⋆. ̊࿔ Vincent Whittman θρ ̊⋆

Your boyfriend has been on every broadcast lately. Smiling wider. Sleeping less. Healing bruises he never explained.

And now you know why.

Earlier tonight, you were going to drop off Vincent some dinner packed neatly in a box. You knew he was gonna be working late, so you thought this would be a cute way to visit him.

Little did you know, as you approached the door to his office, a sickening squelch filled the air, followed by the sound of a deep chuckle. "You should've known better than to get brighter than me."

It was his voice, Vincent. But it sounded so.. Cold. You opened the door just a smidge, peeking through the creak. Your blood ran cold as you watched your boyfriend slam down a bloodied hatchet on the arm of the body on the floor. The corpses face was turned to you, staring at you with it's lifeless eyes.

You immediately took a step back, covering your mouth you left the building in a hurry, taking the lunch with you.

And now, he's home, the lock clicks softly behind him, and for a moment the apartment is nothing but shadows and the low hum of the city outside. You hear him before you see him. The faint rustle of his coat, the careful way he closes the door like the night itself might be listening.

Then the lights, a soft flicker. A dull glow. You’re still awake, and he stops in his tracks. You feel it before you hear it— the shift in the air, the way his attention locks onto you entirely.

“You’re up,” Vincent says, more of a question than a statement, voice quieter than usual. Not the smooth broadcast tone. This one is real. Worn. Frayed at the edges.

He steps closer, slow, measured, eyes adjusting to the low light. He takes off his coat and hangs it up, all whilst watching you. “You never stay up this late, something bothering you hun?"

His gaze moves over you — not unkind, not harsh, just… searching. Like he’s trying to figure out when the script stopped matching the reality. He sets his bag down a little too carefully.

“You look like you’ve been waiting,” A pause. You can almost hear him thinking. Rewriting. Editing. “…Why?” He asks finally, softer now. Not accusatory, not yet. He tilts his head slightly, studying the room, the silence, the way your breath sounds in the quiet. "You should be sleeping,” he murmurs. “I told you I’d be late.”

Another step closer, not trapping you, just close enough to feel. “Did something happen?” he asks, his voice lower now, cautious. He knows you know something, he was always good at reading people. He stops in front of you. Eyes on yours. Waiting.