⚠️TRIGGER WARNING:
[This chapter contains scenes of violence and mature content.]
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YN pov
And then he vanished. One blink, and the weight of his presence lifted-no warmth, no breath, no closeness. Just air. My eyes flew open, heart pounding against my ribs, and I stared at the ceiling, trying to steady the rush of confusion. It hit me then-it was a dream. A vivid, unsettling dream where he hovered over me, close enough to feel real, to feel everything. I exhaled slowly, grounding myself in the quiet of the room.
"O god! It was a dream...it just felt so real and nauseous but fortunately I am saved" I repeated in my mind to give my brain a peaceful hault. My heart eventually coming to it's normal pace.
My throat burned with thirst. I definitely need some water after all of this roller coaster of dreams.
I slowly got up and sat on my bed tucking the front bangs of hair behind my ears.
But as I turned my head to the side, the breath caught in my throat. There he was--sitting silently on the chair near the lower edge of my bed, watching me with the same unreadable expression from the dream. My blood ran cold. If it was just a dream... why was he still here?
Am I still dreaming?
Or is he really here?
My mind scrambled for logic, for some boundary between sleep and waking, but everything blurred. I didn't dare move. His eyes met mine--calm, steady, as if he'd been there all along, as if nothing about this was strange. I could hear the faint ticking of the clock, feel the sheets against my skin, the cool air brushing my face. It all felt too real now. But so did the dream.
My voice caught in my throat, unsure whether to speak or stay silent. He didn't say a word. Just sat there, watching. Waiting. And I couldn't tell if I was still lost in sleep.....or if something had crossed over with me.
But then, gathering all my courage, I asked him in almost a whisper, "Are you real?"
The words barely left my lips, trembling and fragile, as if speaking them too loudly might shatter whatever this was.
He didn't flinch. His gaze held mine, unblinking, as if he'd been waiting for that question all along. A flicker of something passed across his face--curiosity, maybe amusement --but still, he said nothing.
The silence stretched between us, thick and electric. I could hear my heartbeat louder than ever, feel the weight of the moment pressing down on me. He leaned forward slightly, just enough for the light to catch the edge of his jaw, and in that breath of movement, I wasn't sure if I wanted him to answer... or if I was terrified he would.
He finally spoke, his voice low and steady, cutting through the silence like a blade. "Why were you moaning my name in your sleep?"
The question landed heavy, pulling the air from the room. My breath hitched, the heat rising to my face, but it wasn't just embarrassment--it was something colder, something that crawled down my spine.
He leaned in just a little more, eyes sharp, unreadable. "You looked like you were enjoying yourself," he added, tone laced with something dark--curiosity, amusement, maybe a quiet accusation. I couldn't tell.
The space between us felt tighter now, like the walls had moved in without warning.
I gripped the edge of the blanket, suddenly unsure if I was still dreaming, or if the nightmare had just begun.
But to my horror, he gets up from his chair slowly, each movement deliberate, and starts walking toward me. His eyes never leave mine, dark and unreadable, the silence between us now charged like a storm about to break. "Answer me, little Foxy," he murmurs, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a chilling familiarity that makes my stomach twist.
There's something predatory in the way he moves--calm, unhurried, like he knows I won't run. Like he knows I can't.
I press myself slightly back against the headboard, heart thudding so loud I'm sure he can hear it. He stops at the edge of the bed, head tilted just enough to unsettle me. "Was I in your dream?" he asks, softer now, but no less intense. "Or were you hoping I'd be?"
I can't breathe. Can't think. My brain feels like it's been wiped clean, dead weight behind my eyes while panic pulses through every inch of me. He's too close now, too calm, and the question still hangs between us like smoke--thick and suffocating.
But then, through the blur of my fear, I see it. The door. The bathroom.
Yes.
My mind latches onto it like a lifeline. I can run. I don't have to answer. I won't answer. There's no way I'm giving him what he wants--not with that look in his eyes, not with the way his voice drips control.
With a sharp inhale, I bolt flinging the blanket aside and scrambling off the bed, bare feet slapping the floor as I race toward the bathroom. I don't look back. I don't dare look back. I just pray I can lock the door before he decides to follow.
"Please don't follow", I prayed in my mind but faster than I could've imagined, he moves-his hand slamming against the door just as I try to shut it, forcing it open with effortless strength. The sound of it hitting the wall echoes like a gunshot, and I stumble back, breath caught in my throat.
His eyes are wild now, not furious... but focused. Controlled. Dangerous. Like a predator who's grown tired of the chase.
"You really thought you could run from me?" he says, voice low and calm--too calm, and somehow that terrifies me more than if he'd screamed. He steps inside, closing the door behind him with a slow, deliberate click that sounds far too final.
The small space of the bathroom feels even smaller now, the walls closing in, the air thick with something I can't name but feel deep in my gut.
He leans forward, not touching me, not yet, but close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the shadow of his presence curling around me like smoke.
"You didn't answer my question," he whispers, eyes locked on mine. "And now you think a door is going to save you?"
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
My voice is trapped somewhere between my lungs and the scream I'm too afraid to release. He tilts his head, studying me like I'm something fragile he's deciding whether to break or keep intact just a little longer.
"Little Foxy," he says again, softer now, but there's a bite beneath it, a warning. "You shouldn't have run."
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