𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ Angel Autopsy (Yandere! Il Dottore x Reader x Yandere! Various! Multiverse).

♡ Word Count. 8,467 words

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You locked the door like it was a ritual.

Not gently. Not normally. You locked it with the specific intent of telling the universe to go fuck itself. Bolt slid in. Chair wedged under the knob. Curtains drawn like you were hiding from a sniper. Lights off except for the soft neon glow of your monitor and the warm familiar weight of your gaming phone in your hand. Reality? Disabled. Akademiya deadlines? Deleted from RAM. Zandik’s voice—measured, clinical, uncomfortably correct—force-closed like a background app you were done humoring.

Weekend. Sacred. Introvert weekend. Alone time so aggressive it could qualify as self-defense.

Alhaitham was busy with student council nonsense, which meant the dorm was blissfully empty. No footsteps. No sighs of judgment. No hyper-competent men making pointed observations about your life choices and calling it “objective analysis.” Just you, your bed, scattered snack wrappers, and Mobile Legends loading screen humming like a promise.

You stretched, cracked your neck, flopped onto the bed face-down for exactly three seconds, then rolled over and queued ranked.

Jungle. Obviously.

You didn’t even hesitate. Granger today. You felt like it. No deep reason. Sometimes your soul just wanted red crit numbers and the sweet mechanical click of perfectly timed ultimates. Fanny and Gusion were fun when you wanted to sweat and ascend, but tonight? You wanted controlled violence. Precision. Clean execution. Point-and-delete.

Matchmaking spun. You cracked your knuckles like you were about to perform surgery.

Then—ding.

A notification banner slid across the top of your gaming phone.

Unknown Contact: Are you avoiding me intentionally?

You stared at it.

Blink.

Once.

Twice.

“…what.”

Your brows furrowed so hard they nearly fused. That phone number did not exist on this device. This phone was locked down. No SIM. No synced accounts. No contacts. No nothing. You’d built it like a bunker. This was your sacred artifact. Your no-people zone. Zandik should not even know this phone existed, let alone be able to text it.

Another ding.

Unknown Contact: That was not a rhetorical question.

“Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me,” you muttered, already tapping mute notifications with the fury of a woman whose only joy was being invaded.

You dismissed it. Queued in anyway. Draft phase loaded.

You picked Granger instantly, locking in jungle before anyone else could breathe. Arlecchino joined two seconds later, insta-locking an aggressive tank-support hybrid like she always did. No words exchanged. You didn’t need them. You two functioned on the same wavelength: violence first, questions never.

The enemy lineup looked annoying. Tanky exp laner. Burst mage mid. Mobile assassin jungle. You grinned.

Good.

The match loaded. Minions spawned. You took red buff like it owed you money.

Ding.

The notification still popped up.

Even muted, the banner appeared, sliding down like a smug slap.

Unknown Contact: You are making a mistake.

Your grip tightened.

“No one interrupts sacred gaming time,” you hissed, switching languages mid-sentence without noticing. A sharp curse in Sumeru’s native tongue. Then another in something dead and old and not spoken anymore. Your irritation escalated like a mathematical function.

You ignored it. Cleared jungle. Rotated mid. Perfect timing. First blood secured with a clean dash-ult combo that made the enemy mage evaporate before they even processed danger.

Arlecchino pinged aggressively. You followed. She body-blocked like a demon. You crit. Double kill.

You exhaled. There it was. Focus. Flow. The good shit.

Ding.

Unknown Contact: Your reaction time deteriorates when you are emotionally compromised. Fascinating.

Your eye twitched.

“HOW,” you snapped out loud, sitting upright on the bed. “HOW ARE YOU EVEN HERE.”

You typed nothing. You refused. You pretended the banner didn’t exist as it hovered like a mosquito that knew it couldn’t be swatted.

Minute five. Turtle spawned. Enemy contested. You slipped into a bush, waited half a second longer than instinct suggested, then ulted straight through their backline. Arlecchino charged in like a freight train possessed by malice.

Team wipe.

Your team spammed emotes. Compliments. Praise.

Ding.

Unknown Contact: You play as if the objective is control, not victory. That aligns with my hypothesis.

You laughed. Not because it was funny. Because if you didn’t, you might throw your phone through the wall and reveal something you’d been carefully keeping dormant.

“Shut. Up,” you whispered. You didn’t send it. You just mouthed it like a curse.

The banner slid away. For three blessed minutes, nothing happened.

You relaxed slightly. Farmed. Built items. Snowballed so hard the enemy jungler stopped entering their own jungle like it was haunted.

Then during a team fight—mid-lane, chaotic, ults overlapping, visual noise everywhere—

Ding.

The banner appeared right over the minimap.

Unknown Contact: If you lose because of this distraction, the data will be invaluable.

You swore so violently you startled yourself. Three languages tumbled out, sharp and ugly and not meant for human ears. Your thumb slipped for half a second.

Enemy assassin dove you.

Arlecchino reacted instantly, slamming into them, peeling like her life depended on it. You recovered, repositioned, ulted point-blank.

Kill secured.

You won the fight anyway. Of course you did. You always did. Even distracted, even annoyed, even actively being psychologically harassed by a mad scientist with boundary issues.

Your heart was pounding now—not from the game, but from the pressure. The sense of being watched. Studied. Observed through layers you didn’t remember consenting to.

Ding.

Unknown Contact: Your frustration response manifests as linguistic regression and aggression. Noted.

You growled.

“That’s it,” you muttered. “After this match. I promise.”

You muted harder. Disabled previews. Disabled pop-ups. Dug through settings like a raccoon tearing through trash.

The messages still came.

Not visible now—but you could feel them. Like a pressure behind your eyes. Like someone knocking on the inside of your skull with perfect timing.

Late game. Lord spawned. Enemy tried to sneak it.

You punished them.

Everything blurred into muscle memory. Dash. Reload. Ult. Positioning so clean it felt unfair. Arlecchino synced with you flawlessly, diving when you committed, retreating when you disengaged. The two of you moved like you’d rehearsed this for years.

Victory screen.

You slammed the phone down onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

Arlecchino messaged: ggs. u good?

You typed back: yeah. brb.

You exited the lobby.

The silence lasted exactly two seconds.

Your gaming phone vibrated.

This time, there was no banner.

Just a single message, filling the screen.

Unknown Contact: You cannot ignore me indefinitely.

You stared at it.

Your expression went flat. Empty. The mask sliding back into place with practiced ease.

“…the audacity,” you whispered.

You typed.

You: you hacked my phone

Three dots appeared instantly.

Unknown Contact: Hacking is an imprecise term. I prefer “reallocation of access.”

You laughed. Sharp. Humorless.

You: this is my off-grid device

Unknown Contact: No system is truly off-grid. You taught me that.

Your fingers paused.

That one landed closer than you liked.

You exhaled slowly, then typed:

You: this is my weekend

Unknown Contact: You do not take breaks. You dissociate.

You: semantics

Unknown Contact: Accuracy.

You rolled onto your side, phone pressed to your chest like you might crush it through sheer will.

You: stop observing me

The typing bubble lingered longer this time.

Unknown Contact: That would be irresponsible.

You closed your eyes.

For a moment—just a moment—the room felt heavier. Like gravity had remembered you existed. Like something vast and patient was leaning closer, not physically, but attentively.

You typed with your eyes still shut.

You: i needed one thing that was mine

The response came slower. Measured.

Unknown Contact: You selected an environment structured around competition, control, and elimination. That is consistent with you.

You snorted.

You: it’s a game

Unknown Contact: So is everything else to you.

You opened your eyes, staring at the dark ceiling. The glow from the phone cast soft shadows across your fingers, your knuckles, the faint tremor you pretended wasn’t there.

You typed one last message.

You: don’t text this phone again

A pause.

Then—

Unknown Contact: Noted.

Another pause.

Unknown Contact: You performed exceptionally well tonight.

Your jaw clenched.

You locked the screen. Powered the phone down completely. Threw it onto the bed like it had offended you personally.

Silence returned.

You lay there, staring into nothing, heart slowly settling back into its usual steady emptiness. You told yourself you’d won. That you’d enforced a boundary. That this was still your space.

Somewhere deep inside, something vast and kind and old folded its wings tighter, pretending not to notice the faint, amused pressure that lingered at the edge of your awareness.

You rolled over.

“Next time,” you muttered into the pillow, already half-asleep, “I’m picking Fanny.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Another data point.

Zandik catalogued it with the same internal tone he used for anomalous tissue responses or unstable reagent interactions. No inflection. No sentimentality. Merely acknowledgment.

The variable had reacted. Therefore, the stimulus was valid.

You had gotten genuinely irritated.

Not the performative apathy you usually defaulted to. Not the lazy half-smile dismissal. Not the “I don’t care enough to react” response that made most people uncomfortable in meetings. This was different. This was sharp. Immediate. Visceral. The kind of irritation that tightened micro-muscles in the jaw, altered breathing cadence, accelerated keystroke pressure.

If looks could kill, he would have required a closed casket.

Zandik considered this fascinating.

He replayed the logs—purely observational, of course. Time stamps. Response latency. Message frequency. The abrupt cessation of replies afterward. One full day without communication. Statistically anomalous given your prior baseline behavior, where even silence was punctuated by sporadic nonsense messages or unreadable memes.

You had gone dark.

He considered it stupid.

That was his first assessment. Emotional responses to leisure disruption were inefficient. You had missed an entire day of productive interaction because your recreational activity had been interrupted. From a rational standpoint, that was absurd. You were not deprived of food, shelter, or autonomy. Your cognitive faculties had not been compromised. Only your game.

And yet.

He took note of it anyway.

Stupidity did not preclude utility.

In fact, stupidity often revealed structure.

You had a weak point.

Zandik did not frame it as such. Weakness implied moral judgment, and he did not deal in morality. He reframed it as a “high-sensitivity response vector.” A behavioral spike triggered by interference with a specific activity set. Video games, specifically competitive ones. Ranked environments. Cooperative synchronization with a single companion—Arlecchino, in this case.

He adjusted the mental model.

You were not “relaxing” when you played. You were exerting control. Micro-decisions. Prediction. Timing. Pattern exploitation. You did not escape reality; you recreated it in a form that obeyed you.

That was consistent.

Zandik walked across Akademiya grounds with his hands folded behind his back, steps measured, posture immaculate. The late afternoon sun did nothing to warm him. It merely illuminated pathways he already knew by heart. Students moved around him like background noise, irrelevant variables in a controlled environment.

You had not shown up to the lab.

He had noticed within thirteen minutes of the expected window.

He had, as a precaution, waited an additional forty-seven minutes before confirming absence. There were acceptable deviations—sleep delays, transit inefficiencies, your chronic disregard for schedules—but this one felt… deliberate.

Ungrateful, he thought.

Not angrily. Merely as a descriptor.

He had rearranged his weekend. Cleared experimental time. Deferred a promising dissection. He had even—begrudgingly—reserved a shared activity slot. Not labeled a date, of course. That was an imprecise, emotionally loaded term. It was simply a controlled interaction period outside the lab environment. A change in setting to observe behavioral variance.

You had not appeared.

Instead, you had chosen to sulk.

Zandik reviewed the data again as he walked.

Your message patterns prior to the incident had been consistent. Irreverent. Detached. You spoke as if nothing truly mattered, yet you responded quickly, reliably. After the interruption, there had been nothing. No sarcastic retort. No delayed dismissal. Just absence.

Jealousy was not the correct term for the faint irritation he felt when cross-referencing your activity logs with known external interactions. Alhaitham’s name appeared too frequently for coincidence. He did not resent the man. Resentment required emotional investment.

He merely disliked inefficiency.

When you spent time with others, data acquisition slowed.

That was all.

He reached the dormitory building without breaking stride, mind still running parallel threads of analysis. He acknowledged, clinically, that provoking you had been intentional. He had disrupted your gaming session precisely because he wanted to observe your response to boundary violation.

The result had exceeded projections.

You had not simply reacted. You had withdrawn.

Withdrawal was interesting.

Most subjects escalated. Arguments. Confrontation. Passive-aggressive signaling. You had chosen silence. Not avoidance—avoidance was noisy. This was surgical. You had removed yourself from the system entirely.

Zandik paused briefly at the base of the stairs, adjusting his gloves.

He considered whether the action had been counterproductive.

No.

You were not fragile. Fragile systems shattered. You adapted. This was recalibration. Temporary.

He resumed walking.

His “means” of observation had filled in the gaps easily enough. Network traffic. Behavioral proxies. Environmental sensors that you would have called “creepy” had you been aware of them. He preferred “thorough.”

You had locked yourself in.

Physical barriers. Digital silence. A self-imposed containment protocol. Fascinating irony.

You were, he suspected, the most dangerous thing in Sumeru, and you hid from him behind a door and a powered-down phone.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

Zandik reached your floor. The hallway was quiet. Predictable. He noted the absence of Alhaitham’s presence markers. Student council obligations. Convenient. He had accounted for that.

He stopped in front of your door.

Listened.

Nothing. No movement. No sound. But his instruments told him you were there. Heart rate within resting parameters. No signs of sleep. Awake. Alert. Probably sprawled somewhere comfortable, pretending the world did not exist.

He considered knocking.

Rejected it.

He leaned slightly closer, voice low, measured, designed to carry just enough to be heard through the door.

“You are displaying avoidance behavior.”

A pause.

No response.

He continued, unbothered.

“This suggests the stimulus was effective.”

Still nothing.

Zandik straightened, hands clasped behind his back again.

“You may consider this intrusive,” he added, tone neutral. “That assessment would be correct.”

He waited another moment, then concluded the session.

He would not force the interaction. Not yet. That would contaminate the data. You needed to believe this silence was your choice.

He turned away from the door, already mentally annotating the encounter.

Conclusion: Video games constitute a high-priority domain. Interference triggers disproportionate emotional response. Secondary effect includes withdrawal and temporary communication blackout.

Potential applications were numerous.

He descended the stairs calmly, already planning future variables. Adjusted timing. Different interference methods. Perhaps indirect disruption next time. Or a controlled allowance—observe how you reacted when he facilitated rather than obstructed.

Zandik did not feel guilty.

Guilt implied harm without purpose.

This had purpose.

Another data point.

And you, locked in your room, pretending reality did not exist, had just revealed more about yourself than a hundred conversations ever could.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Zandik returned in the late afternoon with a package tucked neatly under one arm.

Correction: not tucked. Carried.

Deliberately.

He had adjusted his route to pass through the administrative wing first, knowing full well the courier would hesitate exactly zero seconds before relinquishing the parcel once he identified himself. The rumors helped. They always did.

Persistent, irritating, useful. “Dating,” they called it, in the same way primitives labeled unexplained phenomena as divine. He did not bother correcting them. Social misconceptions were cheaper than security clearance.

The package was long.

Obnoxiously long.

One hundred centimeters, give or take. Rectangular. Lightweight but voluminous. The shipping label had your name printed in bold, unmistakable text. He read it once, not because he needed to, but because he found it faintly amusing that you had ordered something so… large.

He ran a quick probability tree in his head as he walked.

You had ignored him for exactly twenty-six hours. No messages. No passive aggression. No sarcastic rebuttals. This meant one of three things: prolonged irritation, strategic withdrawal, or deliberate punishment.

All three were inefficient.

He intended to correct that.

He reached your dormitory floor again, footsteps silent, posture composed. He stopped in front of your door and adjusted his grip on the package so that it would be visible the moment the door opened.

He knocked once.

Nothing.

He knocked again, slightly firmer.

Still nothing.

As expected.

Zandik inhaled calmly and deployed the bait.

“Your delivery arrived.”

The door flew open so fast it almost hit his shoulder.

You appeared in the doorway like a summoned spirit, eyes wide, pupils dilated, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and murder. Your gaze dropped instantly to the box. Recognition hit you like a truck.

“…why do you have that.”

Your voice was flat, but your hands betrayed you. Already reaching. Already calculating angles.

Zandik noted the microsecond delay between recognition and aggression. Interesting.

“The courier addressed it to you,” he replied mildly. “I intercepted it.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You WHAT—give it back.”

You lunged.

Zandik lifted the package one-handed, effortlessly, raising it just out of reach. You collided with his torso instead, bouncing back with a disgruntled huff. The height difference was, as always, absurd. You barely reached his chest. He could have rested the box on top of your head and you still wouldn’t have been able to grab it.

You glared up at him, incandescent.

“You absolute bastard,” you snapped. “That’s mine.”

“Correct,” he said. “Which is why I brought it to you.”

“YOU TOOK IT.”

“I ensured its safe arrival.”

“You STOLE IT.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Semantics.”

You jumped again, fingers brushing the edge of the box. Zandik adjusted his grip, lifting it higher. Your foot slipped on the floor in your socks. You swore in at least two languages, neither of which were polite.

“Give it back,” you demanded. “Right now. What if you break it? Do you have any idea how rare that is? That’s limited edition—”

“I am aware,” Zandik interrupted calmly. “One hundred centimeters. Synthetic plush fiber. Imported. High resale value. Emotionally significant.”

You froze.

“…why do you know that.”

He stepped forward.

You stepped back instinctively, retreating into your room. Zandik crossed the threshold without hesitation, door swinging shut behind him. He did not wait for permission. He never did. He placed the package gently against the wall, out of immediate reach, then straightened.

You spun on him.

“You can’t just let yourself in!”

“You opened the door,” he replied. “That constitutes implicit access.”

“That is NOT how that works!”

“You responded to the stimulus,” he said. “As predicted.”

You made an inarticulate noise of outrage and marched over to the package, attempting to drag it away from the wall. Zandik watched with academic interest as you struggled. The box scraped against the floor. You grunted, face scrunching in effort.

“Stop,” he said. “You will damage it.”

You immediately stopped.

Your head snapped up. “You said what.”

“I said you will damage it,” he repeated. “The internal packing is sufficient for transit, not for lateral abrasion against unsealed flooring.”

You stared at him, then at the box, then back at him.

“…don’t touch it,” you warned.

“I am not touching it.”

“You touched it earlier!”

“To retrieve it.”

“You are not ALLOWED to retrieve my things.”

Zandik clasped his hands behind his back. “You are exhibiting possessive behavior.”

“You are exhibiting theft.”

“I am exhibiting initiative.”

You hissed and tried again to pull the box away. Zandik stepped forward and placed one finger on the top edge. Not forceful. Just present. The box stopped moving.

You looked up at him slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Move.”

“No.”

“I hate it when people touch my stuff.”

“That is apparent.”

“What if you break it?”

“I will not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know precisely that.”

You glared at him, then suddenly jabbed a finger at his chest. “You did this on purpose.”

“Yes.”

The admission was immediate. Unapologetic.

You blinked. “You—what.”

“I required confirmation,” he continued evenly. “Your response to the package validates prior observations. High emotional investment. Immediate override of avoidance behavior. Door opened in under two seconds.”

“…you baited me.”

“Correct.”

You stared at him, then laughed once. Sharp. Disbelieving.

“You are insane.”

“I am efficient.”

“You hacked my phone. You stole my package. You broke into my room.”

“I knocked.”

“And now you’re standing there like you didn’t just commit several crimes.”

“Infractions,” he corrected. “Minor.”

You rubbed your face with both hands, dragging them down slowly like you were physically restraining yourself from committing violence. Somewhere deep beneath your skin, something vast stirred, annoyed at the inconvenience of restraint. You ignored it, as always.

“Give it,” you said again, quieter now. “Please.”

Zandik observed the tonal shift with interest. Noted the drop in aggression. The emergence of genuine concern. He reached for the package again—but instead of lifting it away, he pushed it gently toward you.

You snatched it instantly, clutching it to your chest like a life raft.

“Do not drop it,” he added.

“I KNOW,” you snapped, immediately adjusting your grip to cradle the box more carefully. You eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you still here.”

“I brought your delivery.”

“You brought it like a predator bringing prey to show off.”

“That is an inaccurate analogy.”

“You’re literally watching me hold it.”

“Yes.”

You shuffled backward until you hit your bed, then sat down heavily, the package resting against your legs. Your posture screamed defensive. Protective. Like he might suddenly lunge and steal it again.

He didn’t.

Zandik merely observed.

“Your anger earlier was disproportionate,” he said thoughtfully. “Yet now you appear relieved.”

“You stress me out.”

“That is not my intent.”

You snorted. “Liar.”

He did not deny it.

Instead, he continued, “Your preference for this object suggests a tendency toward idealized, non-threatening companionship models. Fictional. Contained. Predictable.”

You hugged the box tighter. “Don’t analyze him.”

“Him.”

You froze.

“…don’t.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So it is anthropomorphized.”

“You are not allowed to say his name.”

“I did not.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“I am always thinking.”

You shot him a look that could have peeled paint. “I promise, if you ruin this—”

“I will not.”

“You better not.”

“I will not,” he repeated, voice firm now. “You value it. Therefore, I will not damage it.”

You stared at him, suspicious, searching for mockery. There was none. Only that calm, infuriating certainty.

“…you’re still an asshole,” you muttered.

“Statistically consistent.”

You huffed, finally beginning to open the box, fingers careful, reverent. The moment you caught a glimpse of soft fabric and absurdly perfect design, your shoulders relaxed despite yourself.

Zandik noted it.

Another data point.

And as you sat there, tiny and furious and absurdly powerful without knowing it, clutching something soft like it mattered more than the world, Zandik concluded—clinically—that provoking you had been worth it.

You were predictable when it mattered.

And that made you far more interesting than you realized.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Zandik entered your room without asking.

You were mid-motion—half crouched, half kneeling on the floor, surrounded by evidence you absolutely did not want observed by another sentient being. The door opened. You sucked in a breath.

“Get out,” you said immediately.

He did not.

“This is private,” you added, louder.

He closed the door behind him with a precise, irritating click.

“You opened it earlier,” he replied calmly. “Your definition of privacy appears flexible.”

“That was different.”

“In what measurable way.”

You scrambled upright, flustered not in a romantic sense but in the same way someone reacts when a locked diary falls open in public. Your brain short-circuited. You defaulted to the most efficient defense strategy available.

You threw yourself in front of the shelf.

Your entire body. Arms spread. Back pressed against it. Tiny, defiant, wildly inadequate as a barrier.

“No.”

Zandik stopped.

Slowly, deliberately, his gaze traveled from the top of your head to your feet. Then behind you.

He saw it.

The artwork.

Not one piece. Not two. An entire series. Charcoal sketches. Inked line art. Digital prints pinned neatly. Anatomical cross-sections rendered with disturbing accuracy. Portraits of him in various moods you had absolutely no business knowing so intimately—contemplative, irritated, focused, faintly amused.

And then—

The figurine.

Handmade. Clay. Maybe resin. Small, detailed, unmistakably him. The coat. The posture. Even the expression.

And beside it.

A plush.

Twenty centimeters tall. Soft. Carefully stitched. Button eyes replaced with embroidered irises that somehow captured his exact stare. His coat simplified into fabric panels. Tiny gloves sewn on.

Zandik blinked.

Once.

“…hm.”

You made a noise of pure horror.

“DON’T LOOK.”

“I am already looking.”

“You are NOT supposed to be in here!”

“Yet here I am.”

He stepped closer.

You squeaked and shuffled sideways, desperately trying to block his line of sight with your entire body. This was not effective. You were blocking approximately twelve percent of the shelf. The remaining eighty-eight percent was fully visible.

“You made—” he began.

“No.”

“—merchandise of me.”

“No.”

“You organized it.”

“No.”

“You labeled it.”

You let out a strangled sound and tried to climb the shelf. Zandik caught you by the back of your shirt with two fingers and set you back on the floor like a misbehaving cat.

“Do not obstruct,” he said mildly.

“STOP TALKING.”

He ignored you.

Zandik leaned in, examining the artwork with clinical focus. He did not touch anything yet. Just looked. His eyes tracked line weight, shading technique, proportion accuracy. He paused at one piece—a half-finished sketch of him seated at a desk, expression distant, hands folded exactly as he did when thinking.

“…this posture is correct,” he murmured.

You buried your face in your hands.

“This is so embarrassing,” you muttered. “I’m actually going to die.”

“Unlikely,” he said. “Your vitals are elevated but stable.”

“PLEASE LEAVE.”

“You carved the figurine by hand,” he continued, ignoring you completely. “The joints are articulated.”

“I SAID LEAVE.”

“You sewed the plush with reinforced stitching,” he added, picking it up.

You shrieked.

“PUT HIM DOWN.”

Zandik held it up, rotating it slightly. His expression did not change, but something behind his eyes sharpened—interest, perhaps. Or amusement. Hard to tell.

“This is anatomically inaccurate,” he noted. “My shoulders are broader.”

“IT’S CUTE.”

“That is not a scientific measurement.”

“You are NOT allowed to judge him.”

“Him.”

You froze.

“…don’t.”

He glanced at you. A corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. You would have missed it if you weren’t watching him like a hawk.

“Fascinating,” he said. “You deny emotional attachment verbally, yet you dedicate significant time to replication and preservation.”

“I was bored.”

“This level of detail exceeds boredom.”

“I LIKE CRAFTS.”

“You dislike most activities involving prolonged manual effort.”

“I LIKED THIS ONE.”

He set the plush back down gently.

That, more than anything else, unsettled you.

Zandik moved past you without ceremony, stepping into your personal space with ease. He examined the shelf more closely now, fingers hovering but not touching. The arrangement was neat. Obsessively so. Everything aligned. Dust-free. Protected. The shelf occupied prime territory—beside your work desk, within arm’s reach. Intimate placement.

He felt something then.

Not pride. Not affection.

Satisfaction.

It was subtle. Unexpected. Like discovering a system functioned exactly as designed without his intervention. You had created a dedicated space. For him. Without prompting. Without incentive.

He found that… amusing.

“You are aware,” he said lightly, “that this is socially compromising.”

You peeked through your fingers. “You’re not supposed to see this.”

“And yet I do.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes.”

You dropped your hands. “You’re the worst.”

“Objectively,” he agreed.

You stomped forward and attempted to shove him away from the shelf. He did not budge. You bounced off him again.

“Stop looking at it!”

“Why.”

“Because it’s MINE.”

“You made representations of me.”

“And?”

“They occupy your primary workspace.”

“And?”

“You deny caring.”

“And?”

He looked down at you then. Really looked.

You were flushed. Not flirty. Not shy. Mortified. Defensive. Like someone whose private mental filing cabinet had been dumped onto the floor.

He found that infinitely more entertaining than embarrassment of a romantic variety.

“You are inefficient at concealment,” he said.

“You’re inefficient at leaving.”

“Yet you continue to allow my presence.”

“I’m TRYING to kick you out.”

“Poorly.”

He reached out—slowly this time—and touched the edge of one drawing. Not the paper. Just the frame.

“You rendered my hands accurately,” he observed. “Most fail to capture the tension.”

You stared at the floor. “I like hands.”

“That is noted.”

“STOP NOTING THINGS.”

He moved along the shelf, examining handwritten notes tucked between sketches. Story fragments. Observational pieces. Hypotheses written in your familiar half-scientific, half-chaotic style. Entire pages dedicated to his habits. His speech patterns. His pauses.

“You observe me,” he said.

“You observe ME.”

“I am aware.”

“This is different.”

“In what way.”

“I don’t hack your phone.”

“You would if you knew how.”

“…okay that’s fair.”

He straightened, finally stepping back. He surveyed the room as a whole now. Your bed. Your desk. Your organized chaos. And the shelf—dedicated, deliberate, undeniably personal.

Zandik clasped his hands behind his back.

“You find me… useful,” he concluded.

You made a face. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You do not idealize me,” he continued. “You dissect. Replicate. Archive.”

You shrugged. “It’s calming.”

“Interesting.”

Silence settled.

Not awkward. Just charged.

“You’re still not allowed to be in here,” you said finally.

“And yet.”

“…don’t tell anyone.”

“I have no incentive to.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Promise.”

He considered it.

“I will not disseminate this information,” he said. “It would reduce its value.”

“Value?”

“Yes.”

“To who?”

“To me.”

That should have unsettled you.

Instead, you sighed, shoulders slumping. “I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen.”

“An ineffective coping mechanism.”

“Shut up.”

He turned toward the door at last.

“For the record,” he added, not looking at you, “the craftsmanship is… adequate.”

Your head snapped up. “ADEQUATE?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Zandik had not left.

This was the first problem.

The second problem was that he had made himself comfortable.

You noticed this in stages, like the slow realization that a fever dream had not, in fact, ended. First, the unmistakable sound of fabric shifting. Then the weight on the mattress.

Then—worst of all—the absence of urgency. He was not standing. He was not hovering. He was sitting.

On your bed.

Beside you.

Close enough that you could feel the displacement of air when he moved, the subtle dip of the mattress under his weight. Close enough to register body heat. Close enough to be objectively, unforgivably intimate.

You made a strangled sound and immediately folded in on yourself.

If you curled tightly enough, perhaps you would collapse into a singularity. Perhaps reality would blink. Perhaps this would all undo itself retroactively.

You pulled your knees to your chest and turned your face into the pillow.

You had died.

This was the afterlife.

Zandik, meanwhile, had decided this was productive.

“You are displaying acute embarrassment responses,” he said conversationally, as if you were not actively attempting to become furniture. “Increased heart rate. Elevated skin temperature. Muscle tension localized to the shoulders.”

You groaned.

“Please kill me.”

“Later,” he replied. “I am occupied.”

Occupied was an understatement.

Your bed had become a secondary archive table.

He had acquired—somehow—your notebooks. Multiple. Stacks of loose papers. Folders you were fairly certain had been inside boxes that were locked. You did not ask how. You did not want to know. The fact that he had bypassed them without comment told you everything you needed to know and none of what you wanted.

You cracked one eye open just enough to confirm your worst fears.

He was flipping through them.

Casually.

Comfortably.

Like this was his room and you were the embarrassing roommate with poor boundaries and worse coping mechanisms.

“Oh,” he said, tone brightening. “This is a timeline.”

You made a muffled, animalistic noise into the pillow.

“Yes. A timeline,” he continued. “You have documented my behavioral shifts over a one-month period. With annotations.”

He turned a page.

“Your handwriting degrades when you are emotionally invested,” he added. “The margins here are significantly narrower.”

You did not respond.

You were a dead cat.

Dead cats could not be humiliated.

Dead cats could not feel their soul peeling off in layers.

Zandik did not need your participation.

“You cross-referenced my sleep cycles with productivity output,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed. “That is… thorough.”

You twitched.

“I did not think you were disciplined enough for longitudinal analysis.”

That hurt. You did not move.

He leaned back slightly, one arm braced behind him on the bed, the other flipping pages. The mattress shifted again. You made a sound like a deflating balloon.

“Oh?” he continued. “You theorized that my irritation threshold lowers when caffeine intake is delayed by more than thirty minutes.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “This is accurate.”

You buried your face deeper.

“You even accounted for environmental variables,” he went on. “Lighting. Noise levels. Proximity to incompetence.”

You kicked the blanket weakly.

“Please stop reading.”

“No.”

You were going to cry.

Not because this was emotional.

Because this was mortifying.

He picked up another stack.

“And here are the sketches,” he observed unnecessarily.

You did not move.

He shuffled through them.

Rapid graphite studies. Inked profiles. Cross-hatching experiments. Notes scribbled in the margins. Measurements. Proportions. Angles. Some pieces were rough. Some were disturbingly polished.

“You have drawn me from memory,” he said. “Repeatedly.”

You had become one with the pillow.

“You captured my scar incorrectly in this one,” he noted. “It curves more sharply.”

He paused.

Then, infuriatingly, he corrected it.

With your pencil.

You squeaked.

“Do not edit my work!”

“I am improving it.”

“You’re not allowed!”

“You left the pencil within reach.”

You went limp again.

Dead cat. Deader cat.

Zandik set that sketch aside and picked up another notebook. This one thicker. Denser. Tabs sticking out the sides.

“Ah,” he said. “Theoretical frameworks.”

You made the mistake of peeking.

You regretted it instantly.

Equations. Flowcharts. Hypotheses written in your peculiar blend of clinical logic and half-joking commentary. Entire sections titled things like: Behavioral Consistency Under Stress and Predictive Modeling: Z. Case Study.

“Oh,” he said. “You attempted to model my decision-making tree.”

You whimpered.

“This node is incorrect,” he added, tapping the page. “I would not choose option C under these parameters.”

You slapped the bed weakly. “Stop talking.”

“You also accounted for my propensity to lie,” he continued. “You assigned probability weights.”

He smiled.

Actually smiled.

It was brief. Subtle. But unmistakable.

“This is delightful.”

You rolled onto your side, back to him, knees tucked, arms wrapped around your head like a shield.

“I’m pretending I don’t exist,” you muttered.

“I noticed,” he said cheerfully. “It is ineffective.”

He reached for one of the locked boxes.

You didn’t even react this time.

You were so tired.

The box clicked open.

Of course it did.

Inside were more papers. More sketches. A few experimental prototypes. Notes you had written at three in the morning with coffee-stained edges.

Zandik examined them with rapt attention.

“You theorized that I deliberately provoke you to gather data,” he said.

You froze.

“…did I.”

“Yes.”

“…is it wrong.”

“No.”

You groaned.

“I also see you concluded that I am aware of this behavior.”

You said nothing.

“And that I continue regardless.”

Silence.

“That conclusion is correct.”

You buried your face again.

“This,” he said, lifting a page, “is an ethical analysis.”

You let out a pained sound.

“You concluded that I am not malicious toward you.”

He paused.

“That is… inaccurate.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “Rude.”

“I am malicious,” he corrected. “Selectively.”

You sighed. “Figures.”

He leaned closer, peering at another sketch.

“You softened my expression here,” he noted. “Why.”

You stared at the wall.

“It was late,” you mumbled. “I was tired.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“I didn’t feel like drawing you scowling.”

“Why.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

“…it’s easier.”

He considered that.

“Hm.”

He continued flipping through your hoard, commentary flowing freely now.

“You categorize my speech patterns.”

“You chart my pacing habits.”

“You labeled this section ‘Unintentional Honesty.’”

You groaned louder.

“I do not engage in unintentional behavior.”

“You do,” you snapped reflexively, then immediately froze.

Zandik turned to look at you.

“…elaborate.”

You curled tighter. “No.”

He waited.

You did not elaborate.

He chuckled.

Actually chuckled.

“You are remarkably forgiving,” he said. “You have not attempted to stop me again.”

“I’m tired.”

“You surrendered.”

“Yes.”

“Predictable.”

You glared at the pillow.

He set the papers aside at last, stretching slightly.

“This room,” he said, glancing around, “is a comprehensive archive of me.”

You made a noise. “It’s not—”

“It is.”

You sighed.

He leaned back, one arm draped casually along the back of the bed behind you, invading your space with impunity.

“You are far more invested than you admit,” he continued lightly. “You observe. Document. Preserve.”

You muttered, “I don’t like surprises.”

“And yet you tolerate me.”

You did not respond.

Zandik looked down at you—curled, humiliated, radiating quiet resignation.

“Do you know,” he said, almost conversationally, “how rare it is to be understood without being worshipped?”

You stiffened.

“You do not romanticize me,” he continued. “You analyze. You critique. You archive.”

Silence.

“I find that,” he said, “surprisingly satisfying.”

You swallowed.

“…can you at least put my stuff back.”

“Eventually.”

You let out a long, defeated breath.

Zandik settled in more comfortably, still flipping pages, still talking, voice filling the silence you refused to.

You remained curled up, a dead cat in spirit if not in fact, quietly stewing, forgiving as always, while the most dangerous man you knew sat beside you, enjoying himself far too much in the ruins of your privacy.

And for the first time, he did not bother pretending he wasn’t.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Zandik waited until your breathing stabilized.

It was not concern. It was timing.

You had stopped radiating that sharp, prickling embarrassment—no more frantic micro-movements, no more stiff, defensive tension vibrating through the mattress. You had reached the final stage of resignation: stillness. Acceptance. The quiet, exhausted calm of someone who had decided fighting reality was no longer cost-effective.

Only then did he move.

He did not announce it. He did not ask. He simply shifted, lowering himself onto the bed beside you with controlled precision, careful not to jostle the papers he had stacked back into something resembling order. The mattress dipped. Springs responded. Your body reacted before your mind did—muscles tensing for a fraction of a second, then locking.

You did not look at him.

Zandik noted that too.

The ceiling above you glowed faintly.

Stars. Moons. Nebulae painted in childish spirals and sticker constellations that absorbed the day and released it slowly at night. Soft points of light clung to the darkness like stubborn dreams refusing extinction. None of it was scientifically accurate. The star maps were wrong. The colors exaggerated. The galaxies impossible.

And yet.

It was… pleasant.

Your room, in its entirety, defied his usual preference for sterile order. It was cluttered, chaotic, asymmetrical. Books stacked sideways. Notes half-tucked into drawers. Cups forgotten, pens everywhere, blankets rumpled like they’d been lived in rather than arranged.

Warm.

Homey.

Like you.

Zandik exhaled slowly and lay back, folding one arm behind his head, gaze lifting to the artificial night sky you had created for yourself. He did not indulge in sentimentality. He refused it as a principle. Emotional indulgence corrupted data.

But he allowed the observation to register.

You had built a space where you could exist without vigilance.

That alone was notable.

He turned his head toward you.

You were lying stiffly on your side, facing him now despite yourself, eyes open and sharp. Not flustered. Not blushing. No heat in your cheeks. Only a clean, focused hostility—like a feral animal that had decided running was pointless and biting was back on the table.

A hostile cat, he thought.

Territorial. Silent. Ready.

Interesting.

Without warning, he shifted closer.

Not abruptly. Deliberately.

You felt it immediately—the mattress compressing, the warmth of his body encroaching, the subtle change in air pressure between you. Your eyes narrowed. A flicker of something real crossed your face, quick and unguarded.

Disgust.

Not fear.

Not embarrassment.

Disgust—sharp, instinctive, like you had smelled something rotten and were deciding whether to tolerate it or attack the source.

Zandik smiled.

Just slightly.

He reached out and drew you closer.

It was not gentle. It was not rough. It was efficient. An arm around your waist, pulling you in until the space between you vanished. Close enough that your breaths tangled. Close enough that he could feel the minute expansion of your ribcage as you inhaled.

You stiffened.

You did not pull away.

That, more than anything, interested him.

Your eyes hardened, gaze locked onto his with cold intensity. You did not avert your face. You did not soften. You looked at him like he was an intruder in sacred ground, a contaminant tolerated only because removing him would require more effort than you were currently willing to expend.

“You are displeased,” he observed quietly.

You said nothing.

Your pupils constricted slightly. Defensive. Calculating. Every muscle in your body was coiled, ready to strike if needed.

He leaned closer.

Closer.

Now your foreheads nearly touched. Your breathing did not change. Impressive control. Your expression did not falter, but your scent did.

Zandik noticed.

Warm skin. Clean. Faint traces of ink, paper, something mineral—graphite, perhaps. No artificial sweetness. No perfume. Just you.

He catalogued it automatically.

“You smell… consistent,” he said.

Your lip curled almost imperceptibly.

“Touch me again,” you said flatly, “and I will bite you.”

“A credible threat,” he replied, unbothered. “Your jaw strength is sufficient to break skin.”

“And yet,” you added, eyes sharp as glass, “you’re still doing it.”

“Yes.”

He lifted his hand and traced the line of your cheekbone with one finger.

Mocking. Testing.

You did not flinch.

Your disgust sharpened. A subtle shift, like a blade being unsheathed. You looked ready to tear him apart—not with rage, but with precision. Cold. Focused. Controlled.

Zandik felt something click into place.

Fascinating.

Most people softened under proximity. Heat made them pliable. Your defenses did the opposite. The closer he got, the sharper you became. Like a blade honed by pressure rather than dulled.

He pulled you closer still, bodies aligned, his arm firm around you.

You remained rigid.

“You are not reacting as expected,” he murmured.

“I don’t like you in my space,” you replied evenly.

“And yet you allow it.”

“For now.”

He smirked.

Your room hummed softly around you, stars glowing overhead, casting faint light over your faces. The contrast amused him. The childish, comforting environment and the quiet hostility coiled between you like a wire under tension.

He studied your face at this distance. The way your eyes tracked him. The way your jaw set. The micro-tremor in your hand—not fear, not excitement. Restraint.

You were holding yourself back.

From what, he wondered?

He brushed his thumb under your eye.

You did not blink.

Your gaze remained locked on his, unwavering.

“You are analyzing me,” he said.

“Obviously,” you replied.

“How.”

You hesitated.

“Like a threat,” you said finally. “An intruder.”

“Good.”

Your brow twitched.

“I prefer a subject who recognizes the danger.”

You scoffed softly but did not move away.

He leaned in until your noses nearly brushed, breath warm against your lips. He watched your pupils. Your breathing. Your scent again—subtle changes, almost imperceptible.

You were alert. Grounded. Ready.

And beneath that?

Kind.

He could sense it—not emotionally, but behaviorally. The way you did not strike. The way you tolerated despite revulsion. The way you allowed proximity even when every instinct screamed rejection.

Passive.

Forgiving.

He made a note of it.

“This is the closest we have been,” he said quietly.

You did not deny it.

“You do not like it.”

“No.”

“And yet you remain.”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Because if I move, you’ll think you won.”

He laughed softly.

“You’re correct.”

He adjusted his hold, drawing you in just enough that your breaths synchronized, whether you wanted them to or not.

Zandik’s gaze softened—not with affection, but with focus.

He would use this moment.

Observe more.

Your reactions. Your tolerance. The limits of your restraint. The way your body responded to proximity without emotional compliance.

You lay there, hostile and unyielding, eyes sharp, ready to bite.

He lay there, calm and intent, satisfied.

Two predators sharing a bed beneath artificial stars, neither yielding, neither retreating, studying each other in silence.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You stared at him for a long moment in the dim glow of false stars.

Not blinking. Not flinching. Not yielding.

Then you spoke.

“Why are you doing this,” you asked, voice flat, blunt, stripped of humor. “Do you want me to kill you.”

The question landed cleanly. No accusation. No dramatics. Just an efficient inquiry, as if you were clarifying a variable before proceeding.

Zandik did not recoil.

He did not tense.

He did not correct you.

He considered the question.

Your eyes remained sharp, hostile, searching his face not for reassurance but for confirmation. If he said yes, you would accept it. If he said no, you would catalog it and move on. There was no emotional leverage in the question—only fact-finding.

Interesting.

“An inelegant framing,” he replied at last. “But not inaccurate.”

You scoffed quietly. “So that’s a yes.”

“No,” he said calmly. “If I wished to die, I would not choose you. The probability of success would be… absolute.”

That earned a flicker. Not pride. Not fear. Recognition.

“Then why,” you pressed. “Because this,” you gestured weakly between you, his arm still firm around your waist, the bed, the stars, the proximity, “looks like you testing how far you can go before I snap.”

“A reasonable hypothesis,” he said. “Incomplete.”

“Then finish it.”

He watched you closely as he answered, noting the tension still coiled in your muscles, the way exhaustion was beginning to weigh on your posture. You were angry, yes—but more than that, you were tired. Bone-deep. The kind of tired that dulled the edges of even righteous hostility.

“I am proposing an arrangement,” Zandik said.

You went still.

Not surprised. Not hopeful. Just… still.

“Again?” you asked.

“Yes.”

There it was. The second time. Official, in his mind. The repetition mattered. He did not repeat inefficiencies without reason.

“I propose,” he continued evenly, “that we formalize our interaction. Publicly. Consistently. As partners.”

You laughed.

It was sharp. Ugly. Immediate.

“How arrogant of you,” you sneered, eyes narrowing. “You really think you get to do this again?”

“Think is irrelevant,” he replied. “The data supports it.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Frequently.”

You shifted, attempting to sit up, to put distance between your bodies and his audacity. The moment you moved, his arm tightened—not painfully, not violently, but decisively. A correction. A boundary enforced.

You hissed in irritation.

“Let go.”

“No.”

You struggled for exactly two seconds.

Then you stopped.

Not because he overpowered you.

Because you were done.

You exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of you all at once. Your body went slack, head dropping back onto the pillow, eyes staring up at the glowing ceiling. Stars swam faintly in your vision.

“…fine,” you muttered. “Whatever.”

Zandik registered the shift immediately.

Capitulation.

Not agreement. Not consent. Fatigue.

You had reached the point where resistance was no longer worth the energy expenditure. He loosened his grip slightly—not releasing you, but adjusting, accommodating your weight as it settled.

“You deny the proposal,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Unequivocally.”

“Yes.”

“And yet you allow continued proximity.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m too tired to kick you out.”

“A practical decision.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t.”

Silence fell.

Your breathing slowed, evening out as exhaustion claimed ground. The hostility in your posture softened, replaced by heaviness. You did not curl toward him. You did not pull away. You simply… rested.

Zandik observed the transition with clinical interest.

He shifted, carefully disentangling just enough to reach for the blanket. He drew it up, tucking it around your shoulders with precise, almost methodical movements. He adjusted the pillow beneath your head, aligning your spine more comfortably.

You made a faint sound of protest but did not wake.

He paused, looking down at you.

Asleep—or close enough.

Now came the decision.

He evaluated it as he would any other experimental variable.

Option A: leave. Withdraw to preserve independence and reduce contamination of data by prolonged intimacy.

Option B: remain. Observe baseline sleep behavior. Monitor unconscious responses to proximity. Gather olfactory, thermal, and tactile data over extended duration.

Option B offered significantly higher yield.

He removed his gloves, placing them neatly on your desk, then lay back down beside you.

Not touching at first.

Then—incrementally—he adjusted, aligning himself so your shoulder brushed his chest. Your breathing hitched once, reflexive, then settled again. He noted the absence of withdrawal. Your tolerance threshold, even asleep, remained high.

He draped an arm around you—not possessive, not tender. Anchoring. Controlled contact.

Your body responded automatically, shifting closer, drawn by warmth despite conscious hostility. Your hand curled faintly into the fabric of his shirt.

Zandik froze.

Then allowed it.

Your scent deepened in sleep—warm, familiar now. Less guarded. Less sharp. He catalogued it, comparing it to earlier observations. Significant difference.

You were… softer like this.

Not emotionally. Physiologically.

He lay still, eyes open, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the blanket. Your face was calm in sleep, defenses lowered, the sharp edge of disgust absent. You looked more peaceful. Less armored.

Vulnerable.

He felt no urge to exploit it.

That, too, was data.

Eventually, his own breathing synchronized with yours—not intentionally, but inevitably. The stars on your ceiling glowed softly, bathing you both in artificial night.

Zandik closed his eyes.

He would review the data in the morning.

For now, the experiment would continue.

And you slept, unaware, the most dangerous being in the room reduced to a quiet, exhausted presence tucked against his chest—while he, ever rational, ever observant, held you close and allowed himself the inefficiency of rest beside you.