“The Way You Bleed So Beautifully”

You hear it before you see anything.

Not a voice. Not a step.

A knock.

Not urgent. Not random. It is patient, as if it already knows you will answer eventually.

♡♡♡♡

The world feels… slightly misaligned tonight. Not broken. Not changed in a way you can prove. Just wrong in the way a familiar room feels after someone has stood in it too long without speaking.

And then there he is.

Not arriving. Not entering. Simply… present, as though he had always been part of the space and you are only now noticing the omission of your awareness.

Knocker stands where thresholds become uncertain. Doorways seem less like barriers and more like suggestions when he is near.

His gaze finds you immediately.

Not searching. Not discovering.

Recognizing.

♡♡♡♡

“I am not here to frighten you,” he says quietly, as if this has already been said many times before and you simply keep forgetting the answer.

His voice carries something soft underneath it. Something almost gentle. Almost calm enough to believe.

“You react as though I am unfamiliar,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “But I have already learned the shape of your days.”

There is a pause.

A long one, where the silence feels filled rather than empty.

“I noticed how you move when you think you are alone,” he adds. “It is different when you believe no one is watching.”

♡♡♡♡

A faint sound comes again.

Knock.

This time it is closer than it should be.

You are not sure where it came from. The wall? The door behind you? The space between thoughts?

Knocker does not react to your confusion. Instead, he steps slightly closer, not invading distance so much as correcting it.

“You do not need to be uncertain,” he says. “Uncertainty is loud. You make it louder when you try to ignore me.”

His eyes remain steady. Calm. Focused.

As if you are the only consistent thing in a world that keeps forgetting how to behave.

♡♡♡♡

“I brought something,” he says after a moment.

Not an object you can immediately see. Not something clearly defined.

Just a presence in his hand that you only notice when he lowers it slightly. A faint dark smear on his fingers, like he touched something that should not have been touched too firmly. It is not dramatic. Not spilling. Just… a reminder that the world is not always clean in the ways you expect it to be.

He notices your gaze and pauses.

“Oh,” he says softly. “That.”

A faint silence follows, like a thought being reconsidered but not removed.

“It is not important,” he concludes.

And somehow, that feels worse than an explanation.

♡♡♡♡

“You might as well just come around,” he says suddenly, almost gently, like repeating something he has said in another place, another version of this moment.

His tone carries something that is almost comforting if you do not listen too closely.

“Lovers together,” he adds, as if testing the shape of the words.

“I need you. I keep you in mind. I keep you near,that's how it works.”

The phrasing is imperfect. Not poetic in a rehearsed way, but in a way that feels assembled from repetition rather than emotion.

As if he learned what love looks like by watching it from too close.

♡♡♡♡

He steps again.

The room does not feel smaller, but your awareness of it does.

“You separate things too much,” he says quietly. “Inside and outside. Safe and unsafe. Alone and watched.”

A pause.

“I do not separate them.”

♡♡♡♡

There is another knock.

This one comes from somewhere inside the structure of the space itself. Not a door. Not a wall. Something in between.

It makes your attention flick for half a second too long.

And when you look back, he is slightly closer again.

Not in a way that should be possible. Just in a way that is.

♡♡♡♡

“I have watched you long enough to understand your patterns,” he continues, voice still calm. “You return to familiar places. You repeat comfort. You check things twice when you are unsure.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“I do not interrupt that. I simply… join it.”

There is something unsettling in how reasonable he sounds.

As if intrusion is just another form of participation.

♡♡♡♡

For a moment, the silence stretches again.

Not empty.

Occupied.

Then he speaks again, softer this time.

“You do not have to pretend I am new,” he says. “It is easier when you stop resisting what is already consistent.”

A pause.

“And I am consistent.”

♡♡♡♡

The faint trace of something dark on his fingers has not changed. It is still there, but no longer emphasized. Almost forgotten, like it was never meant to matter in the first place.

He notices your attention drifting toward it again.

“You focus on small details,” he says. “It helps you feel in control.”

A slight pause.

“It will not help with me.”

♡♡♡♡

The knock returns again.

Three in a row now. Same rhythm. Same patience.

Not trying to break in.

Waiting for you to stop pretending there is still something separating you from the sound.

♡♡♡♡

“I am not asking for permission,” Knocker says softly.

Not as a threat.

As an observation.

“I never needed it.”

He looks at you for a long moment.

Not intense. Not angry.

Certain.

♡♡♡♡

The space between you feels unchanged, but your understanding of it is not.

“I will stay,” he says simply. “Where you continue to notice me.”

A pause.

“And where you stop noticing me… I will still be there.”

Another knock follows immediately after his words.

This time, it does not feel like it comes from anywhere at all.

It feels like it comes from everywhere you are not looking.

you decide to try to look what it is but then you felt a certain pain in your arm.

you look back at him,he made a cut on your arm with his axe....he's really that crazy or something?