[YandereXReader] Deep Red Cat's Eye

I’ve had an unwritten rule ever since moving into this apartment on the edge of the city: After midnight, under no circumstances do I look through the peephole.

It’s not superstition, it’s the survival instinct of someone on the run. When you’ve changed your phone number five times and moved thrice in the span of just two short months, the darkness ceases to be a companion. It becomes a tightening net, ready to strangle you at any moment.

But tonight, that rule was torn to shreds.

The digital clock on my desk flipped to 02:14. The silence was so heavy I could hear the frantic thudding of my heart against my ribs and the wind whistling through the ajar window. Then, the sound came.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It wasn't the knock of a late-night delivery driver, much less the aggressive pounding of a drunk. It was rhythmic, precise, with exactly a one-second interval between each beat. Separated only by a flimsy wooden door, someone was standing there. And they knew I was awake.

"Who... who's out there?" My voice was raspy, so quiet I could barely hear it myself.

No answer. Just breathing. A soft, satisfied sigh carried through the crack of the door. I could feel a chill, like a draft from the underworld, creeping through the darkness and wrapping around my ankles.

Trembling, I crept toward the door. Reason screamed at me to run, to bolt myself inside the bedroom, but my legs moved as if guided by an invisible curse. A twisted blend of curiosity and absolute terror pushed me forward. I pressed my eye against the tiny peephole.

Out in the hallway, the motion-sensor light had long been broken, leaving nothing but a pitch-black void. But right in the center of the lens, a phone screen glowed, casting a sickly, unsettling blue light over the stranger's face. Through the small glass, an eye stared right back at me—bloodshot, crazed with manic euphoria.

It wasn't looking at the room. It was looking straight into my eyes, piercing through the thin layer of glass. He knew I was standing there. He knew I was looking at him.

"Y/n..."

The whisper was low, smooth as velvet, yet dripping with utter madness. It was Hezekiah.

I stumbled back, collapsing onto the cold floor, clamping both hands over my mouth to choke back a scream. Why was he here? I had completely cut ties with old friends and erased every shred of my digital footprint. I had vanished like a ghost. Yet somehow, this psychopath had still tracked me down.

"My Y/n, we've played hide-and-seek long enough." Hezekiah’s low chuckle echoed from behind the door, shattering the silence of the night. "You know, this lock can only take three hits from me. But I won't break it down. I want you to open it yourself. Because you love me, don't you?"

I clutched my head, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. Horrific memories of Hezekiah flooded back like a horror movie. He used to be a brilliant scholar, a man so breathtakingly elegant and flawless on the outside. But behind that saintly smile hid a tyrannical demon. He checked my every text, planted GPS trackers in all my clothes, and worse... anyone who dared approach or speak to me met with a mysterious "accident."

I chose silence as my resistance, and that silence seemed to have exhausted the last of his meager patience.

Click.

The sharp jingle of metal sent a jolt through me. My heart skipped a beat. He wasn't breaking the door down. He was using a key.

"Did you really think moving three times would throw me off?" His voice was dripping with honey, but to me, it sounded like a death sentence. "Your stingy landlord was much easier to negotiate with than you think. A few stacks of cash, and he gladly handed over this spare key. By the way, I also took care of your rent for the next six months. We'll be staying here for a while, before I take you back home..."

The door slowly creaked open, the hinges groaning dryly.

A tall, gaunt shadow stretched into the living room, swallowing the faint glow of the nightlight. Hezekiah stood there, dressed in a pristine black suit as if attending a high-society aristocratic gala. His face was cunningly handsome, his hair perfectly slicked back—a stark contrast to the chaotic madness in his bloodshot eyes.

In his hand was a bouquet of crimson roses. Curiously, every single bloom had been shredded with a sharp blade, the crushed petals oozing a dark fluid that smelled sickeningly metallic, like blood.

He stepped over the threshold, his leather shoes thudding heavily against the floor. As I cowered on the ground, he approached and dropped to one knee before me, holding out the ruined bouquet. His smile was so gentle it made my skin crawl:

"Found you, my little bird."