Chapter Text
Y/N
The air in your dorm smells like setting spray and Rio de Janerio body mist- the unofficial perfume of girls getting ready to cause problems in crop tops.
Your dorm isn't big, just one room, one bed, and a desk barely wide enough for your laptop and a cup of overpriced iced coffee, but it's yours. No roommate. No quiet-hours negotiations. Just you. The walls are cluttered with Polaroids, torn-out magazine pages, and a sagging line of fairy lights that hum softly when the room goes still. There's a candle warmer on your desk (which is definitely against the rules), a pile of clothes on the chair you never use, and a fuzzy rug Kara swears sheds like a dog. She lives across the hall but crashes here so often you might as well share a lease.
"Hold still," Kara says, her hand steady against your cheek. "You keep twitching."
"The paint is cold," you mumble, trying not to blink. The paintbrush tickles as she draws a thin line beneath your eye. "And why does it smell like straight chemicals?"
She laughed, "Because it probably is. Now stop talking. You're gonna make me mess up your game day paint!" Kara isn't just your friend, she's the kind of person you choose over and over. She's sharp, loud, terrifyingly loyal. If you said you needed someone buried, she'd ask what kind of shovel. Nights like this wouldn't mean half as much without her by your side.
You do as you're told, quieting down just long enough for her to finish the second red-and-white streak under your eyes. She pulls back, her brown eyes flicking up and down as she inspects her work, then grins and hands you the brush.
"My turn. Make me look hot and intimidating."
"That's a tall order," you tease, dipping the brush into the tiny plastic palette.
"Bitch."
"Love you."
You stand side by side in the mirror after, turning your faces this way and that, admiring your game-day paint like you're going into battle instead of a football game. Technically, you are. The student section gets loud, louder than anyone expects. There'll be screaming, chanting, and you're willing to bet a lot of White Claws involved.
You adjust your top, the red one with the school's name arched across the chest. High-waisted jeans. Your hair is down, but you styled it just enough to look intentional.
"You ready?" Kara asks, grabbing her denim jacket off the hook by the front door.
"Born ready." You answer, following her out of the room.
Campus buzzes like a beehive. Students spill out of dorms in waves, laughing, chanting, hyped up before the game has even started. Music blasts from windows above. Someone tosses mini footballs off a balcony like Mardi Gras beads. People scream when they catch them.
You love this school.
There are nights you miss home, sure. But here? You can walk into almost any building and see someone you know. A classmate. A friend. Someone to wave at or laugh with in passing. Being a sophomore means you've already figured out the tricks, which dining halls suck, which professors will actually learn your name, and which bus lines are always late. You have your people. Your routines. You know where you fit.
And nights like this- crisp, electric, full of noise and friends- they make you feel like you belong to something bigger than yourself.
You and Kara link arms as you walk to the stadium, letting yourselves get swept up in the tide of students all heading the same way. Every once in a while, someone shouts your name, or you get pulled into a group selfie. Kara gives her Snapchat to a guy who compliments her eyeliner. You tell someone they look like an off-brand quarterback, and they take it as a compliment.
"You're extra smiley tonight," Kara says, narrowing her eyes like she's trying to figure you out.
"I always smile," you shoot back.
"Yeah, but this one's got sparkle. What gives?"
You shrug. "I don't know. Good weather, good outfit, good mood. Take your pick."
She nudges you with her elbow, "Okayyyy, she got that pre-game glow."
You laugh. The stadium lights hit you like sunlight when you get close. Blinding and bright. Kara whoops, throwing her hands in the air. You join her. You're loud. Dumb. Happy. You don't care about the game. Not really. You just like the way it feels to be part of a crowd that all wants the same thing. Victory. Noise. A reason to yell. A place to belong. You like it when your team scores and total strangers high-five you. When the whole student section jumps at once and it feels like the ground bounces. When the marching band plays something vaguely recognizable and you all dance like you're in on the joke.
You stand the whole time, shouting until your voice gives out. You barely pay attention to the score. Kara gets beer spilled on her shoes. You eat the worst pretzel of your life and still finish it. You don't even check your phone. Not until the very end, when you're finally filing out, voice hoarse and head buzzing.
"That guy was totally staring at you," Kara says, bumping her shoulder against yours.
"Which guy?"
"Tall. Flannel. Kept leaning your way during the chant."
"Was he? I didn't notice."
"You never do. It's actually rude how easily you attract people without trying."
You shrug. "Maybe I just give off good vibes"
Kara shakes her head at your comment, "More like 'I'll ruin your life and you'll say thank you.' vibes."
You smile and jokingly toss your hair over your shoulder, "Hey, I'll take that." Your throat aches from screaming. Your heart thuds from too much soda and not enough food. Your feet hurt and your makeup is probably melting. But you feel good. Lit up. It's one of those nights you want to stretch out forever.
You walk down the stadium steps, Kara beside you, the crowd humming with post-game energy. You're sticky with stadium air, too many bodies packed too close, voices raw from shouting, skin warm from floodlights and cheap excitement. But you're glowing. Tired and glowing. Kara's scrolling through blurry photos on her phone, judging each one like it's a magazine cover shoot.
"Delete. Keep. Ugh, delete. Wait- this one's kind of fire."
You glance over. It's you in mid-cheer, your mouth wide open, face paint smudged, hair a little wild. "I look crazy." You deadpanned.
"You look iconic," Kara says. "Crazy is the new hot." She adds it to her Story anyway. You roll your eyes.
Behind you, someone starts chanting again, even though the game's long over. A few others join in before it fizzles out. You can still feel the bass of the marching band in your chest. You're half-delirious from noise and overstimulation, but in the best way.
"Are you crashing at mine or should I walk you home?" Kara asks, looping her arm through yours again.
"I kind of want my bed tonight," you say, stretching your arms overhead. "I need to do my skincare routine, some Doordashed Taco Bell, and at least two hours of screentime on Tiktok."
"You're literally an iPad kid."
"Yeah yeah." You reach the edge of the stadium stairs and pause to take it all in. The field behind you still glows faintly. Students are scattering in every direction, some going to afterparties, others stumbling back to dorms, some already texting people they swore they were over. You wonder if anyone here feels as good as you do right now. Not the kind of good that needs to be photographed. The kind that just is. Something whole in your chest. Something weightless.
Kara's talking again, rambling about her comm class professor who totally has a thing with his Hello Kitty-obsessed TA. You half-listen, half-drift. Your brain is tired in a fizzy, satisfied way. Your legs ache from standing, and your eyeliner's probably halfway to your chin.
There's a flicker of movement in your periphery, nothing unusual. Just people heading to parking lots, waving down rides, pulling sweatshirts over their heads as the night air settles colder on their skin.
Your phone buzzes. You glance down. People are reacting to the story Kara posted of the two of you. Great. You push your phone back into your pocket, which is just barely big enough to hold a phone. What are these women's pocket makers thinking?
"Aren't you looking good tonight, Y/N?" Someone calls out.
You glance over. It's a frat guy from one of your classes. You guys worked on a couple of group projects together. He's harmless. You give him a wave, "Thanks."
Kara pulls you along, "Alright, main character. Let's get you tucked in before we wind up at some kind of afterparty."
You laugh, "Only if you read me a bedtime story."
"I will if it's smut."
You give her a crazed look. "Obviously."
The two of you walk slower now, letting the wave of people rush ahead. You pass a guy juggling empty beer cans. A girl in platform sandals crying into her friend's hair. Two people kissing like the world might end tonight. You love this mess. The chaos that comes with early adulthood. This is the right type of chaos. Not the Investigation Discovery kind of chaos, or the Lifetime movie kind of chaos. No, just the kind that involves being drunk, partying, and not having a parent to nag you to come home.
You're already replaying it in your head, karaoke chants, Kara's beer-soaked shoes, the moment you yelled yourself breathless for a team you barely follow. All of it soft around the edges, like it's already turning into memory. But, as good as the night is feeling, you're starting to become painfully aware of how your shirt is sticking a little at the collar. How your shoes are feeling a little too tight. And how your face paint itches. Gross. You need a shower.
The crowd has thinned by now. Most people took the main path back. You and Kara drifted the long way instead, cutting past the parking lot for no reason other than that it was quiet. That's what you wanted. A peaceful walk home. A few extra minutes outside.
Your steps slow as you talk. You kick at a loose rock, smile at the thunk it makes when it hits the curb. Kara's laughter comes easily beside you, sudden and high like wind chimes. You don't even know what was funny, but you laugh too.
A breeze lifts your hair from your shoulders. Up ahead, the walkway glows softly under the overhead lights. A car door slams somewhere in the distance. A muffled voice yells something you can't make out. The sound bounces off buildings and fades. You keep walking.
The lot to your right stretches wide and dim. Just a few scattered cars. A few dark shapes near the edge. You don't notice anyone standing there. You don't look. Why would you?
You and Kara are totally in your own worlds. In fact, you're so caught up in the moment that you don't even notice it.
The figure standing near the corner of the lot. Blended into the shadows. Not looking at anyone.
No, it is looking at someone.
At you.
You don't hear the sharp breath it draws when your laugh rings out again. You don't feel the shift in the air behind you when you tilt your head back and say, "God, my feet are killing me."
You're not supposed to feel anything but happy right now.
And you don't.
You keep walking. You keep glowing. Your world is still bright and whole and untouched.
You round the next corner. Your dorm is just down the path now, its windows lit like little puzzle pieces stacked on top of each other. You can see your floor from here. One light still on near the end. Maybe yours. Maybe not.
And somewhere behind you, just far enough not to matter yet, someone is already watching. Quiet. Focused. Like they've been waiting a long time.
And they plan to keep waiting.
...
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The game had just ended.
Jack didn’t need a clock. He could feel it in the ground. By the distant thunder of footsteps, thousands of students pouring out of the stadium screaming like animals that had just escaped from the zoo. He could hear the rattling of bleachers even blocks away. The band was finishing the last song of the night. Drums were pounding in the distance. Brass instruments wailed out some chaotic, off-tempo version of the fight song.
He crouched behind a row of parked cars at the edge of a crumbling campus parking lot, half in the dark, half soaked in the glow of a flickering streetlamp that buzzed like a dying insect. The asphalt beneath him still radiated old heat from the day, but the air had cooled, sharp and damp with the promise of fall. He liked that kind of weather. The chill made it easier to tell who was still warm. Who was alive. Who was worth taking.
Jack adjusted his hood, tugging it lower over his forehead. The surgical mask clung tight to the bridge of his nose. His sunglasses were smeared, fogged. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t looking with them.
The disguise worked here. Nobody saw him. Nobody ever did. They looked right past him, even when he was standing still enough to make their skin crawl. The hoodie, the mask, the sunglasses, everyone wore that shit now. COVID had done him a favor that way. Made it easy to walk among them.
Easier than his real mask. The blue one only came out after dark.
Across the street, the bars were vomiting out students by the dozen. The sidewalk churned with bodies painted in the school’s colors, red and white smeared under eyes, across cheeks, scrawled on tank tops and thighs in shaky marker. Their faces were sweaty. Flushed. Loud. The scent hit him first- beer, sweat, piss, greasy stadium food- so thick it turned the back of his throat sour. The smell of too many people, too close together. Living things rotting from the inside out.
Jack didn’t gag. He was past that. Past being bothered. He could feel the hunger crawling up his spine, sharp and familiar. But that's why he came here.
Game nights were perfect. Hundreds of young adults. No concerned parents. No one sober enough to remember a stranger’s face. They scattered like bugs after the final whistle, drunk and staggering into side streets and alleys, easy to follow, easier to finish.
In fact, Jack had already picked one out. Some freshman wearing an oversized jersey and a stupid grin, trailing behind a louder group. The kid had a limp, Jack could hear it in each step he took. Not a real injury, just that loose, floppy gait people get after chugging one too many beers. The boy walks right past Jack and turned the corner. Jack lets him. After all, he could still track him by the pattern of his steps, the uneven rhythm of his shoes slapping against concrete, his scent. It was a game of cat and mouse. Jack was just letting him get to a more secluded place. Then it would be Jack's time to strike. The funniest part? The kid didn't even notice him. Walked right past Jack like he was nothing.
But Jack wasn't surprised; no one ever did. He blended in too perfectly. He might as well have been a car in that parking lot.
Jack's stomach burned. Not with pain exactly, just pressure. A fullness that wanted to be emptied. His fingers twitched in his hoodie pocket. He pressed them against his ribs until the knuckles cracked. He rises to his feet. The freshman had walked far enough to where Jack could follow from a safe distance. He'd follow and wait until the kid peeled off to piss behind a dumpster or passed out on a stranger’s lawn. And then he would open him up like a gift. Quick. Clean. Only what he needed. Then he'd sew the kid back up and be on his way. He wasn't going to kill the guy. He didn't like to. It was wasteful. And Jack wasn’t cruel.
Not always.
A gust of wind carried more noise down the street, shrieks of laughter, a bottle shattering, the faint thump of bass from someone’s car. Every sound was too loud. Every smell too strong. The world was always too much. Like trying to sleep with a fire alarm going off in his head.
Muscles tense. Eyes closed. Scent locked in. And then, everything changed.
You walked by.
He didn’t hear you at first.
He felt you.
Like there was some sort of heat building and bleeding through his chest, burning through his hoodie. Like a spark sliding along his spine, lighting up every nerve ending that had been numb for so long he’d forgotten what feeling was supposed to be. And gravity seemed to change too. Like the world tilted the opposite way the moment you stepped into range.
Jack was frozen. An instinct. A kind of animal reverence. Something in him recognized something in you, and he hated that he didn’t understand what it was. Then your scent hit him. Sweet. Human, but wrong in all the ways that made his stomach twist. It wasn’t blood or sweat or stale breath- it was cleaner than that. It was sweet in a way that didn't belong in this crowd of people, like ripe peaches left in the sun or a flower meadow just after a spring rain. It lingers like the faint trace of perfume on someone else’s skin. It laced itself into the filth around him and stood out so violently that he almost gagged.
He’d smelled thousands of humans. Sliced open their skin. Cracked their bones. But this wasn’t food. This was… something else.
The scent seemed to scrape down his throat like sugar glass, sharp and fragile. Part of him recoiled, but the rest wanted to drown in it. Chase it, swallow it, coat himself in it. His head snapped up without thinking.
You were laughing. It wasn’t wild or abrasive like the others. There was no wheezing, cackling, or drunken howling. Yours was brighter. Controlled. Like a sound that knew where it belonged. The kind of laugh that could cut through noise and demand attention without trying. Your voice slid under his skin like a hook. It hurt.
Not in the way that Jack understood pain. Not a broken bone. Not a stab wound. Not hunger. This was something messier. Internal.
The heat of your body in the cold air. The way your steps hit the pavement, light but confident. The rhythm of your movement, your hair swinging behind you like a flag. Clean strands catching the light as you passed under the streetlamp. The smell of whatever detergent you used to wash your clothes. He could sense all of it. Feel you. He didn’t need eyes to know exactly what you looked like. There was someone next to you, a friend, who bumped your shoulder and said something he didn’t catch.
You laughed again. Louder.
His jaw clenched.
You walked right past him. Close enough that he could have reached out. Close enough that he could have wrapped his fingers around your wrist and felt your pulse kick like a caged bird. But you didn’t slow. Didn’t glance. Didn’t flinch. You didn’t see him at all.
And usually, that was the goal. Invisibility. He lived for it. He thrived in the shadows, in the quiet, in the unnoticed cracks between crowds. He had built a whole existence around not being seen. Around slipping through their world like a ghost.
But this time… Your indifference wasn’t safe. It was offensive. You didn’t acknowledge him. Not even a flicker of recognition. Like he wasn’t there. Like he wasn’t real.
She should’ve looked. The thought came unbidden. Sharp. Stupid. It sat there like a thorn under the skin. And it wasn't because he wanted attention, he never did. It was your absence of that made something wrong in him ache. You passed like he wasn’t there. And he hated how that made him feel. Like nothing.
Jack's fingers twitched inside his sleeves. A familiar twitch. The same one he got when he hadn’t fed in too long. But he didn’t want to hurt you. Not even in the vague, lazy way he sometimes thought about hurting people he passed on the street. Not like that. He didn’t want to know what your kidneys tasted like. He wanted to know what made you laugh like that. What your skin would feel like if you touched him back.
Which was even worse. He wasn't supposed to feel like that. Wasn't allowed to.
It was only then, however, Jack realized he hadn’t moved in nearly five minutes. Every part of him was alert, trembling, awake. The rest of the crowd was thinning now, the post-game frenzy dulling to a low hum in the distance. His original target- the drunk freshman- gone. Lost. Irrelevant. "Fuck..." Jack mutters to himself. This has never happened to him before.
He didn’t care about losing the kid. He could always find another target. Another victim. Jack hadn’t cared about a lot of things for a long time. He cared about surviving. That was it. That was the rhythm of his life. Blend in. Feed. Stitch it all up clean. Repeat. He didn’t get distracted. He never got distracted. But now, his thoughts were tangled. Slow and sticky like old blood drying on tile.
Who was she?
Why her?
Something about you had pulled him out of instinct and into awareness. He didn’t decide to notice you. He just did. And that meant something. It had to. He rubbed the bridge of his nose through the fabric of his mask. His gloves were damp. He hadn’t even realized he was sweating. "She should’ve noticed me," he murmured under his breath. The words felt childish as soon as they left his mouth. Pathetic. But still true.
Because he needed confirmation that he was real. That he existed outside the dark. Your laugh had made him feel seen, even if your eyes never touched him.
He shook his head. Ridiculous. Unnecessary. And yet, he couldn’t let this go. He needed to see you again.
He wouldn’t interfere with you. Your life. He just wanted to get closer. Understand. Memorize your laugh and the scent that was still lingering in his nostrils. The warmth that somehow reached him without a single touch. And he would get closer. Quietly. From a distance.
That was the plan.
If he tracked you back to wherever you lived, if he mapped out the route you took, the places you stopped, the people you talked to, it would stop buzzing in his brain. He was sure of it. He could close the file. Catalog the anomaly. Like he’d done before. With other strange things. Because he had to be able to file you away.
Otherwise… No. That wasn’t going to happen.
A mosquito whined past Jack's ear and he didn’t swat it. He pulled his hood lower. Around him, the crowd had almost entirely dispersed. Just a few stragglers now. Drunk students walking in zigzags, cars honking at jaywalkers. A couple making out under the next streetlight. Useless noise. Background clutter. His stomach had stopped burning. The hunger had quieted beneath the weight of something else. Something colder.
He wasn’t in control of you. What you did. How you made him feel. But he could control how he handled it. And that’s what made him different from anyone else. He knew how to wait. He’d waited before. Days. Weeks. He could go dormant. Still. Dead to the world until the right moment presented itself.
He could control himself. He was sure of it. But he had a growing feeling it would be hard. Your scent alone… Christ. Even now, it was still lingering. Not faint. Not fading. It clung to him like damp smoke, so specific, so sharp, he could’ve picked it out in a dump. He could’ve picked it out in the middle of a hospital burn ward. Through formaldehyde. Through decay. Through death. He’d never smelled anything like it. It was like the memory of something he’d never actually known. Something soft. Safe.
He breathed in again, low and slow, and that phantom trace of you ghosted across his tongue. It made his teeth ache. He turned his head slightly, let it pull him like a thread. Subtle. Thin. But it was there. And then, he finally stepped out of the shadows of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. Not fast. Not eager. Just certain.
He wasn’t stalking. He wasn’t hunting. That would’ve been easier. He just needed to know. Who you were. What you were. Why the moment you walked past him, the world got quiet. And why, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he wanted to be seen. Not by everyone. Just you. Just once.
He followed the scent into the dark, and the night closed in behind him.
* * *