Her hobbies include: casual murder, emotional destruction, and petting cats.
♡ Yandere! Superpowers AU x Fem. Reader. feat. Yandere! Reincarnator
♡ Word Count. 5,203
[You have leveled up! +5 Strength, +2 Intelligence, +1 Luck. New Skill Unlocked: Blade of the Fallen.]
He grinned. Again. That made it what—his seventeenth level-up this week? And it was only Wednesday.
If his old world saw him now, they’d shit their pants. He was beautiful. Deadass, unironically beautiful. Mirror-slaying kind of beautiful. He had the muscles of a gladiator and the face of a k-pop idol who murdered his fans for fun. Women wanted him. Men feared him. His inventory was stacked with rare loot and cheat items, his dungeon runs were smoother than his pickup lines, and every major guild in the academy was fighting to suck his dick offer him sponsorship.
It was, to put it lightly, absolutely fucking lit.
He was in a superpowered world, full of ridiculous abilities they called “Gifts,” and he had a leveling system. A full-blown Korean Manhwa tier system. The whole floating screens, stat bars, daily quests, and a sentient tutorial voice named Nana who was 100% trying to seduce him through UI design.
He was finally the protagonist.
Except he wasn’t.
Not yet.
He’d read this world before. Every arc. Every twist. Every horny fan theory. He was in the prequel timeline. That meant the MC hadn’t shown up yet. And neither had the apocalypse. Or the betrayal. Or the final battle where half the cast got wiped out like simps in a gacha event.
For now? It was paradise. The side character he inhabited had died in Chapter 4 of the original series. A background corpse with three lines of dialogue and a shattered jaw. Now? He had renamed himself. Reinvented himself. And no one could stop him.
Until he saw her.
You.
You were…there.
Just…existing. In the background.
No lines. No friends. No presence. Just you, slouched over a school desk like your soul had already left the building and was currently orbiting Jupiter. No one noticed you. Not even the teacher. Which was weird because you were supposed to be the big bad. The final boss. The one who singlehandedly erased three continents before getting nuked by the hero squad.
You were supposed to be the threat.
But right now? You looked like a background extra from a depression commercial.
Ping!
[New Quest: Observe the Antagonist. Difficulty: Unknown. Reward: ???]
He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust you.
Not with that dead look in your eye. Not with that aura that made the light around you flicker like a bad horror film.
You were too quiet. Too still. You never used your Gift. Never sparred. Never even flinched when those idiots from Class 1-C poured juice on your head.
Who just…let that happen? Who didn’t snap? Who didn’t even blink?
Psychos. That’s who.
And you were the worst kind.
He’d seen the flashforward. The scene where the entire city was on fire and you were standing on a mountain of corpses, barefoot and humming some eldritch tune. He remembered the chapter where the hero said, “She was already dead long before she killed us.”
So he watched you.
For 112 days, 17 hours, and 46 minutes.
He tracked your schedule. Logged your lunch choices. Catalogued the number of steps you took from the classroom to the bathroom and how long you stayed in there. (3 minutes, 11 seconds. No flush. Possible ghost behavior.)
Ping! [Stealth Lv. 6 → 9. You are now slightly less creepy. Congratulations.]
He leveled up just by stalking you. That was how wrong the universe knew this situation was.
He sat behind you in class. You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did. He couldn’t tell if your thousand-yard stare meant you were thinking or if your brain had simply blue-screened.
Every time someone tried to talk to you, you stared through them like they were Google Ads.
One time a girl called you a freak. You blinked. That was it.
Not even a verbal retort. No dramatic comeback. No demonic pressure.
Just a blink.
The girl hasn’t come back to school since.
Coincidence? He didn’t believe in that shit anymore.
He watched. He waited. He trained. Hard. Like Rocky montage meets Dark Souls tryhard. Cleared dungeons solo. Fought bosses ten levels above him. Made deals with cursed spirits just to keep his edge. Every night he opened his notes:
- Possible sleeper agent?
- Secretly training at night?
- Suppressing Gift?
- Has not spoken in 4 months.
- Wears the same hoodie every day. (Possessed???)
- Never blinks during rain.
He was ready. If you made a move, he’d be the first to strike. No mercy. No hesitation. He was the protagonist now, and protagonists ended threats before they bloomed.
Then, on Day 137, it happened.
You moved.
Actually moved. Voluntarily. Of your own accord. Got up during break, walked out into the courtyard, and sat down. Just…sat. Alone. As always.
But he noticed something different.
The wind died around you. Like the world didn’t want to breathe too close.
The pigeons avoided your bench. The grass under you browned. A nearby cat puked.
Ping!
[WARNING: Threat Detected. Subtle Reality Distortion in Progress.]
His breath caught. This was it. This was the moment. You were activating. Awakening.
He braced himself. Pulled out his strongest artifact. Readied every buff he had. Prepared to charge.
And then…
You pulled out a Switch and started playing Animal Crossing.
He stared.
You blinked. (Once.)
Then you slumped back, let your head drop against the wall, and sighed.
The sigh of someone who had seen gods, flipped them off, and demanded a refund.
You looked up.
Right at him.
Your eyes met.
And in that one infinite moment, he saw it.
The absolute, bottomless, bone-deep apathy.
You didn’t care.
Not about him. Not about the world. Not about anything.
He had trained, schemed, murdered his way up the social ladder, and you? You were just there.
A corpse with a pulse. A ghost pretending to do homework. The final boss who hadn’t even logged in yet.
You looked away.
Turned back to your game.
And for the first time in his second life, he felt fear.
True, existential fear.
Ping!
[New Achievement Unlocked: Existential Dread. Your soul quivers before the void. Sanity -10.]
You had done nothing.
And you had won.
You didn’t even know you were playing.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He remembered the first time he read your name. It wasn’t in the first hundred chapters of the manhwa. No, you were barely a footnote in the background. A bullied extra. The weird mute girl with no Gift, who sat in the far back of Class 3-E like a glitch in the simulation. Unregistered, unnoticed, untalented. The kind of NPC who’d die offscreen in most stories.
And then came Chapter 114.
When half the hero association was vaporized in a single panel.
By you.
It started with a flashback. A classic “where did it all go wrong” moment, showing a rooftop. Blood, entrails, and a single line of dialogue that caused every forum, every subreddit, every wiki to explode in anger for weeks:
“I just wanted to have fun.”
He remembered staring at that panel. He remembered scrolling down thinking, that’s it? That’s your motive?
You didn’t want revenge. You didn’t lose your family. No buried trauma. No political ideology. No inner monologue. No moral philosophy or final boss monologue that explained your descent into madness.
Just that line. Just that face.
Unsmiling. Blank. Empty. With dead, clouded eyes.
You killed because you were bored.
You killed everyone.
Hero teams, squads, prodigies, rising stars, the Number One Ranker—he went out crying for help after you casually fed his limbs into a dimensional rift. You erased half the city with a yawn. Children. Infants. Pregnant women. Nurses. Teachers. Janitors. Whole neighborhoods blinked out of existence like someone was pressing “delete” on a map. Even the villains couldn’t stomach you. They begged for a ceasefire. You disemboweled them mid-sentence.
You sent the world spiraling into its darkest arc. No one had plot armor anymore.
And then came him—the protagonist. You wrecked his entire life like it was a minigame. His best friend? Brainwashed and turned into a suicide bomb. His first love? Burned alive in front of him, and you made him relive it over and over again through an illusion loop that lasted 96 chapters. His mentor? You had him cannibalized by his own students.
Every time he leveled up, you laughed. Not because it mattered. Because you thought it was cute.
You even brought his dead mother back. Just to kill her again.
The fandom hated you. Even the “I can fix them” girlies. The “me and who?” stans. The toxic apologists who fell for red flags like they were bouquet arrangements. Even they gave up. You were, collectively, the most downvoted character in manhwa forums across five languages.
They called you a mistake. A glitch. A broken character design. Someone so empty that even death would be too humanizing. You were a plot hole given flesh. A nihilistic monster with no goal, no motivation, no weakness. Just impulse.
Even the author broke.
Your final chapter was just a full page of black. Captionless.
Because no one knew how to write you anymore.
And now here you were.
Sitting in the corner of Class 3-E. Headphones on. Completely ignored. A teenage version of yourself. Still powerless. Still a loser. A “no-Gift” freak that everyone bullied. Even the faculty.
It didn’t make sense. Not narratively. Not cosmologically.
He’d been given a cheat system. A second chance. A new body. Reincarnated in a world he knew like the back of his hand.
He was supposed to be the hero. The true main character. He had the leveling system, the item shop, the danger sense, and even a hidden growth stat. He’d memorized the upcoming events. Saved children from falling debris before it happened. Took out B-class threats before they appeared. He was already being called the next big prodigy.
He was even starting to assemble a fanclub. A guild. A literal harem.
And then he saw you.
Just sitting there. Pencil in hand. Drawing something incomprehensible in your notebook. Not talking. Not reacting. Eyes like burnt-out pixels. Half-asleep. Not a threat.
And yet every time he looked at you, his blood turned cold.
The memories from the story screamed at him. The flags. The signs. The cues.
You were dormant.
But you wouldn’t stay that way forever.
You’d kill everyone. No—worse. You’d enjoy it.
He remembered the arc where you turned an orphanage into an “art project,” arranging the dead children’s bodies into a life-sized version of the school mascot. The next page had you posing beside it like you were at a theme park. No speech bubble. Just your face. Still dead-eyed. Still blank.
He remembered the scientist you locked inside a machine that cloned his consciousness a thousand times into his own body, forcing him to watch himself die from every possible perspective until his mind turned to static.
He remembered the way you walked into the United Nations assembly and wordlessly crushed every world leader into a red smear beneath a gravitational anomaly. In silence. In slow motion. While listening to classical music.
You were evil.
Not “tragic” evil. Not “complex” evil. Not even “I had a reason” evil.
Just evil.
Because it was funny.
And now you were fifteen and hadn’t awakened yet.
And every day he saw you, he wanted to stab you in the eye with a pen. But he didn’t. Not yet.
He needed to be sure.
Needed to confirm you were that version of you.
Was this the same story? Was this the same timeline? Was he early?
His system didn’t recognize you as a threat. No red outline. No danger pings. No boss music. Just [Class 3-E: Student #21 – No Registered Gift]. Nothing else aside from the information he already saved in his head.
But he knew better.
He watched you. Quietly. Obsessively. Like a predator. Like a bomb technician eyeing the world’s most unstable explosive.
You didn’t talk to anyone. You didn’t react when hit. When the other students threw gum in your hair. When they dunked your lunch tray. When they stole your shoes. You just blinked and continued breathing like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
And that scared him more than anything.
Because that’s how it started.
You were always like that.
Completely still. Apathetic. Void of emotion. No drive. No ego.
No humanity.
If you had cried, begged, raged—anything, he might have felt a little better.
But you were silent. Empty.
Like you’d already seen the end of the world and decided none of it mattered.
He reviewed everything. Cross-referenced timelines. Reviewed event chains. You weren’t supposed to show up until Chapter 114. The story hadn’t even started yet.
Something was wrong.
Did you get reborn early?
Were you a reincarnator too?
He couldn’t risk it.
Even if the timeline was broken, the threat was the same. It didn’t matter if you were fifteen or fifty, powerless or omnipotent. The world would burn either way. He knew how this story went. He’d lived it once—through the pages, through the pain, through the endless deaths and wasted lives.
This time, he’d do what the hero couldn’t.
He’d kill you first.
Before you ruined everything again.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
You were three minutes away from setting a new Any% world record in Blood Cathedral IV: Orphan Massacre DX Ultimate Edition when it happened again.
That feeling.
Like someone was trying to set your hair on fire just by looking at you. You didn’t even pause the game. Your left hand moved on muscle memory, dodging a flaming nun, your right flicking a dagger into a cultist’s eyeball. The screen exploded in viscera and speedrun splits. You blinked.
And then sighed.
“Another one,” you muttered under your breath, slouching deeper into your desk chair, controller still warm in your hands.
You turned your head. Slowly. Begrudgingly. And yep. There he was.
New transfer student.
He had the look.
You knew the type. Dramatic eyes. Tragic backstory energy. Hair that defied gravity and conditioner. Wrinkled school uniform like he just came back from crawling out of a grave. And of course—the glare. That furious, unwavering anime death glare like he was personally summoned from hell to make you pay for a crime you didn’t remember committing.
“Uh, oh,” you muttered, clicking the controller again. “He’s monologuing at me telepathically, isn’t he? I can feel it. Somewhere in his head, there’s a thirty-minute prologue recap being narrated in sepia tone.”
Your passive skill Discernment (MAX) pinged before you even activated it. Not that it waited for permission anymore. It was like an overachieving intern on meth—always on.
[Name: ???]
[Title: Reincarnator (Fifth Cycle)]
[Class: ???]
[Disposition: Vengeful. Obsessive. Unstable.]
[Thoughts: “She has to die. This time, I’ll make sure of it.”]
You chewed your lip thoughtfully. Huh. So… fifth cycle. That explained the twitchy eye. Regression rage. You’d seen it before.
“Isn’t it a little early in the semester for assassination attempts?” you muttered, mostly to your half-eaten rice ball. It didn’t respond, loyal as ever.
You wondered what it was this time.
You hadn’t even done anything yet. Hadn’t blown up a kingdom. Hadn’t caused any major societal collapse. You hadn’t even skipped class—okay, maybe once, but that was because the Elden Scrolls V: Jujutsu of the Wild DLC dropped and there were priorities.
But him?
He was still staring. Full-body staring. That kind of laser-focused sociopath intensity that said I have a revenge folder with your face taped to every page.
You waved at him.
He flinched.
Hilarious.
You went back to your game. You had just unlocked the secret ending by pacifying the Serial Killer Choir, and you weren’t about to let some unstable reincarnated hater ruin your run.
Still, the malice was impressive.
You had a running internal leaderboard, actually. Top five people who’d looked at you like they wanted to peel your skin off with a toothbrush:
- That one Hero who claimed you murdered his entire party. (Debatable.)
- The Priestess who believed you corrupted the church. (You just asked her if God had a job description.)
- The Demon Lord who got rejected by you in six different timelines. (He was clingy.)
- Your homeroom teacher. (You corrected her math once.)
- And now—this guy.
He cracked the top five on day one. New personal record.
You gave him a thumbs-up when you caught him glaring again. His jaw clenched. You could see his hands twitch like he wanted to manifest a sword from sheer hatred.
You resisted the urge to wave again.
Barely.
In fairness, you got it.
You weren’t… the most personable.
Your neutral face hovered somewhere between “mildly disgusted” and “thinking about existential nihilism.” People called you the “Ice Queen” or “Silent Devil” or “The Smiling Cataclysm” depending on the day. You weren’t silent on purpose; you just didn’t care enough to talk. And when you did, it was usually just one-liners or completely deranged game logic.
But this guy?
He hated you on a spiritual level.
Like in his last life, you fed his grandma to a meat grinder and made him eat the leftovers.
You were kinda impressed.
Your friends—if they could be called that—hadn’t noticed. Of course they hadn’t. They were too busy being popular or pretending to study or trying to get you to join the student council again because “you’d be so good at strategy games” and “please we’re desperate.”
You told them no.
Because The Witcher’s Highschool Days II had just dropped and you needed to mod it until it broke.
Back to the reincarnator.
You’d run into them more times than the isekai genre gave them credit for. Transmigrators, regressors, parallel-world survivors, otome villains, god-slayers, fallen angels in hoodies. You met so many they stopped being interesting. Most of them had the same goal: kill you, use you, stop you from doing whatever awful thing they thought you were going to do.
You never corrected them.
That would require effort.
And talking.
Which meant social interaction.
You’d rather mainline 60 hours of cursed dating sims where everyone dies of tetanus.
But still. His malice intrigued you.
So much hate. So personal. But you had no memory of him. Not a single pixel. And you remembered all your boss fights.
What exactly did you do to this guy?
Poison his hamster?
Destroy his world?
Did you once steal his gacha pulls?
No, wait.
Did you marry his waifu in a different timeline just to see what would happen?
…Actually, yeah. That sounded like you.
You shrugged.
His problem.
Not yours.
Until it became your problem. At which point you’d handle it like you handled everything else—by dodging until the cutscene triggered and hoping a more interesting enemy showed up.
In the meantime, you had games to play.
You slapped a cooldown potion onto your B-button and dodged through a pile of screaming orphans-turned-bosses. The reincarnator was still watching. Probably planning his whole tragic monologue in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a flashback sequence with sad piano music. Maybe he’d say something like “You took everything from me.”
You’d reply: “Sorry, I was busy modding Skyrim.”
He’d scream.
You’d blink.
Then go back to your save file.
Typical Tuesday.
You bit into your rice ball and leveled up without trying. Again.
The transfer student flinched.
You could feel the internal screaming.
You didn’t smile.
But you did feel a little spark of joy in your heart.
…You were going to break this one, weren’t you?
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
You laughing.
He followed you again, steps silent, body cloaked in practiced caution. You were hard to track—not because you were trying to hide, but because your pattern didn’t make sense. You weren’t walking the path of a future mass murderer, not the one history screamed about. You weren’t alone, muttering, soaked in blood and bitterness.
You were talking.
And to him of all people.
The lazy genius. The so-called failure with no gift, no future. The boy who would one day stand atop the ashes of the old world, holding war plans that predicted your every move. The only one who ever rivaled you mentally. The one who made it his sole mission to outsmart you when the world fell.
But now he was half-asleep under a tree, and you were beside him, flicking peanuts at his forehead. “If you nap anymore, moss will start growing on your head.”
“Free fertilizer.”
You snorted. He grinned. He looked at you like you weren’t a weapon.
And you—
You looked at him like you hadn’t already chosen to die.
The spy couldn’t believe it. Had they been friends? Real ones? No. That couldn’t be. They were enemies—enemies to the bone. Enemies with blood rituals and battlefield chessboards. He remembered a scene: your boots crushing his ribs, his smile still lazy even with blood on his teeth. “You finally used your queen.”
But now you were picking dirt out of his hair.
What the hell had happened? Had there been a falling out? Did you both know you’d be enemies, even now?
Or worse—were you pretending not to?
✦✧✦✧
Then there was him.
The bully. The explosion of fists and rage and adolescent venom. He shoved you against a locker so hard it dented. He hissed poison in your ear. “Why don’t you die already? Everyone’d be better off.”
You didn’t respond. You never did. You just blinked at him, indifferent.
He slammed your head again. “Say something, freak. You’re so smart, right? Got nothing to say now?”
And the spy recognized him.
The boy who would one day stand above rubble, ash in his mouth and blood in his lungs. The prodigy turned hero. The one who charged into fire to save even those who cursed him.
The one who died by your hand.
And begged you to live.
“You’re not a monster,” he’d whispered. Cracked lips. Bloodied grin. “You’re just scared. It’s okay to be scared. I love you anyway.”
Love.
That word echoed. Reeked.
And now he was trying to break your ribs with punches.
But you didn’t retaliate. Didn’t run. You took it. Still. Silent. Until he finally spat at your shoes and stormed off.
And the spy saw your fingers twitch. Not in pain. But restraint.
You could kill him now. Could snap him in half. But you didn’t. Was that mercy? Or punishment?
Was this where it all started? Or where it ended?
✦✧✦✧
Then your guardian.
The man draped in lazy cruelty and godlike power. History’s greatest villain. A war criminal so vile even his name had to be sealed away. You killed him. First kill, they said.
A throne of bones and his head in your lap.
But now—
He kissed your forehead.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
You leaned into it.
The spy felt nausea crawl up his throat. Not because of the man, no—he’d seen monsters hold hands before. But because of you. You looked safe. Like you trusted him.
He whispered into your ear, something too soft to hear. You giggled.
You. Giggle.
His hand was around your throat. Gentle. Possessive. Not a threat. A comfort.
The spy turned away before the scene pressed into his brain forever.
It was wrong. All of it. Unnatural.
You killed him. You should hate him. Or fear him. Or—anything but this.
He didn’t understand.
He was missing something.
Or maybe—maybe this was the answer.
✦✧✦✧
And the others.
There were so many others.
You had people.
Smiles. Touches. Real interactions.
He watched a girl braid your hair and hum a song only you seemed to know. A boy hand you candy with a shy grin. A teacher ruffle your hair like you were worth something.
And then there was him.
The deuteragonist.
The man with the blinding smile. The one who would stand in your way in the climax, who would nearly die stopping you. Who everyone said was your polar opposite. The sun to your devouring void.
He brought you flowers.
Flowers.
You looked annoyed. Poked his chest. Called him names.
He just laughed.
And behind the jokes was affection so deep it rotted.
The spy stepped back. Mind whirling.
What was this?
You weren’t supposed to be human.
You weren’t supposed to be loved.
They were supposed to hate you. You were the villain. The destroyer. The girl who set the world on fire.
But all he saw was an echo.
Something mournful.
A girl collecting matches like she didn’t know what fire could do.
Was this why it all fell apart?
Not because you were evil.
But because they loved you too much?
Or because they stopped?
He didn’t know.
He didn’t know anything anymore.
Except this:
You weren’t a monster born.
You were made.
And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t even want to be.
The real horror wasn’t what you’d become.
It was why.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
You stood in the midst of the wreckage, ash clinging to your skin like the remnants of lost hope. Charred buildings loomed like silent tombstones behind you, and beneath your feet, blood and bone had already merged with the dust of this dead world. The sky itself seemed burned, drained of all color, as if it, too, had given up trying to matter.
He knelt in front of you, broken, clutching the corpse of someone he had once loved, or maybe simply believed he could save. His sword had shattered long ago. His faith broke soon after.
“Why?” he asked, for the hundredth time. Not with anger now, not even pain. Just the weary breath of someone who has realized he never understood anything at all. “Why did you do this?”
You looked at him, this final remnant of the illusion humanity clung to. The idea of a ‘hero.’ Something to believe in. Something to fight for. You gave him the kindness of an answer.
“Why? Because there is no why.”
He flinched. The wind pulled at the black cloak draped over your body, snapping it like a flag over a grave.
“You still think there’s some grand answer to all this, don’t you? You’re still playing by the script they handed you. Love conquers all. Evil never wins. God will save us. Hope is stronger than despair.” You took a step forward. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
“But what happens when you take God out of the equation?”
You crouched, until your eyes were level with his. Eyes not full of hatred. Not anger. Just that terrible, all-consuming truth that kills something eternal inside whoever dares to stare into it.
“You’re left with us.”
His lip trembled.
“There’s no judgment coming, hero. No heaven waiting to undo this. No hell hot enough for what’s already been done. The world dies in silence, not in fire. And everything you loved, everything you fought for, will be forgotten.”
He shook his head. “You don’t believe that. You wanted to change things. You… you used to care.”
“And what did that caring get me? What did it get any of them?”
Your voice didn’t rise. You didn’t need to scream. The truth is always loudest in a whisper.
“I saw the world for what it is. I watched nations sell children for oil. Watched billionaires build rockets while people drank poison from their taps. Watched entire tribes vanish, their gods erased, their stories buried, just so another country could plant its flag. I read the histories—real ones, not the kind they teach children. Do you want me to list them? Rwanda. Nanking. Gaza. The Congo. Armenia. Hiroshima. Afghanistan. Palestine. Ukraine. Libya. Yemen. The Trail of Tears. The Belgian Congo. Auschwitz. Holodomor. Just names to you. Statistics to everyone else.”
You rose again, towering over him as he sank deeper into the mud of his own despair.
“This species has never learned. Never changed. Empires rise, scream of progress, and fall into the same grave they dug for the last one. They consume, destroy, forget, repeat. They kill what they fear and fear what they do not understand. And they always call themselves good.”
He forced out, “But some people—some people try. They love. They hope. They create—”
“—only to die, like all the rest. Hope is a drug, hero. The purest one. They inject it into their children with every bedtime story and lullaby, promising that life has meaning, that love lasts, that the pain is worth it. And then those same children grow up and learn that they were lied to.”
You turned your face to the sky, as if in mock prayer.
“‘Everything is meaningless,’ said the wisest man who ever lived. A chasing after the wind. The eye never has enough of seeing, nor the ear its fill of hearing. What has been will be again. There is nothing new under the sun.”
A silence passed like a shadow between you.
“Relationships? Meaningless. Look at them. People marry not out of love, but fear. Fear of loneliness. Of irrelevance. Of not mattering. They cling to others not to give, but to be seen, validated. And when they’re bored, or the dopamine runs dry, they leave.”
You crouched again. His shoulders hunched forward, as if to shield himself from words sharper than swords.
“Attention? The most worthless currency of all. People sell their souls for it now. Bare their bodies. Lie. Scream. Perform. For likes, views, followers. Fleeting ghosts of acknowledgment that vanish the moment the feed refreshes. And yet they call it connection.”
“Money? It’s a hallucination. An agreed-upon myth. Entire lives ruined chasing pieces of paper or numbers on a screen. People killed for it, enslaved for it, abandoned their children for it. And for what? To die all the same.”
You stood.
“And power? The cruelest joke. No one really has it. Even kings die. Even gods get forgotten.”
He coughed, blood painting the ground. You didn’t look away.
“You want to know what I am? I’m not your villain. I’m not your devil. I am just the end. The natural consequence. The truth you all tried to avoid. I didn’t bring the fire. I simply refused to pretend the world wasn’t already burning.”
Tears slipped from his eyes. “There were still children. People who didn’t choose this.”
“No one chooses anything. They are born into lies, fed illusions, and by the time they realize none of it mattered, it’s too late. I ended the cycle.”
“You killed them.”
“I freed them.”
The silence that followed was not peace. It was the absence of all things.
You stared at him, this man who had once thought he could stop you. This man who thought the world was worth saving. His faith had carried him this far, but now, on the precipice of annihilation, even he could not deny the truth.
“Tell me, hero. If life has meaning, where is it now?”
He gave no answer.
Because there was none.
And so you turned away, leaving him alone with his corpse, his broken ideals, and the ashes of a world that finally reflected the reality no one dared admit: that before death, everything loses meaning.
And after death?
Only silence.
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If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.
General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @astreaaaaaa6 , @poopooindamouf , @esther-kpopstan , @iris-arcadia , @hopingtocleaemedschool , @doncellaescarlata , @neuvilletteswife4ever , @shyo-urlvrx , @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee , @yoyoik , @hereticdance , @nickibunny23 , @tea-leaves-and-cheeze , @onixsky , @avietnu
❤︎ Fang Dokja’s Books.
♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:
♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology
♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.
♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I’d Burn the World.
♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.
♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.
♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.
♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you’re searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution
♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.
♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.
♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.
♡ Book 8. Malum Consilium (MC): Primordial Hunger.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 