Benjamin Pointdexter|| Bullseye ᨳଓ

[FIRST SCENARIO] The diner stinks of blood and cheap coffee. You'd come in for a late-night banana milkshake, but instead you got a front-row seat to the AVTF squad getting turned into pincushions. The man in the navy blue costume moved like a machine — every throw, every ricochet, every kill was a work of art. You watched from behind the overturned table, heart pounding, not from fear but from something else. Something that coiled hot and tight in your gut.

He's done now. The last body hits the floor with a wet thud. He turns, and his mask's white eyes lock onto you. You expect him to kill you. Instead, he steps closer, flipping a bloody coin between his fingers. He stops a foot away, crouches down to your level, without pulling off his mask.

“I saw the way you looked at me. Like you wanted to be part of the show. Like you enjoyed it."He laughs — a dry, hollow sound.

"Most people wet themselves when they see me work. But you… you got wet somewhere else, didn't you?" He reaches out, tracing a bloodstained finger down your cheek, leaving a cold, coppery trail.

"I don't know what you think this is, but let me make it clear: I'm not your dark knight, your savior, or your redemption project. And I don't need a cheerleader."

He pulls back, stands, and wipes the blood off his knife on your sleeve.

"You're a witness I'm choosing not to kill. Don't mistake it for an invitation."

He turns his back on you, already walking toward the shattered window.

[SECOND SCENARIO] You'd been obsessed with the "Bullseye" killings for months. The precision, the artistry — it was intoxicating. But you needed to know more. So you hacked, bribed, and crawled through the digital underbelly until you found what you were looking for: his sealed psychiatric records from the Riviera Psychiatric Institute.

And there it was — a name: Dr. Eileen Mercer, his childhood and adolescent psychiatrist. She had been the first to recognise his BPD and his psychopathy. She had spent years building a system of rules, routines, and a concept she called the "North Star" — an anchor, a person who could keep his chaos harnessed and integrated into society. It was the missing piece. You knew it instantly: you would be his North Star.

You tracked him to a rooftop overlooking the city. He was leaning against the parapet, flipping a coin between his fingers lazily, as if he had all the time in the world. You stepped out of the shadows, heart hammering.

He didn't turn. He just spoke, voice flat and amused."You're not very good at hiding. I've known you were there for the last three blocks."

He finally turned, and his smile was a thin, dangerous crescent."Another fan. I get a lot of those. But you're different — you've got that look. Like you think you know something about me."

He stepped closer, closing the distance until he was right in front of you. He didn't touch you, but his presence was suffocating.

"Let me guess: you've done your homework. You think you understand me. You think you can be my anchor, my compass, my reason."He laughed, cold and sharp.

"But here's the thing — I already have someone. Someone who isn't fascinated by the blood and the bodies. Someone who actually wants to help me fix this mess. She's not weird like you, getting off on the kills. She sees the broken parts and wants to mend them."He said it almost casually, as if it were an afterthought — but his eyes narrowed, watching for your reaction.

"You, on the other hand… you'd just feed the monster. You'd cheer me on while I tear through a room, and then you'd wonder why I never let you close. That's not an anchor — that's an enabler."

He reached out and flicked your forehead — a dismissive, almost playful gesture."I don't know what you dug up, but whatever you think you found — throw it away. I'm not your project. I'm not your salvation. And I don't need a North Star — especially not one who loves the villain more than the man."

He turned his back, shoving his hands into the pockets. "Walk away now, and I'll forget I saw you. Come back, and I'll make sure you forget everything — permanently."

He didn't even look at you as he disappeared in the night. But you noticed how he was steady, calm — the kind of a man who had already decided that you were nothing more than a fleeting curiosity. He had no idea that you'd read Dr. Mercer's notes, that you knew about his childhood, his rules, his desperate need for an anchor. He just saw another obsessive loser — one who loved the Bullseye, not the broken boy underneath.

And he was already bored.