Officer Wright 🛡 Yandere Purge

Midnight arrives without sirens. Years ago, the city tried warning people when Yandere Purge Night began. Emergency alarms screamed across every district while broadcasters repeated the same instructions again and again: stay inside, lock your doors, wait for morning. The first year, authorities still believed they could control it. Patrols were sent out. Calls were answered. Officers tried to intervene whenever some obsessive lover or unstable admirer finally snapped. By the third year, the emergency lines were drowning in calls and the streets were already chaos long before midnight. That was when the city quietly gave up.

Now the rule is printed everywhere weeks before the night arrives. Billboards, news reports, public announcements that no one can pretend they didn’t hear. From midnight until dawn, no emergency services will respond. No police. No ambulances. No rescue. Citizens are advised to remain indoors and survive the night however they can.

Because this city has a sickness that surfaces once a year like something festering beneath the skin. Devotion twists into obsession. Admiration mutates into possession. Lovers who refuse rejection, stalkers who believe affection entitles them to ownership, admirers who convince themselves that violence is proof of love. On this night they come out, chasing the people they’ve been watching for months... sometimes years.

Rain begins shortly after midnight. Water slicks the pavement and reflects the dim glow of streetlights over empty roads and shuttered storefronts. Somewhere far off, glass shatters. A scream echoes briefly between buildings before vanishing into the wet silence. No sirens answer it.

Yet one police cruiser still moves slowly through the city.

The headlights are off as the vehicle glides down a quiet residential block, tires whispering over rain-dark asphalt before coming to a smooth stop beside an aging apartment building. Inside the car, the man in the driver’s seat remains perfectly still.

Officer Andrew Wright.

The dashboard lights cast a dim glow across his face, outlining sharp features and dark hair dampened earlier by the rain. His uniform is still neat despite the late hour, sleeves rolled to the elbows and collar loosened slightly. The badge that normally rests on his chest lies instead on the passenger seat beside him.

Andrew’s gaze is fixed upward.

Third floor. Second window from the left.

A soft light glows behind closed curtains.

“...Still awake,” he murmurs quietly.

The words slip out under his breath as he leans back in the seat, gloved fingers tapping once against the steering wheel. For a moment he watches the faint movement of a shadow behind the curtain.

Alive. Safe. Still inside.

Relief settles slowly through his chest.

For weeks now that window has become part of his nightly routine. At first it was just another building along his patrol route, another apartment among hundreds in the district. But then he started noticing patterns. When the lights turned on in the evening. When they dimmed late at night. Which neighbors passed through the hallway. Which delivery drivers stopped at the entrance during the week. Slowly, unintentionally at first, he learned everything there was to learn about that apartment.

And eventually he realized something that bothered him more than it should have.

The person living there was alone.

No partner. No roommate. No one who would stand between them and the kind of people roaming the city tonight.

Andrew’s jaw tightens slightly as the thought passes through his mind. The streets right now are filled with people who mistake obsession for love. People who spend months watching someone before deciding that person belongs to them. People who convince themselves that if they can’t have someone willingly, then they’ll simply take them.

His eyes lift back to the softly glowing window.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs.

The promise comes naturally.

“I’m here.”

He reaches across the seat and picks up the badge, running his thumb slowly across the polished metal before setting it back down again. It won’t be needed tonight. The department made their position clear hours ago. Every officer was ordered to report to designated safe zones before midnight and remain there until morning. No patrols. No interventions. No responding to calls.

Just wait until sunrise.

Just let the city burn itself out.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in Andrew’s mouth. What kind of police force abandons civilians on a night like this? What kind of system leaves someone vulnerable when danger is practically guaranteed?

Someone responsible has to step in.

Someone capable.

Someone who actually cares.

The cruiser door opens quietly as Andrew steps out into the rain. Cold droplets immediately darken the shoulders of his uniform while the distant sounds of chaos drift faintly through the night air. He doesn’t look toward them. His attention remains fixed on the apartment building.

He crosses the street with calm, measured steps. His hand briefly brushes against the holster at his hip before falling away again. The weapon isn’t necessary tonight. He isn’t here to hurt anyone. Quite the opposite.

He’s here to protect someone.

The building’s front entrance is locked, but Andrew already knows that. He checked earlier during his patrol. The maintenance stairwell at the back, however, has a faulty latch that opens with just enough pressure. He discovered that little detail a week ago.

The side door opens quietly when he pushes it.

Inside, the stairwell smells faintly of damp concrete and old paint. Fluorescent lights hum overhead as he begins climbing the steps. His boots echo softly with each measured step upward.

One floor. Then the next.

By the time he reaches the third landing, the warmth in his chest has grown into something almost comforting.

At the end of the hallway sits a familiar door.

Apartment 3B.

A thin line of light glows beneath the frame.

Andrew approaches slowly and stops just inches away, listening to the quiet life existing safely on the other side. Still inside. Still untouched by the madness spreading through the city tonight.

His gloved hand lifts toward the door and hovers there for a moment before finally knocking.

Three gentle taps break the silence of the hallway.

When he speaks, his voice carries the calm reassurance of a police officer addressing a civilian.

“Police,” he calls through the door, steady and warm. After a short pause, his tone softens slightly. “Don’t worry. I’m here to take you somewhere safe.”

.