Chapter Text
J̵̛͎̤̺̗̯̱̐̿͋͌̏̓͐͑̓͐͒́̈ A̴̺̦̗̹͇̹̘͐̀̀̅ Ç̶̧̨̲͔̗̹̘͉̖̻͙̖̔̚ͅ K̸̡̛̳̟͚͆͒͊̽͂́̂̅̃͝͝
The hallway of Oakridge hall's fifth floor was empty and cold, even through Jack's black gloves. He stood outside your door but didn’t touch it. Inside, two sets of breathing moved behind the wood. Yours steady and soft, and Kara’s, heavier and boozy. Kara was sleeping over. The thought curdled in his gut. She was polluting your space. Probably made herself at home the way she always did: shoes kicked off, claiming the bed, rolling through your pillows like they belonged to her.
And you had probably let her. Laughed along. Made room.
Even now, with the building quiet and you fast asleep, the idea of Kara’s presence was enough to make his blood boil.
Y/N just tolerates you because she doesn't like being alone, Jack thought bitterly. Not yet. But that would change. It would have to.
He’d missed none of it earlier. The double date. The taco place. The arcade. Dylan. Kara's laugh. It seeped through the thin dorm walls, through the floorboards, through the faint crack beneath the door- a shrill, grating sound that had scraped at him like coins rattling in a blender. Relentless. Without purpose. It wasn’t just noise; it was an invasion. A violation of the quiet Jack associated with you.
He hated Kara’s laugh. Hated her. The way her voice rose and fell in exaggerated peaks, always demanding attention. Kara was a parasite, leeching off your warmth, your light, twisting it into something garish and superficial.
And she never shut up. Never stopped prattling on about men, their arms, their smiles, their money- details that meant nothing, that soiled the air with their banality. Never ceased moving like she craved hands on her, any hands, as long as they fed her ego, as long as they made her feel seen in a world where she was otherwise forgettable.
Earlier that evening, pressed to the hallway wall, he’d caught every ugly detail. The teasing giggles about Dylan’s “strong arms.” The talk of his “sweet kiss.” Kara prodding you so casually, so manipulatively, asking if you'd let him in closer, if you'd have sex with him, if you already did.
The sound of your laugh in response, soft and uncertain, had made Jack's insides twist, a visceral pain that clawed at his chest. You didn’t belong in those conversations. You weren’t like Kara. But Kara couldn’t see that. And Jack knew exactly what girls like Kara did when they sensed someone slipping away from them: they cling harder. They meddled. Insert themselves where they don't belong. And they arranged things that shouldn’t be arranged, like a double date. Or any date. Kara didn't actually care that you were upset. She knew that you were and pushed you toward going out anyway, like a doll to be dressed up and paraded, an accessory in her endless collection of fleeting conquests- boys like Dylan, with their generic charm and forgettable faces.
Jack had memorized Dylan’s scent from afar: sweat mixed with cheap cologne, a hint of false confidence. It didn’t suit you. Nothing did, except perhaps the quiet darkness where Jack waited. And he already had done his part to carve out a space in that darkness where you could be his. He’d orchestrated the chaos carefully, surgically, each move a calculated incision into your world; chipping away at your reputation, making you question your place in that shallow, judgmental circle. It all should have been enough. You should have retreated into your dorm room. Or went to the library. Maybe, just maybe, he could time it right and you'd bump into him again. And you'd apologize for your behavior that day in the quad. He’d shrug, casual, and say it was fine. That he knew you didn’t mean any of it. And you’d be so relieved , so grateful, that you’d invite him somewhere again. Another party. Out to dinner. Or back to your dorm
But no. Kara decided you "needed" a night out. Her influence on you was a poison that seeped through the cracks of any plan he had. She pushed you toward that date with Dylan. She convinced you to go out.
Deep down, buried so deep he would never name it, never allow it to surface, was something sharper than rage at Kara. A twisted, burning envy. Dylan could take you to brightly lit taco places, could sit across from you under fluorescent lights and laugh without hiding. He could hold your hand in public, lean in for a kiss without ever removing a mask, without gray skin or empty sockets ever coming into the equation. Jack could never do that. Not in the open. Not like a normal man. The thought flashed unbidden: you smiling at Dylan over cheap margaritas, the easy normalcy of it all.
He crushed the feeling instantly, grinding it beneath the weight of his fury. No. This wasn’t about him. This was Kara’s fault. All of it. Without her, you would have stayed home, safe in your room, vulnerable only to him, to his gentle intrusions, his watchful presence. Kara was the catalyst, the barrier between him and what he desired most. And tonight, he would show Kara the repercussions of that.
The building had settled gradually, lights flickering out one by one behind window shades, their hum dying to silence, the murmur of voices fading into snores and the occasional creak of settling wood. He lingered there for what felt like hours, waiting for you and Kara to settle down. For the chatter to shift to deep breaths. It was only when the dorm fell truly still, the campus outside hushed under a blanket of night, that he moved.
Not to your room. He wouldn't step inside while Kara was there, polluting the air.
But Kara's room?
Kara's room was empty. Vulnerable. Asking for it.
He didn’t fumble with the handle or the key swipe to Kara's door. Instead, he stepped back once, careful, measured. He mapped the door, its wood grain a textured whisper under his fingertips: the hollow center, the denser resistance where the lock sat, the thin weakness of the frame. He lifted his foot, angling it low, lining it up with where he knew the lock met cheap construction.
Then he kicked. Low. Sharp.
The keycard lock didn’t open. The frame gave instead. The metal plate ripped out of the cheap particleboard with a brittle snap, and the door flew inward, rebounding once before hanging open, wounded, obedient.
Jack tilted his head slightly, letting the hallway speak first. He waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
No footsteps. No shift in weight. No sharp intake of breath from you or Kara across the hall that would mean someone had woken suddenly, that instinctive pause before fear set in.
The building accepted it, and no one was coming.
Good.
Jack stepped inside. The air hit him immediately: a violent assault of cheap perfume, drugstore lotion, and the acrid tang of a burnt flat iron. Citrisy musk, overdone and cloying, like fruit rotting in the sun under a layer of artificial sweetness. It made his stomach turn.
He reached back for the doorknob to ease the door shut behind him, when his knuckles brushed something soft where metal should have been. Fabric. Thin. Elastic. Warm from the room. He froze, fingers lifting instantly as understanding snapped into place. Something had been hung on the handle deliberately, looped over the knob like a flag. Like it was proud to be seen.
A thong.
Jack shook his hand a few times, sharp and irritated, as if the motion alone could scrape the sensation off his skin.
Slut.
That’s what she was. Not just loud, not just stupid- corrupting. The word echoed in his mind, sharp and final, a judgment honed by weeks of observation. Dressing you up like a plaything in those crop tops and jeans, shoving you at boys with biceps and pulses, whispering stupid shit in your ear about how “fun” it would be, how you “needed” to loosen up. You had a spark once. But lately... something was gone. Dimmed. Covered. Smothered by this.
Jack stood in the center of the room, letting the fury rise, slow, thick, scalding, like bile in his throat, burning its way up from the pit where his hunger resided. His jaw twitched, muscles coiling under his gray skin. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into palms even through the gloves, the pain a grounding force against the urge to do more, to escalate beyond objects to flesh.
No more warnings. No more subtlety. This was the line crossed, the meddling that demanded response.
He started with her vanity, the epicenter of her vanity, the place where she preened and painted herself for the world. His fingers gripped the edge, the wood creaking under his strength, and he pulled it forward with deliberate force until one leg snapped with a satisfying crack, the sound like a bone fracturing in the quiet. The mirror slammed against the wall, fracturing down the middle like a fresh scar, shards tinkling to the floor, the sound sharp and bright in the quiet room. Lipsticks rolled to the floor in a clatter; he stepped on them methodically, grinding the red wax into the carpet like smeared blood, each crush releasing bursts of synthetic cherry smells that further mixed with the room’s nauseating musk.
Jack didn’t hesitate before continuing. It was automatic, almost robotic as he swiveled immediately over to Kara's closet. He yanked hangers out by the dozen, the metal rods clanging as clothes tumbled into heaps, bunched, tangled, ruined. A high heel snapped under his boot with a pop, the sound echoing like a bone breaking, sending a shiver of hunger through him.
He could feel the fabrics underfoot: polyester dresses that rustled like dry leaves, skimpy tops that reeked of sweat and smoke from parties past, the faint trace of multiple men’s colognes clinging to them. Each piece was a testament to her corruption, outfits chosen to entice, to distract from the emptiness within. He stomped through them, imagining Kara’s horror at finding her wardrobe desecrated, her tools of seduction rendered useless.
From there, he opened up her mini fridge. Leftovers stacked in plastic containers. A half-empty bottle of cheap rosé. A sweating pitcher of water shoved against the back wall. Jack pulled it all out.
He crossed the room and slid open her underwear drawer, the wood rasping softly in the quiet. Lace and mesh spilled over one another. Then he began to pour.
Rosé first, pink and sour, soaking straight through the fabric. Then water, flooding the drawer. He tipped containers too, letting grease and cold leftovers spill and smear, staining everything they touched. The drawer became a mess of soaked cloth and ruined things, fabric clinging together, useless. It would stink by morning. Wine. Food. Damp rot. Nothing salvageable.
It was intimate. Personal. A violation.
A candle on her nightstand caught his attention, some fruity nonsense, pineapple or mango, its wax still soft from recent use. Within seconds, Jack was dipping his fingers in the melted wax and smearing it into the buttons of her TV remote and the slats of her laptop keyboard.
He grabbed her compact mirror from her nightstand and cracked it with a twist of his wrist, tucking the broken lid under her pillow. He overturned her mattress with a heave, the heavy thud vibrating through the floor, springs groaning in protest. Her phone charger was knocked behind the bed, out of easy reach, the cord snaking away like a fleeing serpent.
A pair of sunglasses sat on her desk; expensive plastic frames that Jack snapped cleanly in half before dropping them right back into their case. Zipping it shut like nothing had happened, a subtle cruelty that would hit her later.
Crouching low, he felt along the floor, his gloves brushing over scattered debris until his fingers brushed a small velvet box, unopened, its surface smooth and promising. Jewelry, probably. A trinket from some fleeting fling or maybe from someone that actually cared about Kara. He tossed it into the trash without a second thought, the soft thump swallowed by the bin, buried among wrappers and discarded notes. He was running out of things to destroy, but he didn't feel satisfied. Not yet.
After a moment of deliberation, Jack made his way back to Kara's broken vanity, his fingers searching through the debris until they found a half-crushed lipstick tube on the rug. He twisted it open; the garish red wax dragged against his glove, sticky and bold. Obnoxious. Fitting for Kara, even if he couldn’t see it.
Bringing it to the wall above her bed, he pressed hard, the wax skipping and dragging over the paint, leaving trails of resistance. The letters came out jagged, uneven, streaked:
Ｗ Ｈ Ｏ Ｒ Ｅ
Jack stepped back and dropped the lipstick onto the floor. For the first time that night, something settled in him: Content.
He backed toward the door, unhurried, unafraid. The room breathed chaos now: liquid dripping in slow, uneven rhythms, wax cooling where it had been smeared, fabric left damp and ruined. Destruction layered thick in the air.
Let Kara come home to it tomorrow. After her little sleepover. Let her freeze in the doorway. Let her scream. Let her cry. Let her scramble to make sense of it. Let her wonder why nothing was stolen. Why it felt so personal. So deliberate. As if someone knew her. Let her ask herself what she did to deserve it, and let her never know the answer: that this was for you. For pulling you into a world you didn’t belong in, a world of dates and kisses that tainted you
He eased Kara’s door shut behind him until the latch clicked- soft, almost soundless. No trace. No evidence. Just absence.
In the hallway, Jack paused. His attention drifted instinctively back to your room. Your breathing was even slower now, untouched by the violence he’d left behind. You slept on, unaware. For now. You would see it in the morning. The thought sat wrong in his chest, making him linger longer than he should have. He didn’t like imagining your reaction.
But this wasn’t meant for you. It was meant for Kara. Kara would know that.
And Jack, knowing Kara would understand the warning buried in the wreckage, felt a measured calm take hold. If she was smart, she’d step back.
Because this was only a fraction of what he could do.