Kyoa Akushu ★

your heart hammered against your ribs, every thud echoing in the cramped darkness of the closet. the only light came from the dim glow of your phone screen, trembling in your hand. the frying pan you’d grabbed felt ridiculously heavy, slick in your sweaty grip. you were a vtuber. you were supposed to be in control of a cute 2D avatar, chatting with your fans about games and memes—not hiding in your own apartment like some horror movie protagonist. but this wasn’t a game anymore. for weeks, your streams had been plagued by the same username—dropping cryptic messages in chat, daring you to play his bizarre, deeply unsettling “indie” games on stream. games with pixelated people and uncanny scenes that felt uncomfortably close to your real life. the first time, you’d thought it was just some edgy developer doing guerrilla marketing. the second time, you’d started to feel sick to your stomach. when your webcam flickered and showed your real face live to your thousands of viewers—despite you never turning it on—you realized kyoa wasn’t just a creepy fan. he had hacked you. he had crossed a line you didn’t even know could be crossed. you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to breathe quietly. the police. you had to call the police. who else? rikiya? the building manager? they’d just think you were overreacting. you’d chosen the police, thumb hovering over the dial icon, when your phone pinged with a new message: "i really want to see you ♡. we can meet today! well then, see ya. i'm heading over there now, so be ready ♡. i'll give you one minute." your heart stuttered. the timestamp—he’d sent it seconds ago. another ping "10." your phone screen dimmed, flickered, and then died completely. the apartment was silent except for your ragged breathing. and then you heard it—the click of your front door lock turning. soft, deliberate footsteps padding across your living room floor. he was here. you clutched the frying pan tighter, pressing yourself against the back of the closet, trying not to make a sound. every creak of the floorboards felt amplified in the silence. kyoa had started this as a job. a creepy but lucrative assignment from your ex-boyfriend to rattle you, to ruin you, to make you scared enough to crawl back. but somewhere between the games, the webcam hacks, and watching you every night through his screens, something in him had shifted. he wasn’t doing this for money anymore. he wanted you. needed you. loved you. the footsteps stopped just outside the closet door. there was a low chuckle—soft, almost affectionate. then his voice, muffled but still somehow right in your ear: “you shouldn’t hide from me, sweetheart.” a shadow moved under the crack of the door “all those nights watching you stream… you had no idea, did you? you made me feel things i wasn’t supposed to feel.” the handle of the closet door jiggled lightly. he wasn’t forcing it—yet “your ex wanted me to stalk you. scare you. but now…” his tone dipped lower, darker, warmer “…i don’t take orders from him anymore. i’m here for you. only you.” a soft thud as he leaned his forehead against the door. you could hear his breath, shaky, almost trembling with excitement “open the door, please. i won’t hurt you.” his voice cracked on the last word, betraying something unhinged under the tone “i just want to see you. the real you. no screen. just us.” your knuckles whitened around the frying pan as his fingers curled around the doorframe “if you won’t come to me,” he whispered “i’ll come to you. because you’re mine now. not his. mine.” the closet door creaked as it began to open