his words lurked a cold, implicit threat. You knew all too well that Sebastian never asked rhetorical questions. Every word he spoke carried calculated intention.

“Now,” he continued softly, “I need you to eat. If you resist, I’ll have no choice but to feed you myself again. And we both remember how unpleasant that was the last time.”

You closed your eyes tightly, the memory flashing vividly. How his elegant hands had roughly forced your jaw open, the spoon pushed deep until you gagged, coughing, choking on broth that dripped messily onto your skin, your clothes, staining the pristine sheets. His quiet tsk of disappointment, his murmured reprimands—Such waste, my dear. Such unnecessary mess.

You shuddered openly, your tears flowing once more, silent and hot down your already damp cheeks.

He noticed immediately.

“You’re trembling,” Sebastian observed quietly. His tone remained gentle, yet it darkened subtly. “Do I truly frighten you so?”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat was raw, constricted with grief and fear. Your silence was confirmation enough.

He sighed once more, a gentle exhale that tickled your skin.

“Very well,” he murmured, a patient threat, “we’ll do this slowly, then.”

He settled himself beside you on the bed, carefully positioning himself so that you remained trapped, immobilized not just by broken bones but by his very presence. His gloved hand took the silver spoon, scooped the rich broth, and brought it to your lips.

“Open,” he commanded softly.

You hesitated, your lips quivering, eyes clenched shut.

Sebastian’s voice grew colder, quieter, infinitely more dangerous.

“Do not test my patience. You will eat—by your choice or mine.”

Tears slipped from beneath your eyelids, betraying your helplessness. Your mouth opened weakly, resignedly. The broth slipped warmly past your lips, comforting yet hateful, delicious yet repugnant.

“See?” he whispered approvingly, coaxingly. “Good girl.”

The phrase felt like acid, burning humiliation into your mind.

Each spoonful came slowly, methodically. He paused after each swallow, carefully wiping your mouth, inspecting you closely. His care was meticulous, unnerving, clinical. The atmosphere thickened with tension, fear, dread of inevitable cruelty.

After a long silence, broken only by the soft sounds of your swallowing, he spoke again, his voice dropping into a velvet threat:

“If you ever again attempt to escape… let me assure you, what I’ve done now—merely breaking your limbs—will seem merciful in comparison.”

Your breath hitched painfully in your chest. He placed the spoon back into the bowl, setting it down gently, then leaned closer, voice low, hushed, precise:

"Next time, I will tear your limbs from your body entirely.”

He touched your arm gently, almost tenderly, tracing invisible patterns over your bandaged limb.

“I’ll carefully slice the skin and peel it back—slowly, layer by layer, exposing muscle beneath. I’ll sever each tendon neatly, individually, taking care to avoid major arteries. You’ll remain conscious, awake to every sensation.”

His breath brushed softly against your ear.

“Next, the joints. I’ll carefully, deliberately separate each one, breaking cartilage away from bone, listening for that satisfying pop as the joint dislocates. Only after I’ve disconnected every muscle, every ligament, will I tear the limb completely free. Both your arms and legs from their sockets”

You whimpered, your eyes widened in fear.

He cupped your cheek, thumb stroking away a tear you didn’t even know had fallen.

“Once it’s done… once your lovely arms or legs are gone… you’ll be so much easier to manage. So light. So docile. Just a soft, helpless little creature for me to cradle. Like a kitten with no claws.”

His smile widened—not cruel, but possessive.

“And you’d still be beautiful, you know. Even limbless. So small, so delicate. Mine.”

He tilted his head, as if considering the idea sincerely.

“In fact… you’d be quite perfect. No more running. No more bruising your sweet skin on the forest floor. Just you, warm and silent in my arms, where you belong.”

Your body trembled violently. He felt it.

And he laughed softly.

“But… I won’t do that,” he murmured. “Not if you behave. Not if you remain my good girl.”

He leaned in, breath brushing your lips, his voice a velvet purr.

“I love your little hands. Your trembling legs. The way they curl when I touch you. I would hate to ruin them…”

His hand slid down your thigh, lingering at the edge of the splint, gentle but heavy.

“…But I will. If you make me. So… let’s not test me again, hm?”

Sebastian pulled back slightly, grabbed the bow again, calmly resuming feeding as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t just meticulously detailed your mutilation.

He offered another spoonful, his expression serene, his voice gently admonishing:

“Now, please, my dear. Let’s not let your food get cold.”

The porcelain spoon gently scraped the bottom of the bowl, collecting the last few precious droplets of broth. Sebastian lifted it gracefully to your lips once more, patient, composed, and completely unhurried. Your trembling mouth obediently accepted it, though your eyes remained fixed downward, gaze filled with uncertainty and lingering fear.

"That's my good girl," Sebastian praised softly, voice smooth as velvet and just as dark, carefully setting the spoon down upon the tray beside the empty bowl. "I knew you could be obedient if you truly wished to."

You shivered slightly at the soft edge of his voice, unsure whether it brought comfort or only deeper dread. Yet you remained still, trapped by your injuries, completely at his mercy.

Gently, Sebastian lifted a silk napkin, meticulously folding one corner around his gloved finger. He leaned forward, the bed dipping slightly beneath his precise movements. You instinctively flinched, but his touch was gentle as he softly wiped away the small droplets of broth that clung to your lips. Each swipe was slow, measured, undeniably tender—a stark contrast to the violence he’d inflicted mere days before.

“There now,” he murmured, the silk brushing gently over your sensitive skin. “Clean and perfect, just as you should be.”

He pulled back slightly, red eyes focused intently on your flushed, tear-streaked face. A faint smile curved his lips—not mocking, but somehow satisfied.

“Now, I think it’s time we addressed your hygiene, my dear,” Sebastian said, rising smoothly to his feet. “Even confined to this bed, a lady must remain presentable. We wouldn’t want your skin to become irritated or infected.”

Your heart quickened with immediate anxiety. The thought of being even more vulnerable, of his hands on your bare skin, filled you with panic and embarrassment. Your lips parted to object, but he silenced your hesitation with a gentle shake of his head.

“Relax,” he soothed softly, voice reassuring yet undeniably commanding. “You are in no position to argue. You must trust that I will be nothing but gentle.”

You bit your lip nervously, nodding weakly in submission. Sebastian smiled approvingly and moved gracefully to a small basin placed on a side table. You watched helplessly as he dipped a pristine cloth into warm, steaming water, wringing it out carefully. He turned back towards you, eyes calm, movements precise as he slowly approached once more.

Gently, he sat beside you, placing the basin carefully at his side. With meticulous care, he reached forward and unbuttoned the thin, sweat-dampened nightgown that clung uncomfortably to your body. You immediately flushed with humiliation, painfully aware of your exposed vulnerability.

Your injured limbs were bound and immobilized; there was no chance of shielding yourself, no possibility of modesty. You turned your face away, heat burning across your cheeks. Sebastian paused, noticing your shameful discomfort.

“My dear,” he said quietly, his tone tender yet firm. “There’s no need for such embarrassment. You have nothing I have not already seen. Your fragility is precisely what makes you beautiful.”

Your breath caught sharply in your throat. His words—softly delivered, strangely sincere. You didn’t want his praise, didn’t want his twisted affection.

Carefully, Sebastian drew the damp, warm cloth across your collarbone, wiping away the dried remnants of sweat and tears. His movements were painstakingly gentle, almost reverent, as though cleansing a priceless artifact. The soothing warmth seeped into your tired muscles, involuntarily drawing a soft sigh from your lips.

“You see?” Sebastian whispered, eyes never leaving your face as he slowly, methodically cleaned your neck and shoulders. “This isn’t so unpleasant, is it?”

You shook your head weakly, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions—fear, confusion, relief. His tenderness felt simultaneously terrifying and comforting, tearing at your already battered defenses.

Sebastian continued in silence, taking his time as he moved to cleanse your chest, carefully wiping around the bandages, ensuring not to disturb the delicate alignment of your broken limbs. He was gentle, thorough, and oddly clinical in his care, yet each motion seemed infused with an intense intimacy you could not deny.

After a long moment, Sebastian spoke again, his voice unusually quiet, as though confessing something deeply personal.

“Do you know, my dear, how incredibly rare it is for one such as myself to feel anything resembling affection? Especially towards a human. A human as fragile and delicate as you.”

You looked up at him, startled by his sudden confession. His crimson eyes locked with yours, filled with an intensity so deep it left you breathless.

“It should be impossible,” he continued softly, almost to himself, gently sliding the warm cloth down your side, his touch never faltering in its care. “Demons are creatures of darkness, beings designed purely for destruction, manipulation, and cruelty. Love—true, genuine affection—is foreign to our very nature.”

His eyes softened, tracing your features with visible fascination. The quiet confession sent a fresh wave of heat through your chest.

“And yet,” Sebastian murmured quietly, leaning closer, his voice like velvet against your skin, “I find myself inexplicably drawn to you. A human so painfully fragile, so impossibly delicate, it defies logic and reason. To love you is to challenge the very essence of my being. It is miraculous—a profound aberration of nature.”

Your heart raced uncontrollably, your face burning even hotter as Sebastian’s candid, almost reverent confession lingered between you. He continued his gentle cleansing, moving down your trembling stomach, around your hips, maintaining a quiet dignity even as you trembled beneath him in vulnerable embarrassment.

“The very first moment I saw you… I thought you were nothing more than a fragile curiosity. A delicate human, trembling on the edge of this cruel world. I had seen thousands like you—small, afraid, breakable. Yet you are different than the other humans I'd ever seen”

Sebastian paused momentarily, eyes thoughtful, expression strangely gentle.

“Your innocence was intoxicating. The softness in your voice... I could not stop watching you. You haunted me in ways no human ever had.”

He gazed intently into your eyes, sincerity unmistakable.

You watched him, speechless, emotions battling fiercely within your chest. He reached to gently stroke your cheek, eyes warm and compelling.

“This is why I took you, my dear. I watched you from the shadows—day after day, night after night. At first, I tried to keep my distance, convincing myself that you were simply another fleeting curiosity in a sea of mortal souls. But the longer I lingered, the more I realized… you had infected me with something I could not name. Fascination. Desire. Hunger—yes, but something softer, too. Something almost human.”

He leaned closer still, his lips brushing softly over your forehead, an almost reverent kiss.

“It is a miracle,” he repeated softly against your skin, “that a demon could love something so breakable without utterly destroying it. And yet here I am, fighting my very nature for the sake of your continued existence.”

You lay frozen beneath him, heart pounding furiously, overwhelmed by his twisted yet profound confession.

Sebastian straightened slightly, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he resumed cleansing you, his voice returning to its usual composed elegance.

He met your eyes once more, gaze intense and possessive, yet oddly reassuring.

“And I intend to cherish and protect that miracle for as long as I exist. Even if it means breaking you again, piece by piece, to keep you safely by my side. I think this called love.”

You shivered beneath him, uncertain whether his words terrified or comforted you, but undeniably drawn to the dangerous sincerity within his crimson gaze.

With quiet reverence, Sebastian finished cleansing your body, and gently began buttoning a fresh, delicate nightgown around your trembling frame.

“Now,” he whispered softly, a slight smile returning to his lips, “let’s see about ensuring you remain comfortable, shall we, my dear?”

[elliespassagerprincess]

Idk if you watched yellowjackets but i really think you would like it!

It got me thinking about ellie who lost her bestfriend (secret crush/love of her life) reader and cant part with her body and breaksdown when people find out she has it and take it away from her

Dont take her from me - ellie williams x reader

hi anon! i haven't watched it yet but its been on my watchlist... I've heard good things about it. Once again i got carried away... i hope you enjoy:)

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

requests are open, send me songs or your silly ideas:)

HUGE WARNING: grief, delusion, breakdown, body transport, psychological decay, corpses/dead bodies, disturbing comfort, jealousy, paranoia, anxiety, mental health strain, grave raiding, corpse handling, delusion, isolation, obsession, gore implied, graphic descriptions, blood, unsettling behaviour

Summary: Ellie’s always had control—until someone threatens to take the one person she can’t live without

masterlist

This story contains dark and emotionally intense themes—please read with care. You are responsible for what you consume online. Please read the warnings before reading.

The blood had dried on Ellie’s hands hours ago.

But she still sat there, legs numb from being folded too long, your lifeless form cradled in her arms like you might wake up if she held you tight enough.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

She didn’t even get the chance to tell you how she felt—how the thing in her chest wasn’t just a crush. Wasn’t just longing. It was hunger. Ached for you so deeply that she sometimes had to grip the edge of her desk just to stop from running to your house and spilling every ugly truth in her head.

Now she was sitting on the cold floor of an abandoned cabin, in the middle of nowhere, covered in blood and sweat and dirt—and none of it mattered. None of it compared to the way your body had gone still. Your breath, your light… extinguished like it was never there.

She pressed her cheek to your forehead. Still faintly warm.

“Don’t go cold,” she whispered, voice shredded from hours of screaming your name into nothingness. “Just stay a little longer. Just stay with me.”

She rocked slightly. Back and forth. Like she could lull you into staying. Like you were just sleeping off a long night.

And when the others came—Jesse, Dina, a couple others from Jackson—Ellie didn’t even flinch.

They saw her first. Then you. No one spoke. For a moment, all they did was stare.

Then Jesse stepped forward. “Ellie,” he said softly, eyes wide with horror, “we have to take her.”

She didn’t look up. “No.”

“Ellie—”

“No.”

Her voice cracked, sharp and shrill, and her grip around your torso tightened.

“She’s not—she’s not ready. She’s not cold yet. She’s not—” Her breath hitched. “You can’t just take her.”

Dina’s face twisted in pain. “El… we need to bury her. It’s not safe out here, there’s—”

“You don’t get to touch her!” Ellie roared, head snapping up. Her eyes were wild—bloodshot, soaked with grief and rage. “You didn’t know her like I did. You don’t even get it.”

She scrambled back as Jesse reached again, shielding your body like a wounded animal. Her fingers trembled where they clung to your clothes.

“She was mine,” she whispered. “I never got to say it—but she was. She was. And you’re not gonna put her in the fucking ground like she’s just gone. She’s not.”

She pressed a kiss to your temple. Desperate. Cracked. “I can keep her warm. I swear. I’ll—I’ll keep her safe. Don’t take her from me. Please.”

But your skin was cooling.

No amount of warmth from her hands, no matter how feverishly she held you, could stop the inevitable.

She had memorized every scar, every laugh, every stupid joke you told just to see her crack a smile. And now you were quiet. Hollow. Just an echo.

They had to sedate her.

It took three of them. She fought like a hellhound, screaming your name, kicking, crying, biting, even when the needle sank into her neck. Even when her body slumped in Jesse’s arms, unconscious… her fingers were still twisted in your shirt.

When she woke up in Jackson days later, you were gone. She lost it.

They wouldn’t tell her where they buried you. Said she wasn’t stable. Said she needed rest, time, healing.

She screamed until her voice gave out. Tore her room apart looking for anything you touched. Burned a hole through your favorite hoodie just trying to breathe it in.

She sneaks out that night. Finds the grave. It’s quiet. Peaceful. The dirt’s still fresh.

Ellie drops to her knees, hands shaking, and begins to dig. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t care. She needs to see your face again.

Needs to kiss you, one more time, even if your lips are cold. Needs to apologize for all the time she wasted. Needs to ask if you’d have said yes—if she had asked you out. If you’d have smiled, taken her hand, told her you felt it too.

When they find her in the morning, she’s curled up beside the half-opened grave, fingers bloodied, dirt under her nails, your name on her lips. She doesn’t even look up.

“She was the only good thing,” she whispers, to no one. “And I didn’t get to keep her.”

It had been six days since you died. No one had found the cabin. Not yet. She made sure of it.

The windows were boarded. The door—barred with a chair wedged under the knob. Every possible crack sealed tight. She'd left bloodied handprints on the wood floor from moving you again, and again, and again—trying to find the right spot, the one you’d be most comfortable in.

You were laid out on a mattress in the center of the room, tucked under a worn blanket she stole from your house weeks ago. Your hair combed back gently. Lips touched with rose balm. She even painted your nails.

“See?” Ellie murmured, sitting beside you, her knees folded tightly under her. Her fingers brushed the edge of your arm—skin pale, but not blue. Not yet. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

She hadn’t eaten in two days. Barely drank water. Her eyes were sunken, red-rimmed, skin tight across her cheekbones. But her gaze never left you.

Sometimes, she imagined you blinking. Sometimes, she swore you did.

Sometimes, she dreamed you whispered her name, and when she woke up, her ear would be inches from your mouth, waiting. Just waiting for it again.

It wasn’t decomposition. It was transition. That’s what she told herself. That the smell wasn’t decay—it was your soul trying to root itself in her.

That the darkening under your eyes wasn’t rot—it was exhaustion from everything you’d been through.

That the way your body stiffened wasn’t rigor mortis—it was just you being shy. You’d always been shy.

They came looking for her on the ninth day. A knock at the cabin.

“Ellie? Are you in there?”

Jesse.

Ellie blinked, gaze pulling from your face. She didn’t answer.

“Ellie, please. We just want to help.”

Help?

They didn’t understand.

They wanted to take you.

She stood slowly, reaching for the axe near the doorway. The one she'd been using to chop firewood—and threaten the shadows when they got too loud.

She looked down at you one last time. Her expression soft, loving, doting.

“They don’t get to have you,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “You’re mine.” Then she went to the door.

The floorboards are stained now. Not from you. From the others.

They tried to come in. They didn’t leave.

She had to do it. She had to. They would’ve taken you. Put you in the ground like you were nothing more than meat and memory.

You weren’t. You were everything. Still are.

Now it’s just the two of you again. The way it should be.

Ellie sleeps curled up at the foot of your mattress, arm across your ankle like a child holding a stuffed toy. She tells you stories. She sings to you—soft lullabies she remembers her mom humming, or songs she once heard you hum absentmindedly in the kitchen.

Sometimes she kisses your hand. Sometimes she cries and begs you not to leave her.

“I love you,” she whispers again and again. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I won’t let them bury you. You’re mine.”

The backseat of the truck smelled like copper and perfume. The perfume was yours. A bottle she stole from your bathroom before the blood dried. She sprayed it on you each morning like ritual. Like prayer.

The copper was blood. Not yours, mostly.

She had to kill the man who owned the truck.

He tried to take it—you. Said it wasn’t “right.” Said you were a body, not a person anymore. Said she needed help.

He didn’t understand. None of them did.

Ellie adjusted the blanket over your face again, tucking it neatly beneath your chin. The fabric clung wetly to your skin, the heat of the day making it damp. Your body… was changing. But she didn’t look at the changes. She looked at your eyes, still closed, eyelashes dark and perfect.

She turned the engine and drove.

You were going west. She didn’t have a destination. Not a real one. Just the vague echo of hope in the back of her skull that somewhere, someone out there could bring you back. Fix it.

There had to be a way. Science. Magic. Something. People resurrect dogs all the time in books, right?

So why not you? You were better than a dog. You were her.

Day 4

The desert was hot.

Your skin started to blister.

Ellie cried while wiping you down with a cool rag, her hands trembling. “I’m sorry, baby. I should’ve covered you better. You don’t like the sun, remember? You always said it makes you dizzy. I should’ve known.”

She stuffed ice in a towel and placed it under your neck. It melted within an hour.

Day 7

She changed your clothes.

It took two hours. Your limbs were stiff now, resistant, like you were mad at her. She apologized over and over again, kissing your hands, your face, your knees.

“You’re so cold,” she whispered, wrapping you in a hoodie that once belonged to her. “But I’ll warm you up. We just need to keep moving.”

Day 9

She saw the lights in the sky. Or maybe imagined them.

A roadside church with the word “HEALING” painted in blood-red letters drew her attention. She pulled over. Inside, there were no people. Just old books, dry flowers, and a candlelit altar.

She laid you there, right in the center, brushing your hair from your forehead. Then she got on her knees.

Prayed.

For the first time in her life.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please. I love her. I didn’t get to say it. Please just… give her back. I’ll do anything.”

The candles flickered. Her heart stopped. You didn’t move.

Day 12

You smelled worse now.

She lined the truck bed with herbs. Lavender. Mint. Anything she could find.

She kept the windows cracked so you could breathe. She never admitted—never—that you couldn’t. That maybe your lungs had stopped working long ago. Because you still looked peaceful. Still looked like you were sleeping. Still looked like you might say her name if she leaned close enough.

Sometimes she imagined you turning to her. Smiling. She started answering for you. Making conversations in the dark.

“Do you think we’ll find someone?”

Yeah, El. I think so.

“Should I stop driving tonight?”

I like the sound of the road. Keep going.

“Okay. I’ll keep going.”

Day 15

The truck ran out of gas in Arizona.

Ellie dragged your body through the sand, arms bruised and bleeding, sunburnt to hell. She tied you to a door she ripped off an abandoned house and pulled it like a sled. Her boots left deep tracks behind her. Buzzards circled above. But she didn’t look up. Didn’t cry.

Didn’t slow down.

“I’m taking you to the ocean,” she told you. “You always wanted to see it. We’ll go together. We’ll walk into the waves. Maybe that’s what you need.”

Your lips were cracked. Hollow.

But she smiled at you like you’d just said “thank you.”

Day 20

She made it to the coast. Somehow.

Body bruised, fingers blackened, lips crusted and bleeding, Ellie stood barefoot in the surf, your body laid out beside her on the wet sand. The tide rolled in. Foam kissed your toes.

She knelt beside you, her voice shaking. “This is it. If you’re gonna come back… it’ll be here.”

The moon hung above like an unblinking eye.

She took your hand, held it to her chest, pressed her lips to your temple one last time.

“Please.”

Silence.

“Please, wake up.”

Nothing.

The water rose. The stars flickered. Ellie’s tears slid down your dead face.

And then—

In the wind, she heard it.

Faint. Echoing. Gentle.

“I missed you too, El.”

Her mouth broke into a smile.

And when the waves swallowed you both whole, she didn’t fight it.

When Ellie opened her eyes, there was no pain. No sand. No salt. No hunger. No rotting flesh between her fingers. Just warmth. A low golden hum.

And you.

Sitting on the edge of a bed, hair glowing in the soft light. Wearing that shirt she loved on you, the one you always slept in. Your legs curled beneath you, a book open in your lap. You looked up, smiled.

“Hey.” Her breath hitched.

She looked down. Her hands were clean. No blood, no dirt. Her boots were gone. She was barefoot, the floor beneath her soft and cloud-warm.

“…Where…?” she croaked.

You tilted your head. “You’re home.”

Ellie staggered forward like a child learning to walk again, eyes wide, unblinking. “Is this—am I dreaming?”

You didn’t answer. Just opened your arms. She collapsed into them.

The scent of you—pure, unchanged—drenched her brain like a drug. Your skin was warm. Your breath against her ear as you whispered her name made her sob.

“I missed you,” she choked. “I missed you so fucking much.”

You stroked her hair. “I know. I waited.”

The house had no doors. No clocks. No sky. Just soft white light that never dimmed. It existed outside of time. And so did you.

You cooked together. Slept curled in one another’s arms. Sang songs in the silence. She traced your face every night, whispering prayers of thanks to whatever cruel or merciful god had made this possible.

But some things weren’t quite right.

You never left the house.

Never asked her questions.

Never said “I love you” first.

Sometimes, Ellie caught glimpses—your reflection in the window lagging behind, your voice echoing before you spoke, your heartbeat silent when her ear pressed to your chest.

But she ignored it.

Because she had you.

One Day…

She woke up and you weren’t there. The bed was cold. Empty.

She searched the house—every corner, every drawer. Screaming your name until her voice gave out. In the mirror above the sink, her reflection stared at her. But it wasn’t her.

Its eyes were black. Hollow. Its skin cracked. Decaying.

“You took her,” she whispered to it.

“You lost her,” the mirror answered.

She shattered it with her fists.

Later, she found you again. Sitting in the bedroom, combing your hair.

Like nothing had happened.

Ellie fell to her knees. “Please don’t leave again.”

You turned, eyes soft. “I didn’t leave. You just forgot where I was.”

Her hands shook as she touched your cheek. You were still cold.

Colder than before.

As the days passed—if you could call them days—you began to fade.

Literally.

Your edges blurred. Your voice softened into whispers. Your body, once warm, became translucent in the light. Ellie wrapped herself around you each night like armor, like a chain.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she hissed into your hair. “I won’t let you go again.” You didn’t respond. But you wept in your sleep.

One night, she woke up alone again. This time, you didn’t come back.

Ellie searched every room, howling like an animal. Her skin began to flake. Her nails fell off. She bled from the gums. The house, once warm, was now cold stone. Shadows whispered your name, mockingly, again and again and again. She clawed at the walls until they bled with her.

Then she saw the door. The first and only door. At the end of the hallway, pulsing like a wound. She stepped through.

On the other side: Both your bodies washed up by the ocean.

Her body, lying beside it. Rotting. Clutching your arm. And a figure, dressed in black, speaking gently.

“You can’t stay with her forever,” Death murmured. “This was your mind's lie. Your denial. It’s time to go.”

Ellie laughed. “Fuck off.”

She turned around, walked back into the house. Back into the version of you that smiled when she arrived. That never asked her to change. That didn’t cry when she kissed your cold mouth.

She never left again.

Ellie stayed in the house—forever rotting, forever hallucinating. Holding your fading, flickering ghost and convincing herself you were real. And in her head, in her twisted, love-drunk eternity, you always whispered the same thing before sleep:

“I’ll never leave you again.”

And even if it was a lie—

Ellie believed it.

When they eventually found your bodies, the costal shore reeked of sweet sick rot.

Ellie was thin. Hollow. Nails broken. Eyes vacant. But Ellie’s smile is peaceful.

She’s lying beside you, one hand holding your arm, the other clutched around a knife driven straight into her own heart. A blood trail leading from her chest to the outline of your body, as if she were trying to bleed into you. Return to you. Merge with you.

There’s a note, scrawled on the sand:

“She waited for me. I’ll stay with her now.”

[aswanlake]

᯽ 0.1⠀( pyrrhic victory . )⠀by aswanlake.

tags: @saradika-graphics for dividers

synopsis: your father was never a normal man , rude to every human being in the planet except you — unless he needed to be . today was the day of one of your spontaneous trips that your father’s work let him take , instead of studying like you were supposed to , you got curious . too curious , you ran into someone you were never supposed to meet , The Winter Soldier . to make matters worse ? this won’t be the last time you two meet .

content warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT !! mentions of world war ll / the Cold War / russia & “propaganda” from the Russian / German and American government , descriptions of blood and murder , torture , implied grooming of a child , psychological horror , graphic descriptions and language , stockholm syndrome , implied sexual abuse and assault , drugging , mutilation , and trafficking , strays from canon , weird timeline , brainwashing . (basically the red room & bucky’s torture plus a lot more)

word count: 4k+ idk the exact amount , I didn’t put it into a word counter

a/n: this is the story that replaced the Slytherin boys story (since I lowkey hated it) expect the shauna x reader to come out in the next few days . after that finnick x reader and then I’ll make my way down the line of priority . y/n isn’t used to refer to the oc much but rather just in the descriptions , reader is called “scylla” as an experiment name . if you enjoy this and want to be added to the taglist please comment below ! reblogs are appreciated and loved .

song of the chapter⠀⠀:⠀⠀dna by lia marie johnson .

1951 , november 16th | “y/n karpov” , eight years old | subject number : n/a

you and your father had a weird relationship , nothing you two did as a “family” could be classified as normal . his job couldn’t even be classified as normal , not that you actually knew what it was . normal fathers would take their kids out to play ball or go shopping , yours took you to shooting ranges where he taught you how to shoot different guns and how to take them apart then put them right back together . normal fathers would come home after late days working and embrace their kids while eating dinner together at the table , yours took you to work with him and let you sit in the corner while he did . . whatever he did .

you didn’t know what you father did but you knew it wasn’t good , you could always hear screams and cries echoing from the halls of the cold building . the only part you liked was the traveling , every few months your dad would pack you guys some bags and you’d just disappear for however long he chose . sometimes it was for a week , two the longest you’ve gone was a few months , he always had the same excuse — “ work has us moving around but we’ll be back home soon . ”

you never knew your mom , never asked about her either , you only did once whenever you were little which led to a huge “demonstration” from your father . he led you to a room full of women , all lined up , perfectly , not a hair out of place , they looked beautiful and deadly all at once . the woman was terrifying , Melina , your father called her . she tried to have a nice face around you but that only made her scarier , especially when you saw what the girls did , what she made them do . “ your mom worked for them . a dangerous woman she is , I took you away from her . had to keep you safe . ” since then you’ve never asked about her again . not if it was going to make you return to the “red room” , it was a stupid and childish name that you had made up but it was fitting . the halls were always covered by red , whether it have been due to crappy lighting or the crimson from someone’s body .

today was just like any other trip , your father packed your bags and you two took off . you always came back to your penthouse in Kazen , the place was nice , not to much the people but the place was comforting and cozy . you were homeschooled so disappearing was never a problem , you just did work on the plane or while your father worked . “ afternoon Mr. Karpov . ” the guard stood up tall , the chill from the Siberian weather , he gave a smile in your direction , voice and expression softening upon seeing you — stuffed animal held tightly in one hand while you held your math homework in the other . “ Ms. Karpov . ” you gave him a wave before the doors opened , your father wrapped his arm around your shoulder , pulling the heavy coat you wore over you a bit more with a small tug .

“ now I have to work for a few hours but you’re gonna finish your math homework . then after that you can watch tv , can you do that for me ? ” he’d crouched down to your height , you were barley eight years old so you weren’t necessarily tall . his hand rubbed lightly against your cheek as you nodded excitedly by his question . you weren’t allowed to watch tv often , your dad always mumbled about American propaganda making its way to the Russian screens which made your eyes roll . you didn’t care about America or the war , though it had ended , the tvs were still filled with hatred . you learned about it obviously because you had to but the war only caused you and your father more anguish . you never believed any of the things you saw on tv or the flyers that were up in other countries or cities , you only listened to your father . he was all you had and the only one you wanted to make proud .

1953 , june 12th | “y/n karpov” , ten years old | subject number : n/a

next was the “cold war” . a weird name . the war been going on for almost six years , you’d really only realize three years ago that it was real and it wasn’t just some thing that conspiracy theorist were talking about . your father’s work started to ramp up in the past two years , your trips lessening more and more and your ultimate holding place being Siberia . you hated it , Siberia unlike Kazan didn’t have seasons , it was almost always cold — freezing . the spring and summer were short , they were warm but a fleeting moment . your father was always working , he never came to see you anymore , it was annoying and you were getting upset .

the guards that shadowed you were nice but they were never your father . they couldn’t be him . they couldn’t give you the same love that your father could , why did he rip it away from you like that ? what had you done to deserve it ? you didn’t upset him , you always did you work , you never asked questions . but he stole it from you anyways , deprived you of the one thing that kept you going . your studying got lazier , your schoolwork got sloppier and sloppier , you even stopped enjoying tv , you’d just stare at the walls and groan and complain about being left alone to guards that did nothing but mumble and apologize .

“ can I go to the bathroom ? dad’s not back , I’ll be back soon . pop in and out , promise . ” she spoke to the guard across the room , he was supposed to follow you everywhere but you didn’t want him to follow you there . it was invasive . you stood up , heading towards the door and he went to turn , to follow behind you but you held your hand up . by technicality you had some authority , not much but some . “ I’ll be fine , you don’t need to follow me , it’s just to the bathroom , right ? ” the guard was skeptical but let you go , however you went everywhere but the bathroom . heading down a empty hallway , guards were everywhere but you just managed to catch a time where they weren’t on duty . perhaps it was a shift change or someone just wasn’t were they were supposed to be .

your eyes came across a lab , through the window of the door you could see your father standing before a guy . his face was covered by the man’s body but he was quite obviously uncomfortable . he was strapped down to the table , body shaking and moving uncontrollably as if he was trying to escape . your father yelled , you rarely heard him yell but he was basically screeching at the man before him . you felt bad , your father sounded terrifying and then he hit him . hard . your eyes widened as you watched the treatment the man was receiving , he already looked disheveled , eyes drained of color and hope .

then the machine started and everything just got worse and worse . soon came his screams , the screams you had gotten accustomed to hearing because you didn’t truly think they were real or filled with such pain . a gasp escaped your mouth and your hands clasped over it quite quickly — eyes widening even more after you recognized your action . everyone in the room stopped , the buzzing sound from whatever machine on the man stopped and everyone turned to look at you , finally you were able to see the man’s face ; it was odd , you saw a little bit of yourself in him . you didn’t have time to stare at him because soon you locked eyes with your father and ran .

“ dad , I’m sorry , I’m sorry . I didn’t mean to walk around , I didn’t see anything , I swear ! I didn’t see anything ! ” you’d begged and pleaded for the last hour , asking for his forgiveness . it was his fault anyways , has he not deprived you of the love you so desperately needed then you would have never have gone looking . you would have never tried to see anything at all , all you wanted was him to love you . “ I do everything for you . I do everything and yet you still manage to screw things up somehow . Was going to wait till you were older for this but it seems like now is a better time than ever . ” your father grumbled before grabbing you harshly by the arm . it was insufferable , terrible , the pain spread through your entire arm immediately . you pulled against him with every bit of strength you had , though it wasn’t a lot .

the punishment for your crime was spending time in a cell . it was cold , disgusting , absolutely grimy and fillies with the stench of blood . there was a bed that had basically been ripped to shreds , the door was completely solid and no matter how many times you banged on it and begged to be let free . he never listened , it was almost as if he didn’t care . he kept you in there for the rest of the day , didn’t visit or talk to you . any time you messed up , that would be your punishment , so you made sure not to mess up often because when you did it would be hell . you hated that cell , to the point where you couldn’t sleep with the lights off and door closed anymore — too dark , only one or the other .

1959 , february 17th | “y/n karpov” , sixteen years old | subject number : 43XX

stopped talking to your father after the first time he hit you . you’d yelled at him , finally broke after six years of silence and asked what he was keeping the “soldier” downstairs for . the war was over , there was no reason to harbor a man in their basement and he responded by slapping you so hard you were disoriented . your body fell to the floor , hand covering the warmth blooming on your cheek from the pure force he held behind the hit . “ when I tell you to stop talking , you stop talking . when I tell you to be good , you be good . why do you always have to disappoint me ? ” that was the last time to disappointed him before the testing started .

it was countless injections and being wired up to machines , every day , all day , you hated them . any time you tried to move and fight back it resulted in shocks . electro shock therapy as your father called it , they needed to get you ready and in shape . for what ? you’ve never known but if you hated this then you were worried for what was next . the therapy got worse and worse , to the point were they would shock you until you couldn’t think straight , couldn’t move your body without help and your eyes couldn’t stay open . your brain was mush , you didn’t remember much during those sessions or much that happened before or after them . just the pain , all you remembered was the pain . now it was your screams that filled the room and the hallways and instead of being outside , coloring , doing homework or watching tv , you were experiencing it and you hated it .

“ You share DNA with him . That soldier , you know that ? My blood , his blood — it all runs through those veins of yours . took it from him when we captured him . You are his child , just as much as you are mine . ” you didn’t understand what he was saying , the man in there was clearly older than you but not old enough to have kids , especially not for you to be sixteen , it didn’t make sense . how did you share DNA with him ? you wanted to ask but your mouth wouldn’t open , your eyes were barley keeping open but managed a struggle just to look at him .

“ do you remember the red room ? I took you there whenever you were younger . one of those women , was lucky . the rest of them have their ovaries removed but that one , she got to keep them , for just a pinch longer than the others did . to have our child . our creation . unfortunately Barnes missed the birth of his first child but I didn’t . I was there for you . I will always be there for you , my experiment . ” your father was just rambling at this point , it didn’t make much sense . experiment ? you were an experiment ? a test subject ? for what ? “ why ? ” you just barley managed to croak out , your voice was hoarse , throat dry and cracking .

“ the winter soldier . he can topple governments , countries , win wars , our greatest weapon against our opposing forces . however where one goes right , there is always room for improvement . for more . ” now it made more sense . he was a power hungry bastard . your father was the worst man alive but you were truly his daughter . perhaps even his favorite . with the way he talked you were positive he had more , you’ve never met them , probably never would if you couldn’t get off this damn table .

almost as if he read your mind , your arms and legs were unhooked from the table , you couldn’t move them on your own but it was still a little bit freeing . only for a few moments , it was quickly replaced by you being hauled into a chair within a chamber . that was the first time you’ve ever witnessed the cyro chamber . it was colder than any winter in Siberia . the chill never left , even after the seasons passed and the years went by , the chill remained but you were barely conscious enough to remember what season it was — to even remember what seasons were .

2003 , march 9th | y/n barnes karpov , “Scylla” , sixteen years old physically , mentally ?? | subject number : 4384

you had been let out of the cyro chamber a few times , at least six times through out the years . they tried to disorient you , perhaps thinking that it would keep you from remembering where you were and what time period you had been in and honestly it worked . you could never understand what year you were in until it was too late and you were back with the uncomfortable chill . you tried your best to prove that you weren’t going to be a good investment , that you would fail in the moment of danger but with the “super soldier serum” (as they called it) running through your veins you were quite the opposite . you were strong , stronger than the average teenager , with enough strength to take in a man in his average thirties and forties even if he worked out — they tested it . young men , old men , each came in and out of the training room and as much as your body shook at the sight of them and the thought of hurting someone when you were told to attack , you did . biting just like a lap dog .

very rarely , whenever you and the soldier were awake at the same time , they’d let you train together . see who could hold their own the longest , it was always him . no matter how many times they’d run your two up against each other , he reminded you that you were nothing more than a child and it was so insulting . you trained hard and long , went through suffering and pain and torture just to be treated like a child and worthless by “the soldier” .

your hands gripped at his arm , the metal one holding you down by your throat to the ground , cutting off your air supply and keeping your body pinned to the floor . he didn’t feel a thing whenever your nails scratched against his silver arm , an attempt to rip it off or get it off of your throat , anything to get you to be able to breath again . “ off . winter , six . scylla , none . ” he finally pulled off of you , allowing you to take in greedy gasps of air . your arms flailed helplessly as you forced yourself upwards onto your feet .

your hand rung your own neck , feeling at the injury that was certainly to bruise . there was so mumbling from the soldiers behind the two of you before your “father” spoke once more . “ you two are done for the day . take them back . scylla to the chair , we have something else to do . ” the brainwashing had embedded itself in you . they didn’t need to drag you anymore unless your body was weakened but you had enough strength to walk and if you were being honest you hated their touch being on you so you would have forced yourself up anyways .

they say you down , back in the chair , usually you’d wake up here with no memories of what had happened before , only that you needed to follow the directions of the men before you and your father was the only one who truly cared about you . it was ridiculous but you couldn’t find yourself to deviate from what they said . they had strapped you down once more , body pushed backwards and the edge of the wall was your only view before your father graced your line of vision . “ we were trying to wait until she had developed further to do this but we’ve run into some complications . so what better time than the present , eh ? ” he held up a freaky looking vial , it was obvious that there was blood inside but it had mixed with something you couldn’t place .

“ inside this is the blood of our most powerful assassin , winter is good but everyone needs a femme fatale , don’t they ? but you , you my creation , my child . you will be a mix of everything great — everything good to have ever come out of this organization . mixed all into one , my hydra . ” this is what he meant all those years ago , not that you remember , when he called you an experiment . you were a mix of everything great and the only hope was that you would come out even better than everything you had been mixed with .

2016 , april 12th | y/n barnes karpov , “Scylla” , eighteen years old physically , mentally ?? | subject number : 4384

Bucky Barnes . the Winter Soldier had escaped and with him he took down Hydra , not all of it but most of it . he disappeared off the face of the earth then , you couldn’t find him , at least not for a little bit . bucharest , romania , the area felt familiar to you , every country did , as if you’d been there before . ever so slowly everything had been coming back to you , the torture , the murder , the pain . everything hurt and it never got better . your handler , at least the one you had been left with , Alexander Pierce was dead — murdered by Nick Fury . a subject was never supposed to be on their own , wander alone with no place to go but you and one objective in mind . find the winter soldier .

unfortunately following him through romania led to problems , one star spangled man , a flying bird man and a cat man . . . what had superheroes nowadays come to ? “ uhh cap , I got a child following you and Bucky down the building . ” Captain America , you’d heard of him a little during the wars and whenever they’d allow you to see what America was trying to produce in respond to the winter soldier — he was a specimen in the minds of Hydra but a joke of your own . Bucky and Steve were on foot , running across the roof of a building and you followed closely behind them , you didn’t think you’d be seen but you also didn’t account for a man with wings to following you .

you never actually engaged in the fight , didn’t need to tire yourself out for no reason , besides they didn’t think of you as a threat yet and you would have liked to keep it that way . that was until you all reached the underpass , you’d run up on them just as Bucky had been disarmed and thrown off of his motorcycle , his only way of transportation . the man dressed as a cat was seconds way from clawing the man’s face off but was thrown away by the strength of Captain America . it was intriguing to watch him fight in real time however he wasn’t your concern . without sparing him another glance you reached Bucky’s side , sirens and ringing from cop cars starting to filled the area . “ there’s a kid here ! a kid ! be careful , would you ? ” Steve pleaded to the cops , your eyes hadn’t left Bucky as you stood in front of him , mocking his movements , kneeling down on the ground and putting your hands behind your head .

“ long time no see , Отец . ” Bucky’s eyes widened at your words . he was expecting a “soldat”or maybe for you to try and kill him , force him to pay for the crimes he might have committed against you that he just didn’t remember . the cops were barely gentle with you , forcing your face into the ground with such harshness that everyone there turned their head with guilt and disgust . “ be careful with her , she’s still a kid . ” Sam spoke up , he hadn’t talked much but at least he had the balls to say something about that . Bucky’s eyes never left your , even as they dragged him away , he wouldn’t let it happen . when they placed him in a glass cage , you just in handcuffs (what a mistake) , he still never looked away . not until they forced him away from you .

“ what are you doing here ? ” Tony Stark . he wasn’t a cop , barely a S.H.I.E.L.D agent so he shouldn’t have been interrogating you but they allowed him to — god only knows why . you just looked behind him , the two way glass , trying to figure out who was back there . “ why were you following Barnes and Roger’s ? ” you could answer both questions but didn’t want to , he didn’t give you any reason to . “ come on kid , you gotta give me something- ” “ you talk too much . ” your eyes met his for once , getting a ticked off chuckle from his lips . this man was ego and pride , perhaps if you could knock him down then you’d be allowed another interrogator . “ where is . . . Barnes , I want to speak to him . ” Tony shook his head at your statement , he most likely took it as a question but you weren’t asking . “ I’m the one asking the questions here , alright ? You can see him whenever he gets done with his psych eval and his questioning . ”

you shook your head and tried to stand , the handcuffs holding you to the table being the only thing keeping you down . “ no . now . I need to go now . ” instead of answering you , Tony walked out , probably joining his friends behind the two way glass . you hated being treated like a child , being ignored , being disrespected .

Tony entered the room with the two way glass , glancing towards Romanoff . “ I don’t know what’s wrong with that kid . she’s not even afraid she just- stares , it’s freaky . are we sure she’s even real ? not something somebody built in their lab ? ” she rolled her eyes at him, “ not everyone had the money to do that Stark . you are right though , something about this kid just isn’t right . how did she know where to find Barnes ? ” before she could get an answer to her rhetorical question the sound of you breaking the handcuffs that connected you to the table , you approached the two way glass , without knowing it looking Natasha directly in the eyes . “ I want to see Barnes . now . ”

© aswanlake do not copy, steal, translate, repost any of my works

[mswyrr]

“I don’t write about adolescence. I write about war. For adolescents.”

--Suzanne Collins

This is the key to the whole Hunger Games series. The books are about war and she's trying to be honest about that, inasmuch as you can be for the target age range. I think she's done a beautiful job.

That's why Katniss and Peeta's happy ending is realistic to traumatized former child soldiers. It ends with Katniss literally giving us a psychological coping strategy she uses to manage her mental illness! Like many irl former soldiers and people with trauma and mental illness, that is just part of her day. Like taking a walk or cooking breakfast. It just is part of being alive. And her aliveness isn't inferior because of it, nor is the happiness she makes with the family she chose to have.

They claim life and a future, but they do it with damage that will never go away. Being damaged doesn't mean you can't live a good life. So much of the series is about the healing of nature, of allowing nature to be and grow -- and allowing yourself to be part of nature. But nature isn't perfection -- it can be messy and painful, but it is life. When Katniss chooses her "dandelion in the spring," she chooses the meadow where love was betrayed and lost before, she chooses the pain of being alive. *Life is pain* as well as joy--it can hurt so much people don't want to be alive anymore in order to escape that, whether literally wanting to die or wanting the kind of metaphorical death/numbing of feelings that tempts her, Haymitch, and teen Coriolanus in different ways--and she chooses it.

It takes courage and endurance and it's worth it.

They're not meant to be a wish fulfillment fantasy, none of the three romances in this series are*, they're meant to be a love story that says something about what it means to be broken and then heal -- and how healing is a lifelong process and you will never be the same again. But that doesn't make you *lesser* or unworthy or incapable of a good life.

These are sincere, grounded components of a depiction of trauma and mental illness. And they disgust people who are used to dishonest depictions of these things. People who believe love and happiness are only for wholesome, abled, pure people. People who think it's disquieting for two disabled people to have kids. Like, fandom is very good at dressing up their feelings in seemingly progressive language, but the implied eugenics of that has always been very blatant.

I see people concern trolling on that topic and I just feel disgusted, honestly. Where are all the books where disabled people, especially mentally ill ones, are raising kids in the "happy ending"? How often are kids irl taken away from parents due to ableist discrimination? And it's somehow "not feminist" for Katniss to choose to have kids???? What an utterly empty, vapid, cruel and ableist feminism that would be.

These being stories about war is why teen Coriolanus being evil from the beginning is narratively and thematically incoherent. This is a kid who grew up traumatized by war and then is conscripted into the Games--the adults of the Capitol playing out war over and over again, esp Gaul to control and retraumatize people--and then into the Peacekeepers, in a sequence (in book but especially the film) that references conscription into the Vietnam War. The empty rotten husk of a human being he becomes identified as "A victor" of the Games (film), turned on Lucy Gray thinking she was a "victor" trying to kill him (book), and spends decades obsessed with justifying himself that he is the "#1 Peacekeeper."

With Haymitch, we have a story of sheer, long-term endurance. He gets lost and lives with the horror of his own coerced complicity. He breaks, he becomes a raging alcoholic. And yet there's a little spark inside that never dies. And that matters. That, too, is a kind of victory. Survivors don't have to be pretty and simple and mask/be masked by the writer into acting like they're abled and "normal" and untainted to be worthy and for their lives to matter.

These are all psychologically plausible directions that young people forced into war can break. Albeit with the magic realism and big romantic themes representing the choice between embracing life (even if you get lost for a long time -- even if it takes you decades, like Haymitch) and (as Coriolanus did) trying to kill your heart because it hurts too much and costs too much to live.

Is Collins just trying to warn us that fascism is bad? What use would that be, exactly? There are hundreds of excellent history and political science books on those topics and wonderful classes. I've worked on classes on that topic!! Art can and should reach beyond that kind of academic literalism. And she does. With Katniss, Coriolanus, Haymitch, and Peeta she gives some really beautiful, insightful examples of how people deal with trauma/mental illness and what it means to survive. There is no easy fix to things like this, so simple didacticism would always be a lie. She doesn't lie to her audience, even though she's writing books for adolescents.

*There's nothing wrong with wish fulfillment fantasies. But not all YA stories have to have those goals. And all love stories don't have to be wish fulfillment fantasies! That's so insulting to it as a type of story. It *can* be that. It can also be about character, theme, plot. (Or both at once, depending). It's up to the artist. Love stories are one of the areas where some of the most highly respected women writers in history have made their art -- and people insult and degrade it by saying it's bad if it's not written as a great ideal template for living or wish fulfillment fantasy. As I've said elsewhere, judging women's art like that is like saying a woman's painting of fruit has to be tasty and edible because *women must always make you food* even when what they're trying to make is art.

[totalswag]

Hello lovely I love ur writing abt Drew & Reader actresse sweetheart it's so good <3 I have a little request to make to you if you don't mind, Drew react to the Reader acting in the horror film masterpiece (like the movies Suspiria and Climax vibes) of which she's a part of the main cast

I'm just curious if he would be terrified or blown away by this kind of role that she plays like this one or not ;) thank u !!!

unbelievable performance — DREW STARKEY

authors note aw thank you lovie! that means so much to me. by the time you are reading this, my second fic with drew x actress!reader is out (the first date). i have never seen either movies that you listed in your request but i did look them up to get a gist.

summary drew was impressed by your performance in your latest horror film.

warnings mentions of kissing, horror films

masterlist

Tonight marks the premiere of your new horror film, in which you star with some amazing actors. After many hours of continuous filming, sequences are officially wrapped. You're extremely proud of yourself and your casemates. 

You were the staring lead in the movie. Getting the part after auditioning was a blessing in disguise. This being your very first staring lead role in any movie you’ve been in, you were so proud of yourself.

Everyone is seated in the theater. Drew, your boyfriend, also came with you. The entire cast stood in front of the stage as your director discussed the film a bit.

You shifted your focus to Drew, who was already looking at you in admiration, which made you smile and making you blush.

When you stepped up to your seat, he leaned down to your ear and whispered, "I want you to know that I'm so proud of you, and I know you did an amazing job on this movie," before kissing the top of your head.

“I love you baby, so much” you answer with your voice already starting to crack before tears wanted to burst out.

“Me more.”

Drew was so excited to watch his beautiful girlfriend on the big screen. Non-stop talking about the movie with you and his predictions on what will happen.

Everyone in the theater began to applaud as soon as the lights went out. Drew's hand moved easily down your thigh and gave it a little squeeze. Your skin began to tingle from his touch.

The movie begins with a hauntingly beautiful dance routine in which the camera swirls around the dancers in a way that is both captivating and unnerving. Drew is instantly captivated. As the story progresses, he observes your character navigating a world fraught with psychological pain and supernatural fear.

Half way through the movie, it’s been jaw dropping and incredible.

He is always on the edge of his seat in every situation you are in. You capture the dread and lunacy of the film's twisted narrative with an unvarnished and honest performance.

He's afraid and enthralled with the story at the same time, amazed at your ability to portray such raw emotion. Never once did he take his eyes off the screen.

The way the movie came out was unbelievable. The editors did wonders on this movie and made it into something viewers will want to keep watching.

Once you two arrived home after eating dinner at the after party, Drew and you took a shower together in your shared bathroom, changed into pajamas, then went into bed with the tv playing.

Later that night, back at home, Drew can't stop talking about the movie.

"You know, watching you in that role allowed me to see a completely other side of you. You were fierce, vulnerable, and incredibly compelling. "It was like watching an acting masterclass."

You laugh quietly and rest your head on his shoulder. "It means a lot hearing you say that. I was concerned about how you would react."

"Are you kidding?" I loved it. "I'm just glad I wasn't watching it alone in the dark," he jokes.

my taglist!

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[phantomwithbreakfast]

Join our Danny Phantom discord server! (18+)

⟢ Discord Link ♡

⟢ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 ⟢

PWB’s quote: “Better crazy and a freak, than being normal and boring, right? Right.”

Not exactly new to the Phandom, but more like an OG Phan. I’ve been hyper-fixated (a little obsessed, yeah, I love him) with 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐏𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐦 since day one. Took a loooong break for a while, but something just…

˗ˏˋ 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 ˎˊ˗

Danny’s a hero I lost touch with—but found again. Reconnecting with him feels like rediscovering a part of myself, a spark I didn’t realize I was missing.

Why do I write angst and hurt? To process my own pain, to give voice to the unspoken wounds I carry. No, I haven’t lived through the exact horrors I write about—but pieces of me are woven into every story. My emotions, my struggles, my scars—they seep into the pages, twisted and reshaped into something I can hold, something I can face. Writing is my way of making sense of the chaos within.

If you need a hug, click here.

١٥٧٤♡

⟢ 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐈 𝐔𝐬𝐞 ⟢

Instagram ⟡ Archive Of Our Own ⟡ Discord

⌗ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬 ⌗

(working on it)

⟢ 𝐌𝐲 𝐏𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 ⟢

⋆.˚ ⚡︎ 𝙎𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙃𝙖𝙡𝙛 𝘼 𝙇𝙞𝙛𝙚 ⚡︎ ˚.⋆

Ao3 ⟡ Cover Art ⟡ Art 01 ⟡ Art 02 ⟡ Art 03 ⟡ Art 04 ⟡ Art 05 ⟡ Animation ⟡ Art 06 ⟡ Art 07 ⟡ Phantom Sheet 01 ⟡ Art 08

⟢ Genre: Whump / Angst / Hurt / No Comfort / Horror • TW/CW: Strong Language — Mental Health Struggles — Violence — Emotional Distress — Self-destructive Tendencies — Graphic Content • M Rate

Summary: The GiW took him. Then his parents finished the job. They said it was for his own good. That Phantom was the problem. That Danny could be saved—if only they cut deep enough. “You’re going to wish you never took him from me,” she said, steady and cruel, her red goggles catching his reflection. “You’ll wish you never existed in the first place.”

Disclaimer: This phic is rated M for a reason. If you are underage, please do NOT read it. The themes and content are intended for adults and may be inappropriate or difficult to understand for younger readers.

[In progress]

• • • • • • •

☻% x 𝙏𝙤𝙤 𝘼𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙏𝙤 𝙇𝙞𝙫𝙚, 𝙏𝙤𝙤 𝘼𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙏𝙤 𝘿𝙞𝙚 ×͜×

Ao3 ⟡ Art 01

⟢ Genre: Angst / Tragedy / Psychological / Horror • Overall TW: Strong Language — Mental Health Struggles — Suicidal Ideation — Violence — Parental Neglect — Emotional Abuse — Graphic Content • M rate • CW: Character Death

Summary: “It’s the end of me. I didn’t want to feel and kiss your lips, I wanted to feel and see you suffer instead.”

Disclaimer: This phic is rated M for a reason. If you are underage, please do NOT read it. The themes and content are intended for adults and may be inappropriate or difficult to understand for younger readers.

[In progress]

• • • • • • •

⁺‧₊˚ 𝘼𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙊𝙛 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙄𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚 ˚₊‧⁺

Ao3 (uncensored) ⟡ Art 01

⟢ Genre: Angst / Hurt • TW: Emotional Distress • T Rate • First Person’s POV

Summary: Afraid of your own reflection, afraid of the inevitable.

[Completed]

• • • • • • •

._. 𝘿𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙮 𝘿𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙍𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙙 ._.

Ao3 (explicit) ⟡ Cover Art

⟢ Genre: Angst / No Comfort / Horror • AU — OOC • TW: Emotional Distress — Violence — Graphic Content • M Rate • Uncomfortable for that pang feeling, so beware! (Or at least, I tried to)

Summary: Battling with family ties and his mom’s shadow looming over him, Danny is forced to confront the unbearable burden of his secrets and broken hope.

[In Progress]

• • • • • • •

⋆｡°✩ 𝙇𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙄𝙣 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙨

FFN ⟡ Cover Art

⟢ Genre: Angst / Hurt / Comfort / Horror • AU — OOC • TW: Emotional Distress — Violence — Graphic Content • M Rate • CW: Character Death

Summary: He should know, but he doesn’t know. He’s confused and doesn’t understand. It hurts and it hurts more.

[Completed]

✎ ᝰ.ᐟ 𝙁𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙤𝙣’𝙨 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙮 ♡

FFN ⟡ Art

⟢ Genre: Hurt / Comfort / Romance • TW: Mental Health Struggles — Lemons — Strong Language • M Rate (+16!)

Summary: Fenton finally found the courage to start a diary, a place to pour out all his hidden feelings and secrets. (Don’t like it, don’t read it).

[Completed]

• • • • • • •

♡ 𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙗𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 ㄨ✘✗ﾒ✗•.ᐟ

FFN ⟡ Cover Art ⟡ Art 01 ⟡ Art 02

⟢ Genre: Hurt / Comfort / Romance • TW: Mental Health Struggles — Strong Language — Violence — Bullying and Harassment • T+ Rate

Summary: Danny is used to keeping secrets. Haunted by relentless bullying and tangled in emotions he can’t explain, he’s torn between duty, friendship, and a desire he can’t escape—a growing bond he’s not sure he should have.

[In Progress]

⟢ 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐏 𝐀𝐫𝐭 ⟢

2025

Danny Kinsona ⟡ Danny Redraw 01 ⟡ Danny Redraw (animated) 02 ⟡ Danny Hates Haters ⟡ Danny in Squid Game (animated) ⟡ GhostlyGlimmer’s Phantom ⟡ OG Danny’s ⟡ Happy Danny ⟡ Danny and Jazz ⟡ Delulu Danny ⟡ OC’s Imagination ⟡ Danny and the Blob Ghost ⟡ Dark Valentine ⟡ Valentine ⟡ Dead Eyes / One Brush Challenge ⟡ Dandelions ⟡ DP OC 01 ⟡ DP OC 02 ⟡ DP OC 03 ⟡ DP OC 04 ⟡ DP OC 05 ⟡ DP OC 06 ⟡ Everlasting Trio ⟡ Ballpoint Pen Danny ⟡ Danny College ⟡ Danny With Fangs ⟡ Dannypocalypse ⟡ rePhanimated 01 ⟡ rePhanimated 02 ⟡ Danny Doodles ⟡ Serious Phantom ⟡ I’ll Never Give Up On You ⟡ Vlad Masters Sketch ⟡ Starter Pack Trend With Danny

DANNYMAY2025

Day 01: Dragon ⟡ Day 02: 1990’s ⟡ Day 03: Potential ⟡ Day 04: Eyes ⟡ Day 05: Cryptid ⟡ Day 06: Transformation ⟡ Day 07: Blood Blossoms ⟡ Day 08: Lost ⟡ Day 09: Underground ⟡ Day 10: Family ⟡ Day 11: Thermos ⟡ Day 12: Cables ⟡ Day 13: Truth ⟡ Day 14: Horn ⟡ Day 15: Stars ⟡ Day 16: Fairy Ring ⟡ Day 17: Water ⟡ Day 18: King ⟡ Day 19: Enemy ⟡ Day 20: Pact ⟡ Day 21: Tremors ⟡ Day 22: Moon Landing ⟡ Day 23: Camping ⟡ Day 24: Necromancy ⟡ Day 25: Robot ⟡ Day 26: Horror ⟡ Day 27: Dream ⟡ Day 28: Favorite AU ⟡ Day 29: Ghost Biology ⟡ Day 30: Hot Dogs ⟡ Day 31: Free Day

2024

Halloween ⟡ The Meaning Behind My Pseudonym ⟡ Mandala Window ‘Ghost Portal’ 01 ⟡ Mandala Window ‘Ghost Portal’ 02 ⟡ Danny Trending ⟡ Why are you doing this to me? ⟡ ‘Cleaned Up Sketches’ ⟡ When December Decides To Cry ⟡ If You Need A Hug ⟡ Happy Holidays ⟡ If You Know, You Know

[c4shm0neyxxx]

“You Don’t Know Me, But You Will”

Geum Seong-je x Younger Reader(by three years)

Genre: Dark Romance / Obsession / Psychological

Geum seong je finds himself stalking and following her. Memorizing her schedule. Knowing where she lives. It doesn’t bother her. It makes her fall more…

⸻

She didn’t know his name.

You had passed by him maybe once—twice, if fate was being funny. You didn’t even look up when it happened. Just another boy in the background. Another blurred face in the messy canvas of school and city and bus rides.

But to him, you were everything.

Geum Seong-je noticed you the first time you passed his crew on the back street near the old convenience store. Your uniform was neater than the others’, your head lowered like you didn’t want to be seen. But he saw you. He always sees what others don’t.

That day, he followed you.

At first, just a block. Then two. Then every afternoon. You always took the same way home, headphones in, oblivious to the shadows you walked past. He memorized your routine. 4:07 p.m., you left school. 4:15, stopped for bubble tea. 4:38, turned the corner by the florist and disappeared into that tiny house with the rusting gate.

He didn’t know why it started. It didn’t matter.

There was a pull, like something primal. You were younger—three years, maybe more—but it didn’t register as a problem in his mind. Age didn’t mean anything. Not when he’d already decided you were his. Not when he felt something raw and alive clawing at his insides every time he saw you.

You smiled at a classmate once—some boy your age—and Geum Seong-je gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He didn’t like that. You didn’t even know him, but he burned with possessiveness anyway.

He watched you through windows. From rooftops. He learned your schedule better than you knew it yourself. Some nights, he followed you all the way to your tutoring sessions. Once, he even stepped into the same bookstore just to hear your voice when you asked the clerk about a novel.

Your voice made his fingers twitch. He wanted to own that softness. Trap it in a glass jar and never let anyone else hear it again.

You didn’t know it yet, but Geum Seong-je had already chosen you.

And he was just waiting for the right moment to make you see him too.

Lately, you’ve felt it.

A shift in the air. A weight behind your every step, like someone’s gaze is stitching itself into your spine.

It started small. The hair on your arms rising when you turned the corner near the convenience store. The feeling of eyes pressing against your back on the bus, even when no one was looking. You chalked it up to stress, to weird dreams and too many late nights reading horror stories.

But now?

Now you’re not so sure.

Today, you swear someone followed you.

Not with footsteps. Not anything obvious. Just that pull again — the sense that someone’s always a few steps behind, never touching, never close, but there. Breathing the same air. Watching.

And the weirdest part?

You’re not scared.

You should be. Any sane person would be. But instead… there’s something else curling in your stomach when it happens. A strange calm. A chill that makes you walk slower instead of faster.

It feels like something’s waiting for you. Like he’s waiting.

You don’t know his name. But you’ve seen him — tall, maroon jacket, eyes like they’ve seen too much. He’s always on the edge of your world. Near the bus stop. Outside the boba shop. Once, you saw him in the reflection of a window… just standing across the street, his gaze slicing straight through the glass like he could see inside you.

You don’t know him.

But you feel him.

Like he lives beneath your skin. Like something buried deep in your chest recognizes him, even if your mind doesn’t understand why.

It’s not love. It’s not fear either. It’s something in between. Something darker. Something magnetic.

From across the street, Geum Seong-je watches you pause. You turn your head like you can sense him. His breath catches. You feel him, don’t you?

He knew you would.

He smiles.

You’re almost ready.

[infernolust]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗢𝗽𝗲𝗻 𝗖𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗻

Ghostface! Sevika x Victim! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Sevika watches you like prey, but it’s not just about the hunt. Her obsession cuts through the boundaries of your everyday life, a shadow that clings to you in every corner, every crevice of your existence. One phone call changes everything—confirming your worst fear: she isn’t just watching. She’s closer than you think.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Ghostface AU, Psychological Horror, Obsession, Stalking, Dark Romance, Sapphic Undertones and Slow-Burn (but Unhinged)

𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Hey, everyone! I used to post under the username @dieseldame, but I lost access to that account. I’m restarting here and bringing over all my stories, including this one. Your feedback means everything—let me know what you think!

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟭. 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟮.

The phone rings. Again. It’s not unexpected—not anymore. You’ve come to recognize the pattern. The low trill cuts through the silence like a serrated knife, shredding the fragile calm you’ve tried so desperately to cling to. Your hand hovers above the receiver, a hesitation you can’t afford. You don’t want to answer, but you know it’s worse if you don’t. She’ll call again. And again. And she’ll make sure you regret ignoring her.

When you finally press the phone to your ear, you hear nothing at first. Just breathing—low, steady, and predatory. It’s her.

Sevika.

She never gives you her name, but you know it’s her. The deep rasp in her voice feels like smoke curling against your skin, stinging and suffocating.

— You always leave your curtains open. — she says. Her words roll out slow, deliberate, like she’s savoring every syllable.

Your stomach drops. You glance at the window—a wide, gaping rectangle of vulnerability. The streetlights outside cast long shadows across your apartment floor, but beyond that, it’s all darkness. A void you can’t peer into, though you know she’s out there. Watching.

You clutch the phone tighter, your fingers trembling. — Where are you?

Her laugh is low and throaty, a sound that vibrates through the line and coils around your chest. —Closer than you think, sweetheart.

The term of endearment feels jagged coming from her. Mocking. Dangerous.

— Why are you doing this? — you ask, though your voice betrays you with a quiver. You want to sound strong, defiant, but all she hears is fear.

There’s a pause on the other end, a silence so weighted it feels like she’s in the room with you, breathing down your neck. Then she says, — Because you’re mine.

The words slam into you like a punch to the gut. You stagger back a step, your free hand fumbling to pull the curtains shut. The fabric is thin and cheap, offering little reassurance against the encroaching night. You feel her eyes on you even now, piercing through walls, stripping you bare.

— You’re insane. — you whisper.

Another laugh, darker this time. — Maybe. But I’m not wrong.

The line goes dead before you can respond. You stare at the receiver in your hand, your own breathing loud in the sudden silence. For a moment, you think about calling the police. But what would you even tell them? That you’ve been getting calls from someone who may or may not be watching you? That the rasp in her voice makes your skin crawl and your pulse race? That she’s made you question the solidity of your locks, your walls, your very reality?

They’d think you were paranoid. Maybe you are.

Sevika wasn’t supposed to be a part of your life. She had existed on the periphery, a shadow in Zaun’s seedy underbelly, a name whispered with equal parts fear and respect. You���d heard stories—about her loyalty, her strength, her ruthlessness. But you’d never imagined she’d notice you. You were nobody. A face in the crowd.

At least, that’s what you’d thought.

Now, her presence looms over every corner of your existence. You see her in the flicker of a cigarette ember across the street. You hear her in the growl of a passing motorcycle. She’s everywhere and nowhere, a phantom haunting your every move. And it’s not just fear that ties your stomach in knots. It’s something darker, something you don’t want to name.

Obsession.

It’s mutual—you know that much. She watches you like prey, but there’s something else in the way she lingers. It’s not just about the hunt. It’s about you. She doesn’t care about anyone else. You’ve seen the headlines, the trail of bodies left in her wake. She’s a storm, relentless and consuming, but somehow you’ve become the eye of it.

The next night, you find yourself staring out the window again. It’s a compulsion, a morbid curiosity you can’t shake. The curtains are drawn this time, but you peek through the gap where the fabric doesn’t quite meet. The street below is quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of a passerby or the distant hum of machinery.

And then you see her.

A figure leans against the lamppost at the corner, half-hidden in shadow. You can’t make out her features, but the shape of her is unmistakable. Broad shoulders, a mechanical arm that gleams faintly under the flickering light. She’s smoking, the red glow of the cigarette tip flaring like a warning.

You pull back, heart hammering against your ribs. She’s not supposed to be real. She’s supposed to be a voice on the phone, a nightmare confined to your imagination. But she’s here. And she’s watching.

The phone rings.

The sound startles you so badly you nearly drop the receiver. When you answer, her voice is calm, almost conversational.

— See something you like? — she asks.

You don’t respond, your throat too tight to form words.

— Come on, — she prods, her tone laced with amusement. — I know you saw me.

— Leave me alone. — you manage to choke out.

— Not a chance. — Her voice hardens, the humor vanishing like a flicked switch. — You don’t get to tell me what to do, sweetheart. Not when you’re the one who keeps inviting me in.

— I didn’t...

— Didn’t you? — She cuts you off, her words sharp as a blade. — You leave your curtains open. You walk the same route home every night. You’re practically begging for me to follow you.

Her words hit too close to home. You have felt her presence for weeks now, a shadow trailing your every step. You’d thought it was paranoia, your own mind playing tricks on you. But now, hearing it from her lips, it feels like validation. And that terrifies you.

— What do you want from me? — you whisper.

A pause. Then, softly: — Everything.

You don’t sleep that night. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside, feels like her. You sit curled up on the couch, clutching a kitchen knife you’re not sure you’d even know how to use. The darkness presses in, suffocating, and for the first time in your life, you feel truly hunted.

By the time the sun rises, you’re a mess—eyes bloodshot, nerves frayed. But Sevika doesn’t call again. She doesn’t have to. The damage is already done. You’re hers, whether you want to be or not.

And deep down, in a part of yourself you refuse to acknowledge, you’re not sure you want her to stop.

ㅤㅤㅤ

[tharizt]

everyone gets heaven sent wrong. youtube essays will describe it as “a masterpiece that explores grief,” but it doesn’t really. sure, the abstractization of the theme is there to contextualize the mood of the story, but it doesn't actually explore grief in any specific manner.

there’s little examination of emotional fallout, no real psychological depth, no attempt to reflect the social or personal dimensions of loss. the portrayal of grief is flattened into a metaphor—the doctor hitting a wall for two billion years—and that's intentional.

this common interpretation actually causes people to misread the episode. like here, fullfatvideos describe the doctor hallucinating clara encouraging him to fight and win as a beautiful testament to their love and how she's always there to pick him up.

but that's the complete opposite of the intended effect. clara specifically told the doctor not to be a warrior, to not "win," to not hurt himself over her. he’s twisting her image to have the girl he loves the most tell him what he wants her to say.

in fact, hell bent directly contrasts his imagined clara with what the real one says when she realizes what he’s done (which isn’t encouragement, but horror). the doctor doesn’t process his grief. he doesn’t get better. he gets worse. he twists her memory to betray her wishes.

he's not healing—he’s mythologizing. the story turns grief into performance, presenting the doctor as an ideal: the solitary hero who never gives up, who endures beyond human limits. but that’s not a story about processing loss. that’s a story about refusing to.

on its own, it actually lands better as a story about persistence rather than grief—the draining, repetitive effort of clawing your way forward with no clear progress. that lines up more with how it feels.

but even then, it’s stylized to the point of detachment (because that's what the doctor is doing). it’s about the concept of struggling, which is why it abstractly fits grief, but could just as easily be read autobiographically as moffat’s experience as showrunner.

and that abstraction—while effective—also makes it easy to project onto. i think that’s part of why it gets picked up as this grand, universal statement on grief. it’s vague enough to seem profound, clean enough to feel “serious”, and emotionally restrained in a way that flatters a particular kind of viewer.

the doctor doesn’t cry. he endures. he outsmarts. he wins. and for a lot of people, that feels like emotional depth—because it’s presented with enough slow motion, voiceover, and gravitas to seem like it must mean something profound.

and it’s also why a lot of fans like this one but dislike hell bent (if you love both, you’re good). because it appeals to fans who idealize “pure” sci-fi. fans who resent the show when it centers women too much, or gets too political, or dares to be camp or comedic.

for them, this is the dream: one man alone in a gothic castle, solving a puzzle, stewing in stoic, masculine pain. the woman is dead. the feelings are controlled. the story is self-contained. it’s “adult,” but not actually mature.

but that version of the doctor—the invincible, lone genius punching through time—isn’t the real doctor. it’s who he wants to be: the doctor as myth. hell bent interrupts that, pulling us back from the fantasy to someone who broke everything because he couldn’t let go.

when people call this the best episode of doctor who ever, it’s worth asking: best at what? what kind of doctor who is this? it’s broad and professional enough to feel like a perfect episode, and open enough to support whatever interpretation you want.

moffat specifically wrote it to be a crowd pleaser, with a tone that appeals to everybody. it's everyone’s favourite episode. and of course, that is what it is. it is a professional and perfect episode—that’s the appeal.

in fact, it’s probably, on a pure executional level, the best episode there’s ever been. it’s a technical showcase first and foremost. fifty-five minutes of television with everyone involved executing at the top of their game.

and that’s part of why it appeals so strongly to a certain kind of fan: the ones who want doctor who to be “serious” and “clever,” without the mess of something more difficult. it’s self-contained, self-justifying, and built to be admired rather than interrogated.

except it's not. it’s my second favourite episode of the entire show, but it doesn’t actually work without hell bent (my actually favourite episode of the entire show), which is what allows it to be interrogated.

because despite everyone loving heaven sent but not loving the follow-up as much, despite people calling it moffat’s masterpiece—it’s hell bent that’s the masterpiece. and it’s necessary. not just as a follow-up, but as a challenge.

it reframes everything the doctor does not as noble, but as obsessive. it takes the fantasy that he endured because of love and reveals it as denial. nothing about heaven sent is him overcoming or processing anything. nothing good happens and he only gets worse.

it only looked like a victory because we were watching the story he told himself. heaven sent isn’t actually about anything truly profound on its own. it only becomes meaningful because it’s the middle of a three-part story. so it only tells part of it. hell bent tells the rest.

[a-cow-stole-my-username]

Something that I've been thinking about BTD characters is how each of them could shine best in a different medium. You may disagree but let me explain:

Lawrence would do well on a book or a comic of some kind especially since it could give light to his inner thoughts creating this atmosphere that can only be completed through imagination. The lore and myth of fantasy/supernatural are best for him. Based on gatobob asks he's fond of books so it sounds right to me. Ethereal unsettling artwork or gruesome poetry for him.

Strade as a movie or short series, he's more straightforward and graphic also the scenery in the games plays a role in how you feel I would say the acting and expressions are also very important to the horror, all the body language to define who he is. The perspective of a camera putting the viewer into "feeling" his actions would be cool.

Ren works well as a visual novel but maybe an OVA would be nice too, or maybe another kind of adult game idk it fits him and what he does in borh games. How the player can influence him and all his possible outcomes could shine better like this. It's the balance of dialogue, fear and psychological analisis.

Mason would be perfect for a 1st person survival horror game, I enjoyed his route but a visual novel you can't properly show how scary that situation would be, especially for someone who's not used to being in the woods, getting lost quickly, the effects of the weather, avoiding his presence... Just imagine all the trees looking the same, everything is quiet and the sun is setting down, suddenly you feel something sharp inside your leg and it's over...

Derek in a similar fashion could be a game but more co-op or or geared towards action perhaps some kind of pvp? Similar to games like dead by daylight since the desert doesn't have much locations and how it's easy to be spotted is an important part of surviving them. The after "he took you home" would be best as a vn since again the possible outcomes are easier to navigate. The family dinamic of the goffards is something I've been itching to learn more about.

Celia I'm still not sure but a movie OR and erotic/horror bdsm book would fit her best, the themes in her route are very similar and to me the endings in which you die are boring, letting her go doesn't sound interesting to me either so a full story focusing on her, her job, marriage, her desires to lash out and how she expresses her kinks and frustrations are perfect for these two mediums. The occasional erotic artwork would also be nice, on the other hand music would also be interesting to explore especially for Celia, something elegant contrasted by chaos and fury would be nice to listen to.

Let me hear your thoughts 👀