"In the time that it takes you running back home, I'll make it to your door. No, I won't let you alone."

~C.C.

༺═──────────────═༻

Stars from long past strike the firmament in a clash to the death with the oncoming twilight, the eternal standoff painted onto the heavens until the cycle repeats itself once again. It's almost comforting to know that there will be another dusk, another day, and the morning after, you are left free to mold yourself into an entirely new identity with the changing colors.

I stand in wait, rubbing the sleep from my eyes through the ski mask. I've taken a lot of safety measures to be here, and quite honestly, I deserve a little credit here. Believe it or not, it's hard to purchase a mask these days without looking like a total creep.

While South Congress is lively in the daytime, it is almost deathly quiet when the shops are closed. The neon lights around Amy's are turned off for the night, and only the wind provides me company. Behind me is a narrow alley filled with trash and racoons, but no people, and certainly no security cameras. Really, the APD is just begging for a string of murders to happen in this exact area.

I check my phone for the time. 11:14 PM. I didn't expect him to be exactly punctual, but I didn't expect him to be so late, either.

Typical, isn't it? Nonetheless, I invited him here; the least he can do is honor his agreement. He's certainly keen on honoring his agreements when he sets them.

Ah, speak of the devil. The professor comes around the corner, eyes darting from side to side. He's afraid of someone spotting him, as he should be. He left his sleeping child and a concerned wife behind, perhaps giving her a hasty excuse, saying he got a call from the university.

She has no reason to be suspicious of his words; he's worked his charm on her so thoroughly that she sees nothing through the veil of sincerity when he flicks his silver-tongue.

You can't fall for the same trick. I won't let you.

The poor fool looks around, but of course, you are nowhere to be found. He checks his watch. You should be here by now.

I wonder where you are at this moment, Naomi. What you're doing. Are you in bed, playing with yourself to the fantasies you've managed to conjure up in your head? Are you with that raven-haired boy in the photos, the one who couldn't make it to your little get-together?

My eyebrows knit together as I imagine his strong hands on your body. They're alien and eager and rapacious and most importantly so undeserving of you.

You drive me crazy by playing so hard to get. I hope this is enough to bring me a step closer to you.

With a sigh and another look around, the professor pulls out his phone. What the hell is he doing?

Fuck. No, no, no.

He's typing on his phone, and your name is at the top of his screen. Where are you? he'll ask. I've been waiting for a full 30 seconds and you're not here! Woe is me!

He'll ruin everything we've worked toward.
Against my better judgement, I lunge at him, letting the phone leap from his hand and clatter against the concrete. I almost sigh in relief, as I see the message hadn't been sent yet through the badly cracked screen.

Good.

He whirls around to face me, eyes wild. They surge in a mix of confusion, anger, and fear until they meld together into one single entity. But one thing stands out for certain:

Disdain.

It's a look I've seen before in many, even my own mother. It shakes me to the core, maybe enough to make me falter for a second. And in that one second, everything flashes forward, like an old film.

Cracking truth, liquid fantasy.

In one fluid movement, I pull him into the alley behind me and wrap my arm around his throat while putting a firm hand behind his head. He tries to kick at my groin (cheap shot, asshole) while his consciousness remains intact, but if there's one thing I learned from my childhood, it's knowing how to move out of the way. I never lose my grip on him as I dodge his ham-fisted attempts at freedom.

The sounds he makes are pitiful after the 15 second mark, the squeals of a pig during slaughter.

Well, I think with a smile, that's all he is in the end, isn't he?

As smoothly as a piece at a symphony comes to its end, his pulse weakens to a dull thud, and he becomes dead weight in my arms.
Thump. Thump. I can practically feel the blood draining from his face before I let him go to hoist him over my shoulder.

I grunt from under him. Jesus Christ. What does he have in his pockets, rocks? I train my eyes on the car in the distance to distract myself from how heavy he is.

But somehow, I keep smiling all the way down the alley. The fact that this is for someone other than myself, the fact that my life, for years and years, has culminated to this one moment, this one purpose, makes everything worth it.

After slamming the trunk, I drive home, all the while drowning out my adrenaline rush with Symphony No. 5: 3rd Movement by Beethoven. I crank up the stereo and let the strings wash over me like a cold shower, choreographing an intricate dance of push and pull in my head the whole way through.

What would it be like to feel your breath against my cheek as you leap and twirl, Naomi? To feel my hands squeeze around your hips hard enough for you to cry out?

Just a little more time. That's all I need.

Just a little more.

༺═──────────────═༻

One eyelid flutters open, then the other. It's a gradual process back to reality, but I remain where I am, crouched down to the professor's level. Looking at him from this angle, he doesn't look so powerful. In fact, he looks like a feeble child with his favorite toy taken away.

He groans incoherent nonsense as he comes to, and for a second, I almost feel bad for him. He's probably feeling an array of pains: from dizziness to confusion to a head-splitting migraine. What do good hosts do in this situation? Give him an Advil or something?

Then, I remember the greed in his eyes when he looked at you that night, and I give him a hard kick to help him acclimate to the change in environment a little. He groans when my boot strikes his ribs.

"Good, you're awake," I say, striding over to my work bench. I keep my back to him. "We have a lot to discuss, you and me."

"Where... Am I..." he murmurs, then goes to rub his eyes, only to feel the shock of cold restraints. He tries again, but they hold against the brick wall.

One of the perks of getting a house to yourself is that you can use it however you'd like. He's currently chained to the wall with steel shackles, 3 feet long (about a meter, if you prefer, dear) with a very nice polish, I might add. Unless he can pull the foundations out from the wall, there's no way he's getting out of this pickle anytime soon.

Next to him is a fully functioning bathroom close enough for the chains to not pull him back so that he doesn't have an excuse to piss himself. Further from that is my work bench, where all of my tools are kept in neat rows. (power tools, not instruments of torture or anything like that. I'm not a psycho.)

Organization, neatness in general, really, has always been important to me. Once you see the inside of my house, you'll know what I mean. There is no sign of a space that has been lived in, the average messy person's favorite euphemism.

I wouldn't say my need for order is as compulsive OCD, just a very strong preference. Maybe it's the act of putting things where they belong that gives me a sense of control over an aspect of my life. The possession of something I never had.

I look at the professor through my peripheral vision to see him staring straight back at me. I hate to admit this, Naomi, but seeing him chained up this way gives me an insurmountable amount of satisfaction.

The predator becomes prey. The hunter becomes hunted by a beast far more menacing than he.

Oh, the irony.

And above it all, he can only see what I choose: a masked man with only the hint of humanity behind his glittering eyes.

As carefully as I can, I remove a hand-held chainsaw from my row and grin as the professor's face contorts into an expression of sheer terror.

Good. It's easier when they're scared.

He flinches when I motion to him with the chainsaw.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

༺═──────────────═༻

안녕 여러분! Things have happened
this chapter... ngl, a little predictable.
BUT how did everyone find it? Good?
Bad? Creepy? Boring? LET ME KNOW!
And let me know your theories
about what will happen to our professor
in the future... hehehe...

I just wanna thank you guys
for giving me 2k on this book...
I can't believe it! It almost feels
like a dream. I love you all so much.

QOTD: What is your pet peeve?

I hate when people chew
with their mouth open... and bad
hygiene in general. Also when
people are late. So annoying!

Comment your answer inline!

Until next time, happy reading!

Love,
Haneul