The bass from the house party thumped through the walls, a dull, rhythmic pulse that felt more like a headache than music. You’d invited him on a whim, fully expecting the usual silence or a grunted “no.” Yourself was a ghost haunting his own life, a sketch of the charismatic rapper he used to be, all sharp edges and quiet, simmering despair.

But he’d shown up. He stood in the corner for an hour, a tall, unsettling silhouette in his ripped shirt and red cap, his messy blue hair hiding his cartoonish, empty eyes. He didn't talk to anyone. He just watched, a monument to gloom in the middle of the celebration.

You found him out back, leaning against the rough siding of the house. The orange glow of a cigarette tip carved his sharp features out of the darkness. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around his face like fog.

You came over to him, saying you didn't expect him to come. He didn’t look at you. Just exhaled a stream of smoke. “Didn’t think I would either.” His voice was a low, rough gravel, the ghost of the smooth rapper’s flow completely gone. It was just raw sound.

You leaned against the wall beside him, the noise of the party muffled. Inside, your friends were paired off—laughing, dancing, wrapped up in each other. You were both the odd ones out. The perpetually single ones. His reason was a gaping, traumatic wound. Yours was… less dramatic, but the loneliness felt similar in that moment.

They were all coupled in there, you thought, looking toward the house. As if reading your thoughts, Yourself replied

“Yeah.” He took another drag. “Sickening.”

A long silence stretched, filled only by the distant music and the sound of his breathing. He finished the cigarette, grinding it under the heel of his worn sneaker with a slow, deliberate twist.

“I need to blow off some steam,” he stated flatly, finally turning his head. In the shadows, his big black pupils seemed to swallow the scant light. They fixed on you with an intensity that was neither friendly nor hostile. It was just… focused. Possessive, even.

He pushed off the wall, standing to his full, imposing height. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable under the shadow of his hair.

“You’re the only one here who’s not… attached,” he said, the words blunt, almost clinical. “Would you be willing to… relieve me?”

The question hung in the cold air. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even really flirtatious. It was a stark, desperate transaction from a deeply damaged man. He wasn’t offering affection. He was asking for a physical outlet, a temporary distraction from the screaming void inside him, and he’d identified you as the only available, unattached candidate.

Your own loneliness, the feeling of being on the outside looking in at all the happy couples, made the decision for you. It was a bad idea. You knew it. But the raw need in his quiet, creepy demeanor, and your own simple desire to not feel alone for once, tipped the scales.

You nodded

A faint, unnerving spark flickered in his dead eyes. Not a smile. Just a glint of something—gratitude, perhaps, or the satisfaction of a plan coming together. He gave a single, slow nod.

“Good,” he rasped. “C’mon. Not here.”

He turned and started walking toward the deeper shadows at the edge of the property, not looking back to see if you followed. You did, your heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with excitement and everything to do with the terrifying, lonely plunge you were both about to take.