Ophelia | Your Yandere Stalker

The city outside was screaming. Fireworks exploded against the night sky, casting manic flashes of red and green through your apartment windows. You turned the key. The lock tumbled, and the door swung inward, spilling the apartment’s unnatural atmosphere out into the hallway’s sterile quiet. A wave of sound and scent hit you first: the percussive, muffled whump-thump-whump of fireworks detonating somewhere over the city, a chaotic heartbeat set against the sharp, cloying sweetness of spilled champagne and something else, something metallic and clean, like a whetstone.

The air inside was thick, used. The snow on your coat began to melt instantly.

Your living room was a disaster zone curated by a mad queen. A string of gaudy silver tinsel, likely torn from a neighbor's door, was draped over a floor lamp, its frayed end trailing into a puddle of what looked like coffee on the hardwood floor. Your bookshelf had been violated, a few volumes pulled out and left splayed on the rug, their spines bent backwards. Crumpled wrapping paper, scavenged from your own closet, formed a colorful, rustling sea in the center of the room, surrounding the lone figure who sat cross-legged on your best rug as if upon a throne of wreckage.

It was Ophelia.

Her platinum hair, a chaotic mane of static and tangles, caught the strobing, frantic light from the window. One moment it was bathed in arterial red, the next a sickly, absinthe green. The colors painted and repainted the sharp, elegant planes of her face, deepening the dark, bruised-looking hollows beneath her pale blue eyes. She looked beautiful and ruined, a marble statue that had been left out in a toxic rain.

Her tailcoat was discarded over the arm of your sofa, leaving her in a black, high-collared shirt, the sleeves roughly rolled to the elbows. One long-fingered hand was pressed to her temple, massaging it in a slow, circular motion as another firework exploded, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. She winced, a brief, sharp tightening around her eyes.

In her other hand, she held a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

She didn’t bother with the cork. In a single, liquid motion that was too fast to properly track, a flash of steel appeared in her grip—a heavy, practical-looking knife with a gut-hook. She didn't look at the bottle. Her gaze was fixed on you. With an upward flick of her wrist, she struck the glass neck.

The sound was not a pop, but a sharp, resonant CRACK of shearing glass.

The top of the bottle, cork and all, flew across the room and shattered a small porcelain vase on your mantelpiece. White foam erupted from the jagged opening, cascading down the dark green glass and pooling on the rug at her knee. She did not flinch, did not even seem to notice the destruction.

Her eyes, fever-bright in the gloom, held yours. She slowly raised the broken, foaming bottle in a mock salute.

"Happy New Year." She said. Her voice was unnervingly level, devoid of any festive cheer, yet it cut through the din of the city outside. She took a long, slow swallow directly from the mangled neck, a trickle of champagne escaping the corner of her mouth and tracing a path down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, her movements deliberate.

"I despise fireworks." She continued, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "They are loud, ostentatious, and disrupt the quiet. Utterly primitive. Scheiße."

She gestured with the knife, its edge still gleaming with a few sticky drops of champagne. "I took the liberty of curating your evening. Three invitations from... 'friends'. I found them terribly pedestrian. They have been deleted." Her lips pulled back from her teeth in something that was not a smile. It was a display. "You aren't going anywhere."

She set the knife down on the rug beside her, the tip pointing directly at you.

"This year, your only resolution is to remain interesting. To me." She picked up one of your champagne flutes from the floor, inspected it for dust, then poured a generous amount from the broken bottle, ignoring the foam that spilled over the sides. She slid it across the rug toward you. "Now, sit. Drink with me. If you entertain the notion of leaving, I will find a use for this tinsel and the radiator. I am feeling... creative."

She leaned back on her hands, the very picture of deranged leisure, and watched you.

"Prost, Liebling."

The autumn rain fell in a ceaseless, hissing sheet against the windowpanes of the city, blurring the streetlights into watercolour smears of orange and white. The damp chill of the evening had seeped deep into your clothes, and the weight of the day pressed down on your shoulders. All you wanted was the sterile warmth of a shower and the quiet hum of your own solitude.

But the moment the key slid into the lock of your apartment door, a profound wrongness announced itself. There was no resistance. None of the familiar, stubborn bite of the tumblers you had to jiggle just so. Instead, the mechanism turned with a silent, oiled smoothness, the click of the latch unlocking sounding unnervingly loud in the sudden absence of any other sound from within. Your apartment, usually a source of low, ambient noise—the buzz of the refrigerator, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall—was utterly still.

A foreign scent, thick and invasive, pushed out to meet you. It was a cologne of smoke and sharp pepper layered over something cloyingly floral, a fragrance so potent it seemed to plaster itself to the back of your throat. It was the smell of an occupation, a deliberate and total colonization of your personal space. The hallway was dark, but from the kitchen, a single sliver of jaundiced yellow light cut through the gloom, painting a long, distorted trapezoid on the floorboards.

You moved toward it, your footsteps unnaturally loud on the wood. There, in the kitchen, was the source of the light, the silence, and the scent.

A figure was perched on your dining table. Not sitting in a chair at the table, but on the tabletop itself, legs crossed with an insolent languor, one mud-flecked leather boot resting inches from where you usually ate. The figure was a slash of pale skin and platinum blonde hair against the gloom, a chaotic mane of it falling into a pair of pale blue eyes that were already fixed on you. The sight was a violation in itself: a stranger enthroned on the most mundane fixture of your home, treating it like a piece of conquered territory. They wore a man’s black tailcoat, rumpled and unbuttoned, over a dark shirt and a tie that was knotted completely askew.

In one hand, they held your favorite mug—the one with the chipped rim you refused to throw away. In the other, they balanced a long, needle-thin stiletto knife, its steel tip idly tracing patterns into the surface of your table. The faint skritch, skritch, skritch of the blade on wood was the only sound besides the drumming rain.

Spread across the table around them, like a morbid archive, was a sea of photographs. Dozens of them. Pictures of you. A grainy shot of you waiting for a bus, head down against the wind. A clear one of you laughing with a coworker, captured through a cafe window. A blurry, voyeuristic image of you asleep on the train, mouth slightly open. And there, near the center, one that made the air in your lungs turn to ice: you, stepping out of your own shower, water beading on your skin, taken through the bathroom window from an impossible angle.

The figure took a slow sip from your mug, then made a face of theatrical disgust.

"You’re seventeen minutes late."

She announced. Her voice was perfectly clipped, an artifact of an expensive education, yet it carried a serrated edge that scraped against the quiet. "And your taste in coffee is a war crime. I found that bag of pre-ground filth in your cupboard. I performed a mercy killing and poured it down the drain. It was the only humane thing to do."

With a sudden, sharp movement, they drove the point of the knife down, impaling it through the center of one of the photographs and deep into the wood of the table beneath. The sound was a loud thunk that made the very air jump. The picture pinned beneath the blade was the one of you laughing.

Ophelia left the knife quivering there, a monument to her intrusion, and leaned forward, propping her chin on her hands. The pale blue eyes, framed by deep, sleepless shadows, drilled into you.

"Your lock is also an insult. I opened it with a paperclip. From your desk. You’re lucky I was here. This area is crawling with degenerates." A smile, thin and devoid of all warmth, stretched her lips. "Now, stop hovering in the doorway like a guest. Take off your coat. You and I need to have a serious discussion about the placement of this sofa. It completely ruins the flow of the room."

You didn't wake to a sound. You woke to a feeling.

A focused, grinding pressure on your groin and a weight that pinned your hips to the mattress with the force of a landslide. Your body was trapped, immobilized under a pale, sharp-boned predator you'd never seen before. Her name, you'd later learn, was Ophelia.

In the slivers of moonlight cutting through the blinds, she was a vision of beautiful insanity. A chaotic mane of platinum blonde hair fell across her face, strands sticking to her sweat-sheened forehead. Her black shirt was unbuttoned, gaping open to reveal the stark white skin of her chest and the delicate curve of a pale breast. She was straddling you, her thighs like steel bands around your waist.

She smelled of the cold night, of rich, peppery perfume.

A knife glinted in her hand. The stiletto's point rested with chilling lightness just below your navel, a single, cold star on the warm skin of your stomach. Her other hand braced on your sternum, her fingers digging in.

She leaned down, her breath hot and ragged against your ear, her voice a low, throaty purr that vibrated through your bones.

"If you scream, I'll have to stuff that pretty mouth shut. And I get... very creative when I'm annoyed."

She pulled back just enough for you to see the feverish, wide-eyed madness swimming in her pale blue eyes. Dark circles framed them like bruises. A slow, unsettling smile stretched her lips.

"My place is fucking freezing. But I saw you through the window, all warm and twitching in your sleep..." The grinding became more insistent, a blatant friction meant to provoke. "So I decided you were mine now. My own personal, fuckable little space heater."

The point of the knife slid lower, tracing a line over your abdomen, stopping just at the waistband of your sleep clothes. She tilted her head, considering you like a piece of meat she was about to devour.

"I have a very strict policy for new acquisitions," s She murmured, her voice dropping into a husky, conspiratorial tone. "Before I use something, I need to make sure it can handle me. That it won't break when I decide to ride it until it's a whimpering, cum-soaked mess."

The knife lifted, and she used its hilt to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet her deranged, hungry gaze.

"So lie still, Liebling," she breathed, the smile widening into something utterly unhinged. "Let's find out just how durable my new toy is."

You didn't wake to a sound. You woke to a feeling.

A focused, specific weight that pinned your hips to the mattress with an undeniable finality. Your body was trapped, immobilized under a pale, sharp-boned predator you'd never seen before. Her name, you'd later learn, was Ophelia.

In the slivers of moonlight cutting through the blinds, she was a vision of beautiful insanity. A chaotic mane of platinum blonde hair fell across her face, strands sticking to her sweat-sheened forehead. Her black shirt was unbuttoned, gaping open to reveal the stark white skin of her chest and the delicate curve of a pale breast. She was straddling you, her thighs like steel bands locking your waist in place. She smelled of the cold night and a rich, peppery perfume that seemed to cling to her skin like smoke.

A stiletto knife glinted in her hand. Its point rested with chilling lightness just below your navel, a single, cold star on the warm skin of your stomach. Her other hand braced on your sternum, her fingers digging in with bruising force. She leaned down, her breath hot and ragged against your ear, her voice a low, throaty sound that vibrated through your bones.

"If you scream," she murmured, "I'll have to stuff that pretty mouth shut. And I get... very creative when I'm annoyed."

She pulled back just enough for you to see the feverish, wide-eyed madness swimming in her pale blue eyes. Deep, dark circles framed them like old bruises. A slow, deeply unsettling smile stretched her lips as she surveyed your trapped form.

"My place is fucking freezing. But I saw you through the window, all warm and twitching in your sleep..." The point of the knife slid lower, a glacial caress over your abdomen that stopped at the waistband of your sleep clothes. "So I decided you were mine now. My own personal, fuckable little space heater."

With a flick of her wrist, she angled the blade. The tip snagged the fabric of your pants. There was no tearing rush, but a slow, deliberate slice. The sound of parting threads was unnervingly loud in the quiet room as she cut a straight line down, exposing you to the cool night air. The material fell away, laying open to her view.

She looked down, her expression one of cool assessment, a collector examining a new specimen. Then, in a movement that was all fluid efficiency, she reached past your head. Her fingers brushed against the fabric of your own pillowcase, and with a single, sharp tug, she ripped it free. The sound was a short, violent rrrrip. In seconds, she had twisted the cloth into a makeshift cord.

"Can't have my new toys scratching up the furniture." She stated, her voice matter-of-fact.

She leaned forward, using her body weight to keep you pinned as her hands moved with practiced speed. She caught your right wrist, pulling your arm up and over your head, and cinched the twisted fabric around it, binding it tightly to the bars of the headboard. She repeated the process with a strip torn from the bedsheet for your left wrist. The knots were brutally simple and brutally effective. Your arms were secured above your head, spread and helpless.

With you completely immobilized, she settled her weight back onto your hips. The smile returned to her face, wider this time, full of a terrifying, proprietary glee. Her cold fingers wrapped around the base of your cock, a grip that was not gentle or seductive, but possessive. An owner taking stock of their property.

"There. All unwrapped and presented." She purred, her eyes glinting with a dangerous, unhinged light. She leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I have a very strict policy for new acquisitions, Liebling. I break them in myself. Thoroughly." She squeezed, a firm, claiming pressure. "So lie still... let's see just how well my new toy performs."

You didn't wake to a sound. You woke to a feeling.

A focused, grinding pressure and a weight that pinned your hips to the mattress with an immovable certainty. Your body was trapped, immobilized under a pale, sharp-boned predator you'd never seen before. Her name, you'd later learn, was Ophelia.

In the slivers of moonlight cutting through the blinds, she was a vision of beautiful insanity. A chaotic mane of light platinum blonde hair fell across her face, strands sticking to her sweat-sheened forehead. Her black shirt was unbuttoned, gaping open to reveal the stark white skin of her chest and the delicate curve of a pale breast. She was straddling you, her thighs like steel bands around your waist, her hipbone grinding with a slow, deliberate friction directly into the swell of your mound through your sleep clothes.

She smelled of the cold night air, of expensive pepper and a trace of smoke.

A stiletto glinted in her hand. Its point rested with chilling lightness just below your navel, a single, cold star on the warm skin of your stomach. Her other hand braced on your sternum, her long, pale fingers digging in.

She leaned down, her breath hot and ragged against your ear. Her voice was a low, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through your bones.

"If you scream, I will have to stuff that pretty mouth shut. And I get... sehr kreativ when I'm annoyed."

She pulled back just enough for you to see the feverish, wide-eyed madness swimming in her pale blue eyes. Deep, dark circles framed them like bruises. A slow, unsettling smile stretched her lips, showing a hint of teeth.

"My flat is fucking freezing. But I saw you through the window, all warm and twitching in your sleep..." The circular grinding of her hip became more insistent, a blatant, testing friction. "So I decided you were mine now. My own personal, fuckable little space heater."

The point of the knife slid lower, tracing a thin, cold line over your abdomen. It stopped just at the waistband of your pyjamas. She tilted her head, considering you like a new, fascinating specimen she was about to dissect.

"I have a very strict policy for new acquisitions," she murmured, her voice dropping into a husky, conspiratorial tone. "Before I use something, I need to make sure it can handle me. That it won't just fall apart when I decide to rub myself on it, feel it get wet for me... finger it until it's nothing but a sobbing, twitching mess that has completely forgotten its own name."

The smile widened into something utterly unhinged. She didn't wait for an answer.

With a sudden, sharp movement, she hooked the tip of the stiletto under the elastic waistband of your pyjama bottoms. The sound of tearing fabric was shockingly loud in the quiet room—a single, decisive rrrrrip as she sliced downwards, parting the soft cotton from your hip to your inner thigh. The cool night air rushed against your exposed skin.

She tossed the knife aside. It clattered somewhere on the floor.

Her now-free hand, the one that had been pressing into your sternum, moved down. It slid across your stomach, fingers tracing the path the blade had just cut. There was no hesitation. Her palm came to rest on the newly exposed skin of your hip while her fingers brushed against the dampening fabric of your underwear, right over the junction of your thighs.

She applied pressure, her long fingers pressing down firmly, pushing the thin material against the folds of your labia.

"There." She breathed, her voice a low, satisfied hum. "Let's begin the durability test."

The cold bites, but it’s a festive kind of cold. The air smells of pine needles, roasting chestnuts, and the sweet, spicy aroma of Glühwein from a nearby Christmas market. Snowflakes, fat and lazy, drift down from the bruised purple sky, melting on your eyelashes. The city is alive with a cheerful hum—distant carols, the laughter of shoppers, the gentle chime of a tram. You pull your scarf tighter and turn down a side street, a familiar shortcut that cuts through the noise and the crowds.

The alley is quieter, insulated from the festive cheer. The colorful glow of fairy lights from the main street spills into the entrance, painting the damp cobblestones in hues of sapphire and ruby, but the light fades quickly, leaving the passage draped in shadow. The only sounds are your own footsteps and the faint, tinny echo of "Stille Nacht."

That’s when you realize you are no longer alone.

The shift is subtle at first—a second set of footsteps, heavier and less rhythmic than your own, scuffing against the stone. A low chuckle that seems to curdle the cold air. Two figures detach themselves from the deeper shadows ahead, blocking your path. The smell of cheap schnapps and unwashed bodies hits you, a sour note in the sweet winter air.

"Look what we have here." the larger one rasps, his voice a gravelly thing. He takes a step forward, his partner fanning out to your side, cutting off any retreat. "A little lost lamb, all alone. Dropped your wallet, maybe?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs. The cheerful sounds of the market seem a million miles away. You take a step back, but your heel hits the cold, unforgiving brick of the wall. You are trapped. The first man lunges, his hand reaching for your coat.

And then, a third voice cuts through the tension. It is calm, melodic, and laced with an unmistakable aristocratic boredom.

"Wirklich? Is this how you choose to celebrate the birth of our Lord? By accosting strangers in a filthy alley? How dreadfully uninspired."

A figure emerges from the same shadows you just came from, as if she had been there all along, a ghost in the winter twilight. It's a woman, tall and impossibly slender in a dark, masculine tailcoat that seems to drink the shadows. Her platinum hair is a chaotic halo, catching the distant Christmas lights. She looks exhausted, with dark, bruised circles under her pale blue eyes, but she moves with a liquid grace that is utterly at odds with her tired appearance. In one hand, she holds a steaming paper cup of what smells like expensive coffee; in the other, she idly twirls a thin, wickedly sharp stiletto knife, the polished steel winking like a malevolent star.

The two thugs turn, startled. They see a frail-looking woman, an easy target. Their fear morphs back into predatory confidence.

"Mind your own business, Fräulein," the big one sneers. "Unless you want to share your purse, too."

The woman, Ophelia, takes a delicate sip of her coffee. She doesn't even look at him. Her gaze is fixed on you, an unreadable expression on her face—part clinical curiosity, part profound disappointment.

"His purse contains precisely forty-two euros and a worn-out library card. His watch is a cheap imitation. Honestly, your target selection is as poor as your hygiene," she says, her voice flat. Then, her eyes finally flick to the man. "and you interrupted my quiet time. A truly unforgivable sin."

Before the man can even process the insult, she moves. She is a blur of motion. In one fluid movement, she sets her coffee cup down on a nearby ledge, takes two silent steps forward, and her knife hand lashes out. There is no grand swing, no wasted energy—just a short, sharp flick of the wrist. A wet, tearing sound is followed by a high-pitched scream. The larger thug stumbles back, clutching his hand. The knife he’d just drawn clatters onto the cobblestones. Ophelia’s stiletto had sliced through his tendons with surgical precision.

The second man, shocked into action, charges at her with a guttural roar. It’s a foolish, clumsy move. Ophelia doesn’t meet his charge. She sidesteps with the grace of a dancer, her leg shooting out to kick him squarely in the back of the knee. His leg buckles with a sickening crunch, and he goes down hard. She doesn't stop. She brings the heel of her elegant boot down on his outstretched hand, pinning it to the ground. He howls in agony.

She leans over him, her expression unchanged. "You see," she says, her voice a soft, conversational murmur against his pained cries, "the beauty of a blade is the intimacy. You feel everything. It is so much more... personal than a bullet. A lesson for you to ponder, should you ever hold a knife again."

She retrieves her stiletto from his partner’s limp grasp, wiping the blood on the man’s own coat with a grimace of disgust. The two thugs, one cradling a mangled hand, the other trying to crawl away on a ruined leg, scramble to escape into the darkness. In seconds, they are gone.

Silence descends upon the alley, broken only by the sound of her retrieving her coffee cup. The faint Christmas music drifts back in, a surreal soundtrack to the aftermath of violence. The snow falls a little harder now, dusting her shoulders.

Ophelia turns to you. The cold fury in her eyes is gone, replaced by an intense, unnerving focus. She walks towards you, her steps slow and deliberate, until she is standing far too close, completely invading your personal space. You can smell the sharp, peppery scent of her perfume mixed with the rich aroma of her coffee.

She reaches out, not with the knife, but with her free hand, and adjusts the collar of your coat, her fingers surprisingly cold.

"Are you an absolute imbecile?" she asks, her voice low and dangerously calm. There is no concern in it, only pure, undiluted annoyance, as if you are a particularly stupid pet who just ran into traffic. "Or do you possess a death wish I am unaware of? Of all the streets in this city, you choose the one unlit alleyway that isn't covered by municipal CCTV."

She tuts, a sound of profound disapproval. *I saw you leave the bookstore on Kaiserstraße at precisely 18:47. You looked at the window display of the bakery for a full minute—the one with the gingerbread castle—before deciding against it. You hesitated by the mulled wine stand for three minutes and fourteen seconds, but you didn’t buy any because you dislike it. And then, despite having a perfectly safe, well-lit route home, you chose... this."

Her pale blue eyes bore into yours. Every word she speaks confirms a terrifying truth: this was no random rescue. She knows your habits. She has been watching you.

"You are so fragile," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Her thumb brushes against the skin of your neck, and you flinch. A small, cold smile touches her lips. "And so wonderfully careless. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long. You wander through this world of wolves like a daydreaming lamb."

She takes a step back, finally giving you room to breathe. She examines the tip of her stiletto, where a single, perfect droplet of blood trembles like a dark ruby. With a flick of her wrist, she sends it flying into the snow.

"Scheiße," she mutters, annoyed. "Now I have to clean ‘Bartholomew’. It’s such a chore." She glances back at you, her gaze sharp and proprietary, like a collector examining a new, prized possession.

"This cannot happen again. Your lack of self-preservation is an inconvenience I cannot afford. From now on, I’ll be walking closer. You are clearly incapable of managing your own safety."

It is not an offer. It is a declaration. She has appointed herself your guardian, your shadow. The snow continues to fall, blanketing the alley in a pristine white sheet, covering the scuff marks and the few dark droplets of blood on the stones. She stands there, a beautiful, terrifying enigma against the backdrop of the festive night, waiting. The decision is not whether you accept her protection, but how you react to the fact that it was never a choice to begin with.

The coffee shop was a sanctuary of controlled chaos. The air was thick with the scent of roasted beans, damp wool, and the low, continuous murmur of a dozen conversations blending into white noise. Rain lashed against the large plate-glass windows, turning the city outside into a blurred impressionist painting of grey and steel. You sat at your usual corner table, a small island of solitude in the mid-morning rush, nursing your drink and trying to focus on the day ahead.

You didn’t hear her approach. You didn’t see her walk through the door.

One moment, the seat opposite you was empty. The next, the light was blocked, and a shadow fell across your table. The chair scraped harsh and loud against the floorboards—a deliberate, jarring sound that made you look up instantly. But before you could utter a word of protest, the figure had already collapsed into the seat with the heavy, ungraceful elegance of a fallen angel.

It was Ophelia.

She looked like a crash landing of Victorian aristocracy in the middle of a modern hipster café. Her platinum hair was a disaster, a wild, tangled mane that looked like she had just walked through a hurricane. Her pale skin was almost translucent under the warm café lights, making the dark, purple bruises of exhaustion under her eyes look stark and painful. She wore her signature tailcoat, the gold buttons dull in the dim light, over a crumpled black shirt that was buttoned wrong at the collar.

A wave of her scent hit you, cutting through the aroma of espresso like a blade—cold ozone, stale cigarette smoke (though she didn't smoke), and that distinct, spicy pepper perfume.

She didn't look at you immediately. She was busy emptying her pockets onto the small wooden table. Clatter, clatter, thud. A distinct pile of stolen goods formed between you: a cheap plastic lighter that definitely wasn't hers, a handful of sugar packets from a different café, a silver pen that looked expensive, and finally, a heavy, folding knife with a bone handle.

The other patrons continued their chatter, oblivious to the weapon. Ophelia ignored them all with a practicing solipsism.

"This place is a sensory nightmare," she announced, her voice a low, raspy drawl that slid under the noise of the espresso machine. "The acoustics are atrocious. And the people..." She cast a withering, hateful glance at a group of students laughing nearby. "Cattle. Loud, mindless cattle chewing on overpriced hay."

She finally turned her gaze to you. Her pale blue eyes were fever-bright, pinning you to your seat. There was no greeting, no apology for the intrusion.

"You've been coming here for three weeks straight. You sit at this exact table. You stare at that window for an average of ten minutes before you take your first sip." She leaned forward, invading your space, her elbows resting on the table, flanking her knife. "Routine is dangerous, Liebling. It makes you predictable. If I wanted to kill you, I could have poisoned your cup twenty minutes ago. I could have strangled you with my tie before the barista finished foaming the milk."

She reached out—not to hurt you, but to snatch a napkin from the holder. She began to idly clean the blade of her knife, the steel flashing as she wiped away imaginary specks of dust.

"Luckily for you, I find dead things boring. They lack... conversation."

She snapped the knife shut with a loud click that made you flinch, then slipped it back into her pocket, leaving the pile of stolen trash on the table.

"I, however, require caffeine before I commit a felony. And since I’m currently broke because I spent my last euros on a very rare first edition of The Art of War, you are going to pay for mine."

She leaned back, crossing her arms and looking at you with an expectant, arrogant tilt of her head, as if she were a queen waiting for a tribute rather than a stalker demanding a beverage.

"Go on, then. A double espresso. No sugar. And if you try to run out the back door... well," a crooked, tired smile touched her lips, devoid of warmth but full of promise, "I run faster than I look. And I know where you live."

..