In a world where no one cares, he’s the one who notices you… and that’s frightening.
❤︎ Synopsis. A twisted game of cat and mouse unfolds where a girl is hunted by a predator who revels in her fear; until another unexpected force enters her life, threatening to shatter his control—and everything he’s built around her. In his world, escape isn’t just impossible; it’s forbidden.
♡ Book. A Heart Devoured (AHD) : A Dark Yandere Anthology
♡ Pairing. Yandere! College! Bully x Fem. Reader
♡ Novella. Torn Between Us – Part 1
♡ Word Count. 7,396
♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, general non-con, possessiveness, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, social isolation, bullying
♡ A/N. This is part of a request, but I have to divide the work into probably 3 parts or more. The request part isn’t fully fulfilled yet (hence the lack of proof of request). And, just like my other works, this serves as an intro chapter before the more explicit yandere-centric content. You know me. Gotta build up the tension or set the atmosphere first. The formatting and plot development style here is similar to the Scaramouche “Lover or Captor?” story. Fragmented and non-linear a bit compared to most of my writing. Kinda spoilers, but that tells you a bit on why the story is like this.
He watches you, always. You feel his eyes long before you catch his face in the crowd, their weight pressing against your back, your shoulders, your neck, until the hairs there stand on end and your stomach knots itself into a mess of nausea and dread. It isn’t paranoia. It isn’t your mind playing cruel tricks. No, he is always watching.
He makes no effort to hide it. Why would he? You’re not his equal; you’re his prey. A mouse scrabbling through the shadows, hoping the hunter won’t see you scurrying between cracks, hoping the cat will grow bored. But he doesn’t grow bored. Not with you.
He is the center of the universe here, on this sprawling, ivy-covered campus. Everyone knows him, fears him, reveres him. Professors bow beneath his arrogant charm, students stumble over their words to impress him, even the ones who whisper about his temper lower their voices to a terrified hush when his name is spoken aloud. He walks these hallways like a king surveying his kingdom, a smug glint in his dark eyes that speaks of entitlement, of invincibility.
And yet, it is you he sees. You he hunts.
It doesn’t matter how small you make yourself. He’s always there: a towering figure, a shadow in your periphery, a cruel smirk that promises nothing good. There’s no corner of this campus you can run to, no hiding place where you can escape the sound of his boots—those heavy, deliberate footsteps echoing in the cavernous library, the quiet art studio, the desolate courtyard at dusk.
You don’t understand it. Why you? You are nothing here, a speck in a sea of better, brighter, bolder people. You’re not popular or pretty or smart enough to draw his attention. You’re not rich, like the trust fund kids he drinks with at off-campus parties. You’re not bold, like the girls who hang off his arm in the hallways, laughing too loud at jokes he doesn’t even bother to finish. You’re not even lucky enough to blend in. No. You’re just there. A loser. A target. A trembling little thing caught beneath his thumb.
He knows it, too. He sees it in the way you duck your head when his voice rises behind you, the way you stutter when he corners you in the cafeteria, in class, in the lonely stairwell where no one can hear the venom in his whispers. He thrives on it, on the way you flinch from him, on the tears that well in your eyes when his fingers curl too tightly around your wrist. His laughter, soft and derisive, sends shivers skittering across your skin.
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” he sneers, looming over you, his shadow swallowing the flickering glow of the stairwell light. “The kind of girl no one would notice if you disappeared. No friends, no boyfriend, nothing. Makes it so easy to…” He pauses, tilting his head as if considering his words carefully, then leans in close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. “…take what I want.”
You can’t speak. Your throat tightens around the lump of panic lodged there. He chuckles when you don’t respond, his hand sliding from your wrist to your jaw, forcing your gaze upward. His grip is firm, his thumb brushing the soft curve of your cheek, deceptively gentle.
“I mean, who would care?” he murmurs, his voice low, silky, dangerous. “Who would notice if you didn’t show up to class tomorrow? If you just… disappeared one night? No one’s looking for you, sweetheart. No one cares.”
He grins as he says it, sharp teeth bared like a predator savoring the fear in his prey’s eyes. His other hand reaches out, plucking a loose thread from the sleeve of your sweater. He twirls it between his fingers, his expression unreadable, almost distracted.
“But I care,” he continues, his tone softening into something almost tender. “I notice. Every time you try to avoid me, every time you run and hide like a scared little kitten, I notice. And it drives me crazy.” His grip tightens on your jaw, his thumb pressing harder until the edges of your vision blur with tears. “Don’t you get it yet? You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And you’ll never get away from me.”
The tears spill over, hot and silent, but he only smiles, wiping them away with the pad of his thumb as though he’s doing you some kind of kindness.
“Good girl,” he whispers, almost sweetly. “Now, let’s try this again. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
His command is impossible to disobey. You can’t run. You can’t fight. All you can do is look into those dark, unyielding eyes and wonder if this—this suffocating torment, this inescapable hell—is all your life will ever be.
────────────
The day you stepped onto campus, wide-eyed and clutching your second-hand books, was the moment everything began to unravel. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. College was supposed to be your chance at reinvention—an escape from the relentless mediocrity of your hometown and the suffocating monotony of high school. But reinvention had never been an option, had it? Not when he decided you were his.
You first noticed him during orientation week. He wasn’t like the others. While the other upperclassmen handed out flyers for clubs and fraternities, wearing easy smiles and calling you “fresh meat” in jest, he lingered on the edges of the crowd like a wolf circling its prey. His eyes found you in the chaos, and in that moment, you felt something ancient stir—a primal, bone-deep warning to run.
But you didn’t run.
You stayed, rooted in place as his gaze burned through you. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It wasn’t warmth or welcome. It was possession.
———
By the second week of classes, he’d learned your schedule. You weren’t sure how—he wasn’t even in the same program as you, yet there he was, leaning against the wall outside your early morning lecture.
“Freshman,” he’d said, blocking your path. His voice was a low rumble, and you hated how it made your stomach twist. “You’re in my seat.”
You’d stammered something incoherent, clutching your notebook like a shield.
“In there,” he clarified, gesturing lazily toward the lecture hall. “Third row, second seat from the left. That’s mine. Don’t sit there again.”
It wasn’t a request.
———
He began to haunt your life.
You’d hear the low thud of his boots echoing behind you in the halls. His shadow seemed to stretch impossibly long, a dark stain trailing your every step. You’d catch him in the library, standing at the end of the aisle you’d chosen, his head tilted as if he were appraising you. The first time you’d thought it was a coincidence. The fifth time, you knew better.
He’d make himself known in subtle, insidious ways. Your hot choco cup would vanish from the table while you weren’t looking, only to reappear minutes later, the lid slightly ajar and the contents ice-cold. Your dorm door, once a sanctuary, became a battleground. Books you swore you’d left locked away would be sprawled open on your desk, pages dog-eared in ways you never would have done.
“You’re paranoid,” your roommate had laughed when you tried to explain. “Maybe you’re just tired.”
But you weren’t tired. Not yet.
———
It escalated.
The first time he left bruises, it was almost clinical. A firm grip around your wrist as he pulled you into the shadows between two buildings, his body trapping yours.
“Don’t ignore me,” he’d said, his breath hot against your ear. His tone was calm, but his grip tightened until you whimpered. He released you with a satisfied hum, the imprint of his fingers blooming purple on your skin. “Good girl,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the mark before disappearing into the night.
You stared at the bruise for hours after, your stomach churning. You told yourself you’d go to campus security, that you’d report him, but you never did. You knew better. He was a senior, a campus legend. People liked him. Feared him.
Who would believe you?
———
The rumors started soon after.
“You hooked up with him?” a girl in your class whispered, her voice dripping with mockery. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”
When you’d asked her what she meant, she just smirked.
“You’ll see,” she said.
And you did.
Someone—he—had slipped a note into your bag. It was a scrawled love confession in your handwriting, complete with embarrassing details that only you could have written. It was passed around, dissected, and laughed at until you couldn’t walk into a room without hearing snickers.
You confronted him in the quad, your voice trembling with fury.
“Why?” you demanded, your hands shaking as you held up the note.
He looked amused, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You’ve got nice penmanship,” he said, plucking the paper from your hands and tucking it into his jacket pocket. “I might keep this.”
———
You tried to avoid him after that. You changed your route to class, skipped meals in the dining hall, stopped going to parties. It didn’t matter. He always found you.
“I didn’t think you were a quitter,” he said one night, cornering you outside the library. His broad frame blocked the lamplight, casting his face in shadow.
“Please,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Just leave me alone.”
His laugh was low and dangerous, curling around you like smoke.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, stepping closer until you could smell the faint hint of cigarettes and leather. “You think you get to decide when this ends?”
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The touch was deceptively gentle, but it left a shiver in its wake.
“This is just the beginning,” he said, his voice a promise and a threat.
────────────
You’d never expected anyone to step in for you.
Your existence had been shaped by silence, by the quiet endurance of pain, by the dull weight of dread you carried every moment he was near. You’d never cried—not once—because crying would have meant accepting it, acknowledging how small and helpless you truly were. You couldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not him, not anyone.
And then she came into your life.
Domo was everything you weren’t: confident, poised, a force of nature with a voice that carried across crowded lecture halls. She walked like she owned the ground beneath her feet, her gaze sharp enough to cut. A 4th-year academic powerhouse, she had no patience for weakness, no tolerance for injustice, and no problem putting someone in their place.
But she didn’t pity you. That was what surprised you most.
———
The first time Domo spoke to you, it wasn’t out of kindness or curiosity. It was boredom.
You were hunched over in the corner of the library, surrounded by loose papers and coffee-stained textbooks, scribbling notes with a pen that looked one click away from breaking. She wasn’t even there for you; she was looking for an empty spot, carrying her usual mountain of books. But her eyes fell on you, this pitiful figure with dark circles under your eyes and a haunted look that even the dim library lights couldn’t hide.
“You’re in my spot,” she said flatly, arms crossed over her chest.
You blinked up at her like you’d forgotten other people existed. For a moment, you thought she might be talking to someone else, but there was no one behind you.
“I didn’t know this was reserved,” you muttered, pushing your things into a haphazard pile to make room.
“It’s not.” She set her books down anyway, sliding into the seat across from you without asking. “But you look like you’ve been sitting there for a decade. Don’t you have a dorm or something?”
Your instinct was to shrink into yourself, to avoid answering, but something about her presence was overwhelming, like trying to look away from the sun.
“I… don’t really like my dorm,” you admitted.
Her gaze lingered on you for a moment, sharp and appraising, before she snorted softly. “Figures.”
And just like that, you became her pet project.
———
At first, it was transactional.
Domo wasn’t someone who did things without purpose, and you were no exception. She dragged you into her whirlwind of a life—helping her with club activities, carrying books, sitting with her during committee meetings where you barely understood a word being said. She was bossy, sharp-tongued, and unapologetically demanding, but she never once treated you like you were less than her.
“Well?” she said one day, shoving a stack of papers in your direction. “You’ve been sitting there doing nothing. Read these and tell me if they’re garbage.”
You stared at the printouts, confused. “Why me?”
“Because you look like someone who’s seen too much shit to care about sugarcoating anything,” she replied, already moving on to the next task on her endless list.
She wasn’t wrong. You skimmed the articles, found half a dozen mistakes, and when you told her as much, she didn’t get offended. Instead, she grinned.
“See? Knew you’d be useful for something.”
———
Somewhere along the way, it changed.
She started asking questions, prying into the corners of your mind no one else had ever cared to explore.
“So, what’s with the obsession with serial killers?” she asked one day, raising an eyebrow as you absentmindedly rattled off facts about a particularly gruesome case.
You blinked, unsure how to answer. Most people avoided you when you started talking about these things.
“I guess they’re… interesting,” you mumbled. “People don’t usually see it coming. The violence, I mean. It’s always hidden under something ordinary.”
She stared at you for a moment, then snorted.
“You’re a freak,” she said, shaking her head. “But at least you’re honest about it.”
———
Then, she started noticing things about you no one else bothered to see.
You had a habit of tugging at your sleeves when you were anxious, your fingers worrying the fabric until it stretched. You mumbled when you spoke, as though every word was an apology for taking up space. You avoided eye contact like it might burn you.
“You’re like a sad little kitten,” she said one afternoon, handing you a cup of tea she’d picked up from the café on campus.
You blinked at her, unsure whether to be offended or grateful. “I’m not a kitten.”
“Oh, you are. Wet, bedraggled, and hissing at anyone who comes too close.” She smirked, leaning back in her chair. “But you’re my kitten now, so get used to it.”
It should have been patronizing, but coming from her, it wasn’t.
———
She became your tether.
Domo didn’t care what people whispered about you—or about her for taking you under her wing. She treated you like a stray cat she’d decided to adopt, alternating between bossy commands and begrudging affection.
“Drink this,” she ordered one evening, shoving a steaming cup of tea into your hands after a late-night meeting. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”
When you hesitated, she sighed and rolled her eyes.
“It’s not poisoned, you idiot. Just drink it.”
You obeyed, and for the first time in months, you felt something close to warmth.
———
Despite her bluntness, Domo had a softness to her—buried beneath her no-nonsense exterior and razor-sharp wit. She noticed when you skipped meals and made sure you ate. She dragged you to the clinic when you came down with a fever, muttering complaints the entire way but never letting you go.
She didn’t ask questions she knew you wouldn’t answer. When you deflected, she let it go. When you got that faraway look, the one that came with memories you never spoke about, she distracted you with stories about her own life—petty grievances, triumphs, and jokes that didn’t always land but made you smile anyway.
———
And, Domo had a way of seeing through the cracks you thought you’d hidden.
“You never cry,” she said one day, out of the blue.
The two of you were sitting in her dorm, surrounded by empty takeout containers and half-finished assignments.
“What?”
“You don’t cry. Not even when he’s… you know.” She waved her hand vaguely, as though referring to the mess that was your life didn’t deserve the full weight of words. “Most people would have broken down by now. But you just… keep going.”
You shrugged, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “Crying doesn’t change anything.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it makes you human.”
The way she said it made you feel like she thought you were something more—or less—than human, and the thought left a strange, hollow ache in your chest.
———
But he noticed.
Of course, he noticed.
It didn’t matter that you tried to keep your distance, to avoid drawing his attention whenever Domo was around. He always found a way to watch, to see, to know.
And he hated her.
The first time he confronted you about her, it was subtle—a passing remark that sent a chill down your spine.
“Seems like you’ve made a new friend,” he said, his voice low and quiet, his eyes fixed on yours. “She’s… bold. Thinks she can handle anything, doesn’t she?”
You didn’t respond. You didn’t dare.
He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your skin.
“Do you think she’ll still want to play hero when she realizes what you’re really like?”
———
The tension escalated quickly.
He began showing up more often, lurking at the edges of your conversations with her, his presence an unspoken threat. He watched her with a quiet, simmering rage, his jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
Domo noticed, of course. She always noticed.
“What’s his problem?” she muttered one day after he’d passed by, his shoulder deliberately bumping yours hard enough to make you stumble.
“Just ignore him,” you said quickly, your voice trembling. “He’s… like that with everyone.”
She frowned, her sharp eyes narrowing.
“No, he’s not. He’s like that with you.”
She started keeping you closer after that, her protective instincts kicking in. She walked you to class, sat beside you in the cafeteria, and even started inviting you to her study sessions.
“It’s not charity,” she insisted when you tried to protest. “You’re my friend now. That means I take care of you, whether you like it or not.”
———
But to him, it was an unforgivable betrayal.
You belonged to him.
He’d spent years cultivating your isolation, feeding on your fear, relishing the way you wilted under his control. And now she was undoing all of it.
She had to go.
He didn’t care how.
He’d make sure you knew—when it happened, when she fell—it would be your fault.
────────────
He’s smiling at her, but inside, his mind is a roiling storm.
On the surface, he’s the picture of charm—leaning casually against the lecture hall doorway, an easy smirk playing on his lips. He’s perfected this mask over years of navigating people, manipulating them, bending them to his will. No one suspects anything; they never do. To the world, he’s just another confident senior, a campus favorite with sharp wit and an even sharper tongue.
But beneath that polished exterior, he’s unraveling.
His eyes track your every movement as you laugh at something Domo says, the sound soft and fleeting, like a bird taking flight. It’s rare for you to laugh, and he knows it better than anyone. He’s spent countless nights pushing you to the edge, watching you crumble under the weight of his words and actions, waiting for that breaking point that never came. You didn’t laugh with him. You didn’t smile. And yet here you are—grinning like a fool for someone else.
His stomach twists, a sickening cocktail of rage and possessiveness.
You’re mine.
He tightens his grip on the strap of his backpack, knuckles going white. It’s a small movement, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to ground him. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything. Why would they? He’s untouchable here, a golden boy with an untarnished reputation. He plays the part so well, no one would believe for a second that he’s capable of the thoughts running through his mind.
———
When he thinks about Domo, all he sees is an obstacle.
It’s not her kindness that bothers him; he doesn’t believe in kindness, not really. People like her are all the same—calculating, self-serving. She took you under her wing because it made her feel good about herself, because it fit her image of being the campus saint. He can see through her act just as clearly as he sees through yours.
But what really sets his teeth on edge is the way you look at her.
You don’t flinch when she touches your shoulder or leans in close to whisper something in your ear. You don’t avert your gaze when she meets your eyes, don’t shrink into yourself the way you do with him. With her, you’re soft. Open. Like she’s peeled back a layer of you that he’s been trying to reach for years.
The thought of her taking what’s his is unbearable.
———
Later, in the privacy of his dorm, he lets the mask slip.
His movements are sharp and deliberate as he paces the room, the walls seeming to close in around him. He can still see the way your eyes lit up when Domo called you her “little project,” the way you leaned into her presence like she was your savior.
A low growl escapes his throat.
“Pathetic,” he mutters under his breath, though the word is more for himself than for you. How had he let it get this far? He’s always been in control, always known exactly how to keep you where he wants you—on the edge of fear and desperation, dangling by a thread that only he can cut.
And yet, somehow, she’s slipped into your world, polluting it with her self-righteousness and moral superiority.
You were supposed to need him. Only him.
———
He sits down at his desk, pulling out the notebook where he keeps everything he knows about you. It’s a habit he developed long before he ever laid a hand on you—meticulous, methodical, obsessive.
Flipping through the pages, he lands on a note he jotted down months ago:
“She doesn’t cry, even when she’s at her limit. Interesting.”
He traces the words with his finger, his lips curling into a bitter smile. It’s true; you’ve never cried for him. You’ve begged, pleaded, even screamed, but never once have you broken down completely. It’s one of the things that drew him to you in the first place—your defiance, your refusal to give him the satisfaction.
But now he wonders if that strength wasn’t meant for him at all.
———
The next time he sees you, he doesn’t let the anger show.
Instead, he watches from a distance, his eyes narrowing as Domo loops an arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the library. You look so small next to her, so fragile. It’s almost laughable, the way she acts like she’s protecting you, when she has no idea what you’re really up against.
He tilts his head, considering his options. It would be easy to destroy her—to spread a rumor, plant some incriminating evidence, make her life a living hell. But that would be too quick, too obvious. No, he wants her to suffer slowly, to watch her crumble under the weight of her own self-righteousness.
And when she finally falls, when she’s out of the picture for good, he’ll be there to pick up your broken pieces.
———
For now, he plays the long game.
“Hey,” he calls out as he approaches the two of you, his voice warm and inviting.
You stiffen immediately, your body tensing like a rabbit caught in a trap. But Domo, cold as ever, gives him a curt nod.
“What do you want?” she asks, her tone as sharp as her glare.
He flashes her a disarming smile, the kind that makes people forget he’s capable of anything darker. “Just checking in on my favorite underclassman.” His eyes flicker to you, lingering just a moment too long. “You’ve been keeping out of trouble, right?”
Your lips press into a thin line, but you don’t respond.
Domo steps between you, her posture protective. “She’s fine. Not that it’s any of your business.”
He chuckles, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, I’m just being friendly.”
But as he walks away, his mind is already racing, plotting his next move. Because no matter what it takes, he’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.
────────────
He watches. Always watches.
You wouldn’t know it by the easy smirk he wears in public, the charm dripping from his voice as he commands attention from everyone around him. People gravitate toward him, and why wouldn’t they? He’s magnetic—handsome in a way that feels unfair, his broad shoulders and powerful build exuding a presence that’s impossible to ignore. His laugh is rich, his confidence effortless, and his words just sharp enough to cut without leaving scars.
But under all that charm, beneath the surface of his calculated persona, there’s something festering.
Rage.
It coils tight in his chest, a burning knot of jealousy that twists every time he sees you with her. Domo. That pretentious, snobby fucking bitch who thought she could waltz into his territory and take what was his.
She treats you like a project, like some pathetic stray she’s decided to fix, and it makes his blood boil. He sees the way her hand lingers on your shoulder, the way she talks to you with that infuriating mix of condescension and care. The way you laugh at her jokes—soft and hesitant, but real.
You never laugh like that with him.
No one else sees the cracks in his facade. His grin doesn’t falter when you walk past him without looking, your head bowed, Domo by your side. He doesn’t flinch when she shoots him a glare, daring him to make a move.
But inside? Inside, he’s seething.
———
It starts small.
He overhears Domo assigning you to cover an event for her precious journalism committee. The task doesn’t seem like much—just snapping photos and taking notes—but it’s enough to keep you out of his sight for hours. Hours where she’ll have you all to herself, feeding you that garbage about standing up for yourself and being strong.
The next day, the event is mysteriously canceled. Something about a sudden power outage in the building.
He watches from a distance as Domo storms around campus, her frustration palpable. You trail after her like a shadow, apologizing for something that isn’t your fault.
Good. You should feel small. Helpless.
———
The next time, he’s more direct.
“Why do you hang out with her?” he asks, cornering you in a deserted hallway late at night. His voice is calm, almost curious, but the way he leans into your space makes your pulse race.
“She’s… nice to me,” you mumble, clutching your bag like it’s a shield.
He tilts his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Nice, huh? Is that what you call it when someone uses you to boost their own image?”
You blink, confused. “She’s not—”
“Oh, she is,” he interrupts, stepping closer. His shadow swallows you whole, his height and bulk overwhelming in the dim light. “That bitch doesn’t care about you. Not really. She just likes feeling superior. Likes having a little pet she can parade around.”
“That’s not true,” you whisper, but your voice lacks conviction.
He smirks, leaning down until his breath brushes against your ear. “Isn’t it?”
———
But his words aren’t enough.
He needs her gone.
It starts with small inconveniences. Her car won’t start one morning. Someone “accidentally” spills coffee on her laptop during a club meeting. An anonymous email gets sent to her professor, accusing her of plagiarism.
Each time, she brushes it off, too stubborn to back down. But he can see the cracks forming.
She’s not invincible.
———
The final straw comes when he sees you smiling at her.
Not the polite, hesitant smile you give to strangers. Not the strained, nervous smile you’ve given him in the past.
This smile is soft. Genuine. Warm in a way that makes his chest ache with something he can’t name.
He doesn’t realize he’s gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turn white.
———
That night, he finds himself in her dorm building.
It’s easy enough to slip past the front desk. No one questions him; he’s too well-liked, too respected.
Her door is unlocked. Careless. Arrogant.
Inside, the room smells faintly of coffee and freshly printed documents. Her desk is cluttered with papers, her laptop glowing faintly in sleep mode. There’s a photo of you on her wall—a candid shot she must have taken during one of your outings.
It’s too much.
He moves to the desk, his fingers ghosting over the papers. An idea forms, dark and insidious.
No one will ever touch what belongs to him.
────────────
The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed faintly as Domo strode toward her dorm room, her heels clicking against the polished floor with a rhythm that mirrored the irritation simmering under her skin. It had been a long day—between the sabotage at the journalism event and the strange tension lingering in your eyes, she’d barely had time to breathe.
She muttered under her breath as she fished her keys from her bag, her hand brushing against the familiar edges of her planner. “If one more thing goes wrong—”
The moment the door swung open, her breath caught.
Her room was a battlefield.
The soft lavender scent she always carried was drowned in the metallic tang of chaos. Her desk, once a haven of meticulously arranged papers and books, was overturned. Pages lay scattered across the floor, some torn to ribbons, others crumpled and smeared with ink. Her chair was on its side, one wheel snapped clean off.
Her laptop—her lifeline, her pride and joy—lay on the floor, its screen fractured like a spiderweb, blue light flickering weakly through the cracks.
But it was the bed that stopped her cold.
The neatly made covers were now rumpled, shoved to one side to make room for a single piece of paper. The note sat stark against the mess, its edges too pristine, its presence deliberate.
She didn’t want to move closer. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to leave, to call campus security, to do something. But her legs carried her forward, step by step, until she stood at the edge of the bed.
The words were scrawled in a hand too neat to belong to a careless vandal.
Stay away from her.
Her throat tightened.
———
The adrenaline hit her all at once, her hands trembling as she reached for her phone. Her mind raced, the logical mind in her trying to piece together the puzzle even as her gut churned with unease.
She dialed. First the RA—no answer. Then campus security.
“Room 417,” she said, her voice steady despite the growing dread. “Someone broke into my dorm. I need someone here now.”
The words felt hollow, too calm, as if the situation hadn’t quite settled into reality. But as she hung up, the silence in the room pressed against her like a living thing.
Her eyes darted around the space, searching for something—anything—that could make sense of this. A motive. A clue.
And then her gaze fell on the photo.
It had been pinned neatly to her bulletin board just that morning. A candid shot of you, looking shy but peaceful as you stared out across the campus quad.
Now, it lay face-down on the floor, the edges bent as if someone had handled it roughly.
She picked it up, her fingers brushing against the glossy surface. When she flipped it over, her stomach turned.
A jagged line slashed through your face, cutting clean through the image.
———
Her first instinct wasn’t fear. It was anger.
Whoever did this wanted her to be afraid. Wanted her to step aside, to leave you to whatever twisted game they were playing. And she didn’t back down from a challenge—especially not from cowards who hid in the dark.
She started pacing, her hands clenched into fists.
“That arrogant bastard,” she hissed, the image of him flashing in her mind. His smug smirk, the way he always loomed just a little too close to you. She’d seen it before, men like him who thought the world owed them everything.
She grabbed her planner, flipping through the pages as if the neatly written schedule could offer her some form of control.
“No way he’s getting away with this.”
———
By the time campus security arrived, she had already taken photos of the mess and the note.
“This isn’t random,” she told the officer, her tone sharp and commanding despite the tremor in her hands. “Someone was trying to send me a message.”
The officer nodded, scribbling notes on a pad. “Do you have any enemies? Anyone who might hold a grudge?”
Her jaw tightened. She could name at least one. But without proof, she’d be playing into his hands.
“Just focus on finding out who did this,” she snapped, brushing past him to retrieve her laptop. The fractured screen mocked her, but she held it close, refusing to let the damage sink in.
She didn’t have time to wallow. Not when you were caught in the middle of this.
———
Later that night, as she sat in the campus library—her temporary refuge while the investigation began—her thoughts kept circling back to you.
You’d been quiet lately, quieter than usual. And she hated the way her mind connected the dots.
What if he’s already gotten to her?
Her grip tightened on the pen in her hand, the plastic groaning under the pressure.
She wouldn’t let that happen.
You were hers to protect. Whether you realized it or not.
────────────
The morning sunlight spilled pale and indifferent through the campus windows, a thin blade of light carving through the cracks in the blinds. The café library buzzed faintly, conversations merging into a singular, dull hum. Domo sat at her usual spot, a cup of black coffee clutched in one hand, her other fingers lazily scrolling through her phone. The world felt distant, her senses dulled by the weight of the night before.
She hadn’t slept.
Her room was back in order—a surgical restoration of control over the chaos—but the faint, acidic taste of fear still clung to her like a second skin. The note. The photo. The implication. It swirled in her mind, toxic and consuming. She hated how much it had shaken her. Hated that he’d gotten to her, if only for a moment.
But you? You had no idea.
She watched you shuffle into the café library, your movements hesitant, almost deer-like, as though the world might devour you whole if you stepped too loudly. You scanned the room nervously until your eyes landed on her, softening slightly. You made your way over, the edges of a faint smile tugging at your lips.
“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice barely audible above the cafeteria noise.
Domo glanced up from her phone, her expression perfectly composed. “Morning. You’re late.”
You fumbled awkwardly with the bag in your hands, your nervous energy radiating like static electricity. For a moment, you didn’t sit down, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as though gathering your courage.
“Uh… I-I have something for you.”
She raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair, the faintest smirk curling her lips. “Something for me? Should I be worried?”
You flushed, shaking your head rapidly. “No! I… I just… I remembered you mentioned your birthday… once. A while ago. I don’t know if it’s today or…” You trailed off, your face burning as you shoved the bag toward her.
She blinked, surprised.
“It’s nothing much,” you mumbled quickly, your words tumbling over each other. “I-I didn’t know if you’d even like it, but, um… I thought it might make you smile, and… I mean, you’re like a sister to me. And I just…”
You froze mid-ramble as Domo opened the bag.
Her fingers stilled when they touched the soft, handmade edges of the scrapbook.
———
The cover was simple, your handwriting slightly crooked but endearing. As she flipped through the pages, her chest tightened.
It was filled with moments. Little fragments of the last two months pieced together with care. Pictures of the two of you, some she didn’t even realize you’d saved—her laughing with a coffee in hand, you hiding awkwardly behind a textbook. There were memes printed out and glued alongside hastily scrawled captions, inside jokes and shared silliness. There was a snapshot of the rainy afternoon when you’d both gotten caught in a sudden storm, drenched and laughing despite yourselves.
And on the last page, written in your uneven handwriting, were the words.
“Thank you for being my friend.”
———
Domo didn’t cry.
She hadn’t cried in years, and she wouldn’t start now. But something in her chest softened, and she closed the scrapbook with deliberate care, her fingers brushing over the cover as though it might break.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Do you know how inappropriate it is to give a gift like this without expecting something in return?”
Your face fell, your shoulders hunching. “I-I didn’t mean—”
Her hand reached across the table, pressing lightly against yours, stopping your words.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” she said quietly, her eyes locking onto yours. “It’s thoughtful. Too thoughtful. And coming from you…”
She smirked faintly, masking the warmth in her chest with her usual bravado. “It’s borderline suspicious.”
You blinked at her, your lips parting in confusion before you realized she was teasing. A small, shy smile tugged at your lips, and Domo felt something twist inside her—something protective, fierce, and wholly unshakable.
———
For a moment, she forgot the note. The photo. The rage boiling under her skin.
For a moment, it was just you, looking at her like she was the only person in the world who mattered.
She would burn the whole campus down before she let anyone take that look away from you.
────────────
The café library was a tomb of whispers and muffled footsteps, every sound swallowed by the weight of the silence. He lingered in the shadowed alcove on the second floor, the perfect vantage point to see everything without being seen. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. No, that was a lie. He always knew.
You were a creature of habit—pathetic, predictable, easy to track. You spent your evenings in the same corner of the library, tucked away with your fraying notebooks and a nervous energy that made you chew your pen caps into mangled ruins. It wasn’t endearing. It wasn’t. But it kept him coming back, night after night, his excuse for being here as thin as the veneer of civility he wore.
And tonight, she was here too.
Domo.
Her voice carried low and soft, a balm to the otherwise oppressive silence. He could hear her laugh—short, confident, like she wasn’t trying too hard. Like it came easily to her. And worse, he could see the way it made you smile.
His hands curled into fists.
You were seated across from her at a table, your usual timid posture replaced with something lighter. Relaxed. Almost happy. You gestured clumsily with your hands as you spoke, and she leaned in, amused but attentive, her sharp gaze softening in a way he despised. She made you feel seen.
She had no right.
You pulled something from your bag—small, wrapped in mismatched paper, the kind of sloppy job that screamed you had tried. The thought of it made his stomach twist with something that felt too much like jealousy to admit.
The exchange was muted from where he stood, but he didn’t need to hear the words. He could read the scene from the way you shoved the gift across the table, your nervous energy practically vibrating through the air. The slight flush in your cheeks. The tentative smile that slipped past your usual reserve.
And the worst part—
The way she smiled back.
———
It was like a razor dragged down his spine.
That bitch. That motherfucking bitch.
She had everything. She had the prestige, the power, the reputation. She didn’t need more. She didn’t get to take you too. You weren’t hers to mold or shape or save. You weren’t hers to build up when he had spent so much time tearing you down.
You were his.
Even if you didn’t realize it.
Even if it made you hate him.
———
His vision blurred at the edges as rage twisted inside him, slow and corrosive, eating away at the last fraying threads of his self-control. His pulse pounded in his ears, each beat hammering out the same thought:
Mine. Mine. Mine.
He could picture it too clearly—the way her fingers had lingered on that pathetic little scrapbook. He could imagine her voice, all saccharine sweetness, telling you how thoughtful you were. Feeding your delusions. Making you believe you were worth something.
The room spun as he leaned forward, his fingers biting into the cold edge of the railing. Below, Domo reached across the table, her hand brushing yours lightly, a gesture so casual it made his teeth ache.
She was stealing you.
Stealing you right out from under him, and you were too stupid, too blind to see it.
———
Something snapped.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was quiet, insidious, like the faint crack of ice beneath your feet before you plunge into the freezing depths.
He stepped back from the railing, his breathing slow and deliberate. His fingers uncurled, and he flexed them once, twice, as if shaking off a chill.
He’d been patient for too long.
This was her fault. She had crossed a line she couldn’t uncross.
And now she would see what happened when you tried to take something that belonged to him.
———
As he slipped out of the library, the soft murmur of your laughter followed him like a ghost.
By the time he reached the cold night air, his mind was already made up.
Domo wouldn’t smile like that again.
Not after he was done with you.
────────────
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 