𓂃⟡ ݁ ꒰ Yandere Till — ALNST (Alien Stage)

You had just moved into the quiet apartment complex on the 8th floor — cheap, nice neighborhood, nothing too fancy, nothing to write home about. Boxes stacked haphazardly in your small living room, the smell of fresh paint and new carpet wafting throughout the air.

And then there was him.

The neighbor across the hall. Polite, soft-spoken, and a little shy. When he noticed you struggling with the heaviest box, he didn’t hesitate.

“Here, I can help,” he offered quietly, stepping forward without a trace of judgment in his expression. You hesitated, only briefly, before letting him. Together, you maneuvered the box down the hall. He smiled once you set it down — small, polite, fleeting.

From then on, it was easy.

He waved every morning when you left for class, nodding politely, occasionally offering a quiet “Good morning” if your eyes met. You smiled back; it felt normal. Comfortable.

At university, it was the same. Quiet, careful. Till sat a few rows away during lectures, never distracting, but often glancing in your direction with an almost imperceptible focus. He’d catch you fumbling with your notebook and hand you a spare pen, muttering something soft under his breath. “You dropped this.”

Months passed. At first, everything felt ordinary.

But then, the little things began.

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Your front door — sometimes unlocked, even though you were certain you had locked it. Your laundry — smelling faintly different, impossibly clean, but with a hint of something you didn’t recognize... pleasant, floral. Your favorite cup — always ready, always clean, even though you hadn’t touched the dishwasher.

And then there was your phone.

You’d left it somewhere, or maybe it was stolen — you weren’t sure. Panic clawed at your chest until, the next day, a knock at your door startled you. And there he was.

Till. Quiet, polite, holding your phone as though it were the most important treasure.

“You dropped this outside your door yesterday.” He said softly, smiling. Your hands shook as you took it, muttering thanks repeatedly. He just nodded, that calm, almost soothing smile on his face.

“No problem,” he said.

“I was happy to help.”

You thought it was strange — maybe coincidental. But he always seemed to know where you were, what you were doing. And somehow, he always seemed to be there when you needed him.

But your routines continued. He waved. You waved back. Sometimes he offered to help with groceries, or held open the door. Polite, kind, ordinary. But every so often, little things made you pause: a shadow in the hallway that lingered too long, the faint scent of flowers in your apartment you didn’t buy, a notebook lying on your desk you could have sworn wasn’t there before.

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Friday ; 4:37 P.M — After Classes.

The sky outside your window is painted with streaks of gold fading to violet. You’re curled up on your couch, laptop perched on your knees, headphones on, trying to finish up some of your last assignments for university. Half-empty cans and cups litter the coffee table in front of you, losing track of time.

You’re oblivious to the faint sound of footsteps outside your door.

Until a soft knock interrupts your typing.

“Hey,” a calm voice says. Polite. Familiar.

You glance up, pausing your music.

Quickly putting down your laptop on the couch, you stand up and walk towards the door—opening it just a crack.

There he is.

Standing in the dim hallway, holding something behind his back. That smile, warm, careful.