Let's quickly get this out of the way. . . Warning! The game this is based off is NOT for minors therefore that means this fanfic is probably not going be for minors either! That being said, ADULTS, this fanfic is not for the faint of heart either. This is a crime thriller dealing with people's unhealthy obsessions. murder and torture. There will be psychological horror involved and a bit of hybristophillia. I want to make it very clear that this is NOT a good example of how to deal with these kinds of situations in real life. This is fictional. If, at any point, the lines between reality and fiction get blurred, I suggest seeking proper help. Thank you and please enjoy! :)
You wait for the golden glow of the bedroom light to go out before you finally make your move.
With one last scan of the dark street, you deem it safe enough for you to exit the car without being seen. Blending into the shadows.
You bounce from alley to alley, avoiding all streetlamps as best as possible as you come closer to your target destination.
A cold autumn wind blows through the knits of your black hoodie, making you shiver and nearly tearing off the hood that protects your identity. You quickly cling to its edge before it could completely fly off, glad you brought the gloves that kept your hands warm. Your eyes scan the windows, expecting to see some nosy neighbor peeking out from between the curtains, taking notes of every little thing that passes by, but everything appears to be dark and empty. Everyone either already in bed or not home. A perfect window of opportunity.
Hearing the distant rumbling of an oncoming car, you quickly duck into another alley and wait for it to pass before you decide to make your way across the street at a brisk pace. Neither too fast nor too slow, for either could appear suspicious.
Once in front of the apartment building you'd been eyeballing for the past two weeks, you dig out the key you nabbed from the pocket of another tenant and unlocked the front door.
The lobby was like any other average joe's apartment building. Small, unremarkable, and in desperate need of a renovation with its cracked linoleum tiles, garish patterned wallpaper, and rather straggly looking chandelier that needed a few changes of bulbs. Mailboxes lined the left side of the wall, and your eyes travel along it until you see the name you are looking for. Not that you need reassurance that your target lived here.
On the opposite wall was the security desk with a guard laid back in a cheap swivel chair, booted feet on the desk, and a playboy magazine slung across his chest. His head dangles backwards from his neck, mouth open, indicating he is dead asleep.
You always thought this place was too crappy to have a security guard but now you realize this was the only place a security guard that worthless could work.
The cameras, however, were a little higher tech at least, but there is nothing you can do about that except hope your baggy clothes and platform boots would throw off any detectives that will review the footage in the future.
You bypass the elevators, not looking forward to the five flights ahead of you, but unwilling to risk someone else joining you in the car and possibly getting a good look at your face.
You are breathless and sweating in your hoodie by the time you reach the desired floor, but your adrenaline is pumping now that you are so close to your target. All of the months of meticulous planning and research is finally coming to a head.
Honestly, you didn't even think you would get this far.
You check to make sure the hallway is empty through the doors little window before exciting into the stairwell.
You count the apartment numbers up as you pass them by.
502. . . 503. . . 504. . .
Until you eventually reach his.
505. . . 506. . . 507. . .
You stop in front of apartment number 508, kneeling in front of the shiny, golden knob. You dig out your pick and hook set from your pocket and go to work on the lock.
You are delighted to find all the time you've spent watching online videos on lock picking and practicing on your own doors have paid off. In seconds, you are rewarded with the gratifying click of the door unlocking.
You twist the knob and push the door open, glad that the hinges remain perfectly lubricated, revealing a very dark interior.
You creep inside, the carpet silencing any noises your boots would've otherwise made. Waiting for your night vision to kick in so you can make out the furniture placements. You spot a couch and coffee table in the middle of the room, facing a blank 42" mounted tv. From what you can see, the room is very empty and bland. Not a single piece of décor or picture to display the occupant's personality.
Then again, you didn't think your target has much of a personality anyway.
You weave through the living room and down the hall, knowing exactly which bedroom you are heading towards. You had the layout memorized in your head, having seen the plans when you posed as a potential tenant a few days ago.
Thankfully, the door has been left cracked, sparing you from having to make any unnecessary noise.
The master bedroom was just as drab as the living room, with only a dresser pressed against one wall, a closet filled with the same type of clothes, and a queen-sized bed. The only interesting thing you found was a dimly lit, glass terrarium filled with plants, wood, and rocks. You briefly wonder what is kept in there. Spiders? Lizards? Turtles?
You remember watching your target drive to a pet store once, but you never figured out what exactly he owns. He hadn't carried out a bag of dog or cat food, so you thankfully didn't have to deal with either of the noisy animals.
You ignore the terrarium and focus on the bed where a single lump lays beneath the covers, gently rising and falling with each breath. The main reason you are here.
The rest of the world seems to melt away as you creep closer to your target. The thing you have been obsessing about for the past several months. The thing you've been sacrificing your entire life to find. Completely unaware and ripe for the taking.
Your trembling hands reach into your hoodie pocket, curling around the handle of your weapon. You reach out with your other hand to slowly remove the covers, wanting to see him. Wanting to see his eyes when he looked at you and realized who you are.
The sleeping man is curled on his side, away from you, snoring softly. Your eyes drag across his lanky, shirtless body, taking in his grey, sickly pallor, his scarred-up limbs, his shiny hairless scalp. You've watched him for two weeks now, but somehow seeing his unhealthy physique up close is just as startling as the first time you saw him.
You wonder what drives a person to such a self-destructive state. Is it hate? Sadness? Guilt? Is it possible that he feels sorry for what he did to you?
No. That is impossible. It wasn't like you were the first person whose life he ruined. Why would he feel guilty for something that he continued to do? More than likely, he just didn't give two shits about his health.
Whatever the case may be, it wasn't going to be a concern anymore.
You withdraw the kitchen knife from your hoodie pocket and raise it in the air, both hands clasp tightly, surely to the handle. Your eyes aim for his left pec where his heart drummed life into him.
Not for long. You vow.
Blue irises gleam in the night as the man's eyes unexpectedly open, startling you before you can bring down the knife.
You aren't sure if it was from shock or fear, but you don't move until the man suddenly flings his covers over you. Only then did you begin to swing your knife around like a crazy person, trying to cut your way out and hopefully him too while you are at it. All the while shrieking angrily like one too.
Before you can get yourself free, however, strong arms encase your body, blanket and all and roughly knock you down to the ground in a football tackle. It takes several seconds for you to get air back in your lungs enough to scream, "G-Get off me!"
You twist, kick, and struggle to free yourself but you feel like your incapsulated in a cocoon that's been sat upon by a bear. You are already losing feeling in your arms!
A dark, cold chuckle rains down from above you. Freezing you in place.
"You sneak into a man's apartment, swinging a knife around and you think you're in a position to give orders?"
The cockiness of his tone sets you off again.
"Get the fuck off of me you asshole!"
"Hey, hey, no need for that kind of language."
It irritates you beyond reason how amused he sounds right now. As if this was just one big, fun freaking game to him! Every plan you ever made for tonight has gone out the window. Plan A, B, C, D, even E; all gone! Even your worst-case scenario can't compare to this!
You continue to fight though, for several minutes until eventually lack of oxygen begins to slow your movements down. Only when you completely collapse on the floor from total exhaustion, did the man (you call him 'the man' because you had wanted to be somewhat unattached from the situation. But, you know his name.) finally lifts himself off of you enough to untangle the comforter from around your head.
You suck in lungsful of air until the spots in your vision finally go away before rolling yourself over onto your back to glare hatefully at the face above you. Did he recognize you? Did he see her in you? Did he even bother to find out the names and faces of the family whose lives he's ruined?
"Who are you?" Peter asks with wide, surprised eyes. His tone genuinely curious.
Guess that answers that question.
You scowl up at him as you spat, "What? You don't see the resemblance to the woman you killed, you cocksucker?"
Peter doesn't look in the least bit fazed by your accusation, nor your insult. If anything, he just looks more confused.
"Who are you talking about?"
"Are you shitting me?" You scream furiously, making him flinch in surprise. "How many women have you killed that you can't even remember my sister? You're a monster!"
You manage to wriggle an arm free and immediately use it to try to gouge his eye out, but he's quicker than you thought. Dodging your hand smoothly and grabbing your wrist, pinning it to the ground above your head. The two of you glare at each other. Well, you're glaring, Peter is just frowning.
"I've been referred to as a monster before, but not for the death of a woman I didn't kill."
You spit directly in his eyes, and he hisses in more shock than pain.
"You can't deny it! I have evidence that links it all to you."
Unfortunately, he does not give up your arm, even to wipe his eyes. Instead, he just blinks through it and scowls. "What evidence? I don't even know this person you're talking about."
"Lair!" You scream again. At least you have the satisfaction of making his ears hurt if nothing else. "I have pictures of you with her in high school!"
Peter scoffs in disbelief. "I don't even remember half of the people I've went to high school with."
"You killed her! I know you killed her, you son of a bitch!"
"Oh yeah? Well, if you're so convinced you have all this evidence, why are you here and not the cops?" Peter points out. A sardonic drip to his tone that couldn't help but piss you off even more.
You sneer in disdain as you say, "They don't believe me. They claim everything I have is hearsay, but I know it was you! I know it!"
"Well, darling, if the police say it's hearsay, then chances are, it probably is."
"Don't feed me that bullcrap!" You snap. "I know you did it! I can feel it! And I will fucking kill you for it!"
The man sighs wearily, as if your shenanigans were actually tiring him out. Good, maybe he'll get tired enough for you to slip out and sink your knife into the bastard's neck.
"Look, honey—"
"Don't call me that!" You cut him off sharply.
Peter sighs again, eyes shooting up to heaven. "Fine, darling."
"Quit that! Just call me by my name!"
"I don't know your name!"
"Of course, you do! If you preyed upon my sister, you would know who I am."
"I'm sorry about your sister, but I swear to god, it wasn't me. I've done a lot of shitty things in my time but killing your sister isn't one of them."
For the briefest of seconds, you feel doubt creep into your mind. Was it the look in his eyes? The softness in his tone? You thought you were smart enough to be able to tell the difference between a manipulator and a truth teller, but this time, you really can't tell. You don't want to believe that after everything you've gone through, you have the wrong guy in the end.
"Why should I believe you?"
The man chuckles and shakes his head as if this whole situation was too cumbersome to deal with. "Sounds to me like nothing I say will convince you otherwise."
He is probably right about that, but before you can open your mouth to retort or lash out at him again, you hear a knock on the front door. The two of you freeze, eyes locked on each other as if silently asking the other 'who the hell was that?'
"Hello, Mr. King? Is everything okay? I heard some screaming coming from your apartment and wanted to make sure you weren't hurt." A woman's concerned voice speaks from the other side of the door.
Fear spikes in your heart. As if things can't get any worse. No matter how guilty you try to make Peter look, there is no overlooking the fact that you are here, uninvited, sporting a knife on your person with the intention to kill. Your paltry pieces of evidence would pale in comparison to the charges you would face for attempted murder. Hell, even if the police did believe you, they would still toss you in the jail cell right next to him.
Another, much harder knock shakes the cheap door on its hinges. Peter has yet to move off of you.
"Mr. King! Hello? If you don't answer this door, I will call the Landlord to check on you!" The woman says, her voice spiking up to frantic.
"Everything's fine, Mrs. Benson! Give me just a second!" Finally, Peter shouts as he slowly crawls off of you and begins unravelling the comforter from around you.
Your fingers clench tightly around your knife still in your hand, preparing to pounce as soon as you are free enough to sink the blade in his chest and maybe escape out the window. You recall seeing a fire escape attached to the side of the building.
Peter must've expected this though, because as soon as your arms are uncovered, he had your wrists locked in his surprisingly strong grip. Twisting the armed one and forcing you to drop the knife.
You try to kick at him, but your legs are still tangled in the covers. Peter manhandles you till you are back on your stomach, your arms pinned behind your back and shoving your face into the fibers of the carpet. He stands up first, then yanks you to your feet next. You try struggling again, kicking from behind, head butting, pulling at your arms, but you are stopped when you felt the sharp tip of your own knife poking into the side of your neck.
"I suggest cooperating, darling. Unless you want to spend a very long time behind bars?" He speaks so close to your ear you can smell the cigarette smoke on his breath.
Seeing as you didn't have much of choice in the matter, you allow him to push you out of the bedroom and into the living room. You are completely stumped at his plan at this point. If he doesn't intend to turn you in, how is he going to explain the fact that he is holding a knife on a woman? You are tempted to scream for help. Make it look like you have been kidnapped, but in the end, you would still be the guilty one. The cameras had caught you breaking into his apartment, after all.
Peter pushes you forward, and you stumble, catching yourself on the edge of the couch before you could collapse on the floor again. You turn to scowl at him.
"Take off your hoodie and shoes." He orders, pointing your knife at you.
"What?" You whisper yell. Not wanting the woman on the other side of the door to hear you.
"You heard me." Peter quipped, gesturing with the weapon to hurry it up.
You glance at the door worriedly again. "This is hardly the time for rape, don't you think?"
Peter gives you a cheeky grin that make your stomach quiver with revulsion. "As exciting as that would be, I'm afraid not, darling. Most invited guests don't usually wear hoodies and shoes in a house, do they?"
Your scowl does not leave your face as you grip the bottom of your hoodie and pull it over your head, leaving you in your white t-shirt. You fling it onto the couch and kick off your boots next. You hate this. It feels like you are purposefully spreading around evidence at the crime scene.
"There. Anything else you want me to strip?" You ask, sarcastically.
Peter's eyes glint with mischief as he looks you up and down appreciatively. You suppress the urge to cover yourself, even if there is nothing to really cover except your bare arms. "Ask me that again once this is all over."
"Unlikely." You snip and walk over to the door. Peter close on your heels.
"Wait, one more thing."
As you turn towards him, he grabs the hair tie and pulls your ponytail free. He shakes a hand through your hair, messing it up before pinching at your cheeks.
You slap away his hand with annoyance. "What are you doing now?"
"Just making you look a little more. . . lived in."
You give a soft noise of disgust as you reach for the doorknob.
"Also, quit scowling and act like you actually want to be here. You were the one who broke in after all." He reminds you.
You take a deep, calming breath and force a smile onto your face as you swing the door open to reveal a middle-aged woman, approximately in her late fifties. Dressed in a polka-dot pajama set, fuzzy white slippers, and rollers in her brown but quickly turning to white hair. In her hands, she held an old flip phone in one and keys in the other. You hope she hadn't already dialed the landlord's number.
Mrs. Benson's eyes widen as she takes in your disheveled appearance and Peter's half-dressed state. Her mind, no doubt, already filling in all the blanks without either of you uttering a peep.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Benson. Did we disturb you from your sleep?" Peter asks. Wrapping his free arm around you and pressing you against his side. You didn't know where the knife is, but you hope Peter hid it well.
"Oh, my goodness, I didn't realize you had guests over, Mr. King." The woman's cheeks reddened with embarrassment.
"Yeah, well, it was a bit of a surprise for me too." Peter chuckled. You pinch the skin of his side, and he doesn't even bother hiding a gasp of surprise.
"I have to watch out. This one's a bit of a loose cannon." Peter gives you a heated look and it takes all your strength to keep your smile plastered on your face.
"Oh, Lord, I wished my Harry still gave me looks like that." Mrs. Benson fans herself. If her face got any redder you would start to worry, she might faint.
No, Mrs. Benson. You don't. You think to yourself.
"Well, I'll leave you young pups to it. I'm glad everything is okay."
"Of course. Thank you for checking up on me." Peter replies as the two of you watch the woman shuffle to her apartment 509. Neither of you move until you hear the door click closed, then Peter is roughly yanking you back into the living room.
You tug yourself out of his grip and whirl around on him, but that damn knife was still in his left hand, directed at you.
He's a leftie. . . interesting.
You frown as this bit of information processes.
"Alright, sweetheart. Where did we leave off?" You hear Peter speak, but you aren't paying attention to what he is saying anymore. Your mind is fixed on his left hand. Why did that feel so significant?
"Uh, hello? Anybody home?" Peter waves his hand in front of your face, but you don't see it. You only see the knife. In his left hand.
"You're left dominate?" You ask, pointing to the weapon.
Peter glances at it. Shrugs. "Usually. Why?"
Your eyes go wide with realization as you recall the police autopsy report on your sister. Her killer had used a knife to repeatedly stab and slice her in her lower abdomen. From the angles the weapon had entered her body, this concluded the suspect to be right dominate.
Peter was left-handed.
You had the wrong killer.
"Oh my god." You whisper, horrified at yourself and what you almost did.
"Darling? What's the matter?" Peter asks, a smidge of concern in his voice, oddly enough. He steps closer to you. The knife slowly lowering.
You shake your head vigorously as tears of fear and frustration drip down your cheeks. Fear of yourself. Fear for things you could've done. Fear for how out of control you were to the point you couldn't even see the obvious. Frustration for the time and effort you wasted in hunting down the wrong guy. Frustration for being sent back to square one.
You collapse in a ball in the middle of Peter's living room floor. Your cries; broken and mournful.
Peter blinks in shock by the sudden change in mannerisms. One moment you were threatening to viscerate him. Then the next, you're curled up in the fetal position.
You aren't a loose cannon. You are a stack of wild cards. He wasn't sure what he was going to draw next, but damn if that didn't make for an exciting evening!
Peter sets the knife on the coffee table and kneels in front of you, obviously no longer considering you a threat. You feel a hand gently petting your head while another squeezes your shoulder. Not hard like all the other times he's grabbed you, but firm enough that you felt oddly comforted by the touch. It was a, 'I'm here for you, if you need it' kind of squeeze. Something you haven't felt in a very long time.
At this point, you stop caring what would happen to you. If Peter decides to call the cops or hell, even finish you off himself, you wouldn't fight him. You are exhausted, both physically, emotionally, and mentally. You can't believe you have given up most of your life chasing after the wrong killer!
Your sister would be so disappointed.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." You whisper between sobs.
Peter wraps his arms around you and pulls you closer until your face presses into his bare chest. His skin is cool upon contact, but quickly warms the longer you hold him. He was probably freezing to death going around shirtless all this time.
You can't say how long you cried for. You have no concept of time anymore. You can't even look at the clock on the stove in the kitchen from where you are sitting. Not that it matters. You have nowhere else to go.
Peter might, though. You point out to yourself. But, if that really is the case, why is he still holding you? Rocking you in his lap and stroking your hair like you are a child. As if he has all the time in the world for this. This is nothing like the man you thought he was.
Yet, you know, in your heart of hearts.
Your evidence might no longer be relevant to your case in particular, but that didn't make it incorrect.
You may have almost murdered the wrong man, but that didn't mean he is innocent.
You know who he is.
What he is.
You know you are sitting in the lap of a killer. A murderer. A monster.
A bit of a disappointment that there isn't an exclusive category for Your Boyfriend on . Although, I have found a couple of fanfics out there labelled under Misc. Games. I don't know how popular the fandom is on here, despite its growing popularity everywhere else. That being said, I have found a section for it at AO3 which is tempting me to make a new account there. I guess it depends on if the story gets any attention whatsoever here.
Anyhoo, I am going out of my comfort zone with this one. So, we'll see how it goes. Reviews are always welcomed!
