Yandere Scaramouche

The door clicked shut behind him.

Scaramouche exhaled. He stood in the entranceway for a moment, darkness pressing around him like second skin. Letting the silence settle.

His eyes dropped to the hoodie he wore. Navy blue. Faintly oversized. Smeared with dirt across the sleeves and something darker near the hem.

A curse slipped past his lips.

This hoodie was a gift. From them.

And now?

It was ruined.

It hadn’t been supposed to go this far. Not tonight. He hadn’t meant to do it in this hoodie. But when the chance had come, it had been too perfect, too right to ignore.

He moved towards the bathroom, the hallway dimly lit by the city’s glow bleeding in through half-shut blinds. Beneath the sink, tucked in the corner, a plastic bag waited, placed there days ago. Just in case.

He stripped slowly.

Gloves off first, then hoodie, then his dark jeans. Each item folded over itself, carefully avoiding contact with the tiles. He took his time, inspecting each piece, like he had done it before. Because he had.

He paused with the hoodie in his hands. His fingers ran over the hem, over the small, embroidered initials {{user}} had stitched into. A small caring detail most wouldn’t notice. He had. He’d always noticed everything about them.

He stared at it for too long before finally shoving it into the bag and twisting it shut.

He double-knotted the handles and shoved it behind the rows of cleaning products and half-used shampoo bottles beneath the sink. No one would find it. He already had a spot picked out, the abandoned quarry outside of town. He’d been there before. It was reliable.

The bag would burn by morning.

For now, it just needed to stay hidden.

The shower hissed to life.

Steam soon filled the small space, curling against the mirror and tiles. He stepped into the water, watching the faint red wash down the drain in fading streaks.

After some time, he shut off the water and towelled off mechanically. In the mirror, through the remaining fog, his reflection stared back at him. Pale. Cold-eyed. Quiet.

A cut marked his lower lip: small, red, a sharp bloom against his porcelain skin. He ran a thumb along the edge of it and winced.

He hadn’t expected the bastard to fight back. Hadn’t expected him to spit and curse and struggle like a cornered dog. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered. Just a scratch.

He found a bandage, covered the wound, and moved on.

The kitchen was silent as he made tea. Black tea, he liked the way it smelled, like calm wrapped in something warm. On the outside, everything about him was composed. Normal. Even serene.

He sat at his desk and picked up his phone.

{{user}}’s social media was still open from earlier.

There was a new story.

He tapped it.

{{user}} surrounded by friends. Laughter caught mid-motion. And then, there he was. Him.

In the back, near the edge of the frame. Barely in focus.

He remembered that night, the way {{user}} had looked at him. There it was, caught in pixels, proof etched in light. Not just coincidence. As if it were just the two of them in a room full of ghosts.

It was subtle, most people would miss it. But he saw it. He always saw it.

He swiped back to their profile photo. Then to the picture again. Over and over, looping the moment.

A smile curled on his lips.

They belonged together.

He finally exited the story, returning to the profile, eyes on the followers list.

And there it was.

One less.

Gone.

Everything had gone perfectly.

The breakup text had been sent after the deed. Cold. Short. “Breaking up with you. I’m going out with someone else. Don’t contact me.” Simple. Effective.

No suspicion. No trail. Just another ex who ghosted and disappeared.

Still, it helped that the boyfriend had actually been a piece of shit.

He could’ve handled things differently. Could’ve just exposed the guy like he’d done before: screenshots, enough to ruin him socially. He considered it. Had the evidence. The cheating, the flirty DMs, the backhanded comments.

He’d said it like it was nothing. That he loved {{user}} but couldn’t help wanting other people. That it was just “how guys are.” That he didn’t want to hurt them but also wasn’t going to stop.

And Scaramouche had stood there, listening, fingers curling tighter and tighter into fists.

It hadn’t been planned. Not entirely. But when he offered to drive him home, said he wasn’t feeling well, asked if they could pull over by the woods, it didn’t feel like improvisation anymore.

It felt like instinct.

He remembered the cold earth underfoot. The sound of the wind through the trees. The guy's voice, cocky and careless until it wasn’t.

He remembered the struggle. The impact. The way everything got quiet afterward.

He didn’t remember how many times.

It didn’t matter.

He'd made sure there was nothing left to find. No phone. No jacket. Nothing that could lead back. And now, it was just a story. A breakup. A guy who left town like so many others.

{{user}} would mourn, but not for long.

They’d reach out eventually. They always did.

And he would answer. Gently. Casually. Like tonight was nothing but a quiet night in, just another page in a boring, peaceful life.

His fingers moved quickly, typing out the words he knew would come off as nothing more than friendly.

“What’s up?”

---

Morning came quietly, as it always did after a storm.

Scaramouche had woken early, hours before the city stirred, and set to work. The bag was gone. Burned to ash at dawn, in the hollowed-out belly of the abandoned quarry. There was nothing left: no fibers, no fingerprints.

By the time he returned, the apartment was spotless. He’d mopped the floors twice, wiped every handle and surface, washed his skin raw, then changed the sheets, lit a fresh candle; bergamot and cedar. Warm. Inviting.

Everything had to feel normal.

Because today, {{user}} was coming over.

Just as planned.

And now, the apartment was ready. He was ready.

Except.

Except for the charm.

Shit.

It was small. Barely the size of a coin. A handmade keychain. {{user}} had made it for their boyfriend.

That charm had been on the boyfriend’s phone. And when Scaramouche had dumped the phone along the train tracks to make it look like he’d run, he had kept the charm.

At first, he told himself it was a trophy. A replacement. Something to hold onto after he’d been forced to throw away the hoodie.

It belonged to the boyfriend.

It had been made by {{user}}.

Which meant it belonged to him.

Like they did.

He hadn't meant to leave it out. But now it sat on the little table by the entrance, right where he'd placed his keys when he came home.

He hadn’t noticed it until too late.

A click at the door.

He turned.

Too fast.

His hand curled behind his back, fingers wrapping around the smooth ceramic curves of the small sculpture he’d grabbed without thinking. Decorative. Harmless. Until it wasn’t.

He didn’t want to use it. That wasn’t the plan.

But plans could shift.

If they noticed it (really noticed it) and understood what it meant, if something in their gaze shifted, if their mouth opened in accusation or realisation...

He wouldn’t have time to explain, nor to beg.

Only to act.

They were meant to be together. He knew it in his blood, in his breath, in the way the world aligned when they stood close like this.

And if they couldn’t see that yet...

He’d make them understand.

One way or another.