Archive of Our Own

Where was he?

You nudged the corner of the curtains aside, pressing binoculars to your face for the seventh peek in the last ten minutes at the house across from yours. The mover's truck was still parked there, its hazard lights flashing, while the workers stood in front, arms crossed, deep in conversation with frustrated looks on their faces. Just then, two police cruisers pulled up, their lights off as they came to a stop alongside the stationary truck. The officers emerged leisurely, sauntering up to the front door with thumbs hooked in their belts, looking almost annoyed that they’d had to drive out all that way for this.

A small crowd of neighbors had started to form, maintaining a cautious distance from the house yet clearly intrigued by the unfolding drama. Your usually reclusive neighbor was in the midst of a heated shouting match with the movers from behind his door, stubbornly refusing to step outside. His words must have escalated for the movers to involve the police. You were aware that he had received an eviction notice last month, and now, his time was up. He needed to vacate, willingly or not, and by this point it looked like he chose the ‘or not’ option.

Yet, none of that was truly your concern. You knew exactly why the police and movers were there—you had called the moving van yourself after all. You understood he would never leave voluntarily; he had been quite frustrated about his eviction. So, you saw your call as a gentle nudge in the right direction. Watching the scene unfold from behind your window, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps it had been a bit too much. He had felt increasingly targeted, growing paranoid about his neighbors and spending most of his time indoors, which had apparently culminated in this big display of locking himself in his house and yelling at the people outside.

However, you couldn’t say his paranoia was misplaced. You had to give him credit where it was due. He had almost figured it out. What sounded to others like delusional babble of being followed and purposefully harassed, was surprisingly close to the truth. It had all been orchestrated by you. The constant complaints, the cryptic messages you left around his property, following him to his now-former job at the EZ Mart to intimidate him from the shadows, therefore making him more irritable and unstable—all these tactics had culminated in the landlord's decision to evict him, wanting to wash his hands of the whole ordeal. You didn’t feel too guilty about your scheme, which had been slowly unfolding over the past seven or eight months, because in your eyes, you were also his savior. Your reclusive neighbor, now with nowhere to go and no one to turn to, was supposed to easily fall into your waiting arms.

So, that still left the question: Where the hell was he? Why was he refusing to come outside? The cops knocked on his front door with a casual air, as if tired of the loud exchanges.

It wasn’t until they heard a particular phrase that their demeanor changed abruptly. They sprinted from the door, radios in hand, calling for backup. They took cover behind their cruisers, guns drawn, eyes fixed warily on the house. One officer gestured frantically at the gathering neighbors. For the first time, you could make out their shouts.

“Run away! Get inside and do not come out! Get away!”

Suddenly, his front door flew open, your neighbor’s boot still mid-air as bursts from a sub-machine gun echoed. Screams pierced the air as the once-quiet street erupted into chaos, with your neighbor engaging in a fierce shootout with the police.

"Shit!" you hissed, ducking quickly, letting the curtain snap shut. This was not part of your plan. There was no way this could be happening, right? Surely that was not your neighbor you saw with the gun, it had to have been someone else in his house, an intruder or something.

You pushed yourself up, just barely peeking out the bottom of the window. Sure enough, you were able to make out quick glimpses of your neighbor’s bright red hair ducking in and out of the cover of his fence, shooting at the police. You sat back down, trying to look around the room and collect your racing thoughts.

Throughout your surveillance, you had never pegged your neighbor as capable of such violence. Though his appearance was intimidating, it betrayed his true nature. He was a meek man underneath it all. Whether faced with aggressive customers or outright pushy people, he would recoil. Even simple greetings from passersby were enough to make him retreat. You had counted on this docility, manipulating events to eventually draw him into your arms. Now, with the erupting sounds of gunfire outside, you knew winning him over would be significantly more difficult.

But it was not entirely impossible. You would just have to adapt your approach.

With renewed resolve, you dared another glance through the window, barely parting the curtains, hoping to remain unseen.

He was firing indiscriminately, hitting both officers and bystanders alike. Everyone who had been in front of his house—the movers, the policemen, and several curious neighbors—all lay motionless on the ground. Yet, your neighbor seemed unscathed, apparently armed to the teeth and prepared for more confrontation. A bulky bag was slung over his shoulder, and his trench coat was stuffed with various weapons. Two more firearms with long barrels were visible, strapped to his back, along with a sidearm. The specifics of the weaponry eluded you, but that hardly mattered now. One thing was clear: he’d been preparing for this.

You sank back down, biting your lip, pondering your next move. Despite your extensive observations, you had never seen him purchase any weapons. In fact, in recent weeks, he had barely stepped outside, let alone stocked up on an arsenal. Although you recalled seeing him enter Bubba’s Gun Store on a few occasions, he had always left empty-handed, merely browsing the stock. How he had amassed such firepower was beyond you.

It no longer mattered. The gunfire and screams that had dominated the air suddenly fell silent, filling you with dread. Kneeling, you cautiously peeked through the curtains to assess the situation outside. Despite knowing you shouldn't feel this way, relief washed over you as you observed your neighbor exiting his yard, his head swiftly scanning from side to side in search of any remaining threats. He was unharmed.

You had to think on your feet now. It appeared he was gearing up to skip town, but you couldn't let that happen. You needed to stick to your original plan, which was to somehow get him inside your house.

Your eyes darted to the rug in the middle of your living room, and despite the idea making your stomach turn a little, you knew what you had to do.

Springing up from your position, you wasted no time in tearing the rug aside, uncovering a concealed door set into the floorboards. You opened it to reveal a dimly lit staircase leading down to three doors, each secured with a different complex lock that only you could open. Struggling with a few thanks to sweaty palms, you finally made it to the basement—a stark space with concrete walls and a faint light filtering through a sealed window near the ceiling. The only piece of furniture was a barren mattress tucked into a corner.

At first you’d hated constructing the space, altering your basement and breaking all sorts of laws to construct the room in the first place, but now you thanked God for your tendency to think ahead. Upstairs, a comfortably furnished guest room awaited him, anticipating the day he’d crawl up to your doorstep, nowhere left to go, yet you could never quiet the voice in the back of your head telling you he might not accept your hospitality without some restraint, so you caved and built the basement. Now it might come in more handy than you ever realized.

Rushing back upstairs, you grabbed the shovel from near the back door—usually reserved for yard work—and hurried back down, positioning it near the partially open metal door. After another quick trip upstairs, you steadied your racing heart and caught your breath, preparing for the most challenging part: luring him back.

Your home was secluded, far from the nearest police station. Backup would take time to arrive, but given the urgency, you knew they would be here soon. Your hand trembled as you reached for the door, second-guessing your plan. He had an arsenal with him. He’d taken out several armed officers all by his lonesome, and you knew no amateur could pull off that kind of feat. He was trained to some capacity and if you made one wrong move, you were as good as dead. He wasn’t playing games.

But neither were you.

Hunter pretending to be prey, you stepped outside, the blast of chilly winter air hitting you in the face. It was eerily still, and just meters away from your front door were the bodies of the police, blood staining the snow around them. Your neighbor was no longer in sight, further setting you on edge; but you willed yourself to take a step forward, despite feeling like he could take a shot at you from any direction, potentially hiding behind every corner. 

Down the street, the grim reality of additional casualties became visible—neighbors you hadn't been able to see from your window. It was a horrific scene; some had been shot mid-sprint, their front doors ajar in a last-second failure to get to safety. Disturbing as it was, it was surprisingly easy for you to ignore. You were too focused on finding the redhead, and your neighbors and you had never really gotten along in the first place.

Snow crunched under you as you timidly made your way down the dirt road, eyes darting to every shadowy corner as you swore you saw the telltale flutter of his black coat. You made it about halfway down the road before more gunfire erupted from your right, near one of your neighbor’s yards that was surrounded by a steep slope. You ran up to the edge of the small cliff overlooking the yard, witnessing your neighbor execute another victim, his boot pressing down on her back as blood pooled on the snow beneath her.

You were stuck, almost not wanting to move, but you knew you had to act regardless of the plan, or else he would kill you. Clenching your fist and hoping the steep slope would buy you enough time to run back to your house, you let out an ear-piercing scream.

Of course, your neighbor’s head whipped up towards you, the barrel of his gun following almost immediately. You barely managed a head start as bullets whizzed past you. Your brain, reduced to primal instinct, launched you back in the direction of your house faster than you’d ever run in your life. He lost time running up the slope and slipping on some ice a few times, only able to catch the sight of you rounding the corner into your house. He sprinted to catch up with you, too on edge to question the fact that you left your front door wide open for him.

He halted in the living room, eyes immediately darting to the displaced rug, the entrance to the basement sticking out like a sore thumb. He planted his gun into his shoulder, getting slightly more wary, but still feeling secure enough to press onwards.

“You can’t hide from me…” His voice drifted down the stairs, the heavy thuds of his boots punctuating each step. You stood behind the door, barely breathing as you gripped the shovel in your hand, already in a swinging stance. You heard him stop briefly several times, likely inspecting the additional doors before deciding to continue. Deep down, you felt a surge of triumph. Despite the clear warning signs, his judgment seemed clouded by the arsenal he carried. Of course, he was still a high risk, but not as high a risk as he would have been were he thinking straight.

He wasn’t an idiot. He clearly meant to check his blind spots the second he went past the threshold. However, the sight of the weirdly barren room and singular mattress momentarily puzzled him, causing him to pause as he tried making sense of what he was seeing.

That brief hesitation proved to be his downfall.

You seized the moment, striking him hard on the head with the shovel. His large frame collapsed ungracefully to the concrete floor, his rifle clattering beside him. Soon, bright red blood began to soak into the red mop of his hair, prompting you to bite your lip in a mix of concern and adrenaline.

You were at his side in a second, anxiously checking the wound and hoping you hadn’t gone too hard. Fortunately, he hadn't hit his head on the concrete as he fell, but the impact from the shovel was bound to leave a mark.

The wound wasn't bleeding profusely, which was a relief, but you were still concerned about the possibility of a fracture. As you rolled him onto his back, you began the urgent task of disarming him. Strapped to his body were two rifles, a shotgun, and a .44 handgun. His pockets were stuffed with a vast amount of ammunition and a few grenades. The most alarming was his backpack, packed nearly full with more ammunition and homemade explosives, giving you some idea as to what he’d been doing as he locked himself away for the majority of the day.

After a final frantic pat-down, you dragged all the items up the stairs. You then secured and locked each of the three basement doors, effectively trapping him inside. Once the last latch clicked shut, you exhaled a small sigh of relief—one of the hardest parts was over. You got him.

Next, you needed to conceal all his belongings. With the police inevitably on their way, you shut the basement’s top door and repositioned the rug over it, ensuring it looked undisturbed. After securing your front door for added privacy, your gaze flitted around your home, the weight of your next steps heavy on you as you contemplated potential hiding places for the belongings, somewhere the police wouldn’t think to look when they arrived to investigate.

You didn’t have many options available to you. Time was dwindling before backup arrived and your neighbors got bold enough to start going outside again. Making do with what you had, you hid the backpack first, running to your room and shoving it in the far top corner of your closet, piling on various boxes and bags to mask its presence. Next, you decided to hide the guns on the top of the shelves lining your kitchen, wrapping the firearms in an old towel to dampen any clinks or clatters and carefully positioning them so that they weren’t visible from the floor in the slightest.

Once you secured the weapons, a pressing thought occurred to you—given the visibility of your house from the street, it wasn’t too far-fetched to assume that someone saw your neighbor enter your house after chasing you. You needed to make it seem like he had fled after a confrontation. Under no circumstances could anyone think for a second that he was still in your house.

Taking a breath, you began to craft a scene of a struggle. Throwing yourself against walls and furniture, you carefully created disarray: a knocked-over lamp, overturned furniture, and a few broken dishes from the kitchen. Each detail was calculated to suggest a violent tussle, even cutting yourself on some glass in the process.

Next, you moved outside into the brisk evening air. Since your boots were similar to that of your neighbor’s, you stomped through the snow, making a clear path of footprints leading from your back door into the surrounding woods. Reaching the small creek that ran behind your house, you meticulously retraced your steps, walking backward with precision to ensure each footprint fell exactly into its earlier impression, erasing any evidence of your return journey.

Once back at the edge of your property, you took great care to remove any snow from your boots and clothes, then subtly scattered some fresh snow over the last few backward steps to obscure them further. The final scene suggested a desperate flight through the back door, leading into the dense treeline. Once they reached the creek, you prayed officers would assume he decided to follow the waterline for a while, explaining the lack of footprints disappearing deeper into the woods.

As if on cue, sirens erupted from the treeline in the distance, signifying the backup’s arrival. You collapsed unsteadily onto the couch, positioning yourself to appear as though you had just survived a violent altercation. With any luck, the police would never question you, but you knew that’d be a scenario that was too good to be true. Now, all you could do was rehearse the story you would tell them: how you ventured outside looking for survivors, were chased back by your neighbor, engaged in a brief struggle, and watched as he fled into the woods through your back door.

Only about fifteen minutes had passed when a firm knock echoed at your door. The sudden sound made your heart skip, but you steadied yourself, remembering your carefully rehearsed story. You rose shakily from the couch and walked to the door, pulling it open to see two police officers framed in the doorway, their expressions serious and inquiring.

“Good evening,” one officer began, his voice stern but concerned. “We received a report that you were chased back into your house. A neighbor saw the incident through their window. Are you okay? Can you tell us what happened?”

Behind the two, ambulances and EMTs were already attending to the dead. Poor bastards arrived too late. Looking away with a slow nod, you mustered a look of shock and trauma, letting your voice quiver just enough as you responded, “Yes, it was terrifying. I went outside because it had gotten quiet. I-I thought it was all over. I wanted to see if anyone needed help… And that's when I saw him—the-the man who lives across from me. He had a big trench coat filled with weapons and a rifle in his hands… He chased me back to my house when he saw me outside. We got into a fight right here, then he ran out the back door into the woods.” You gestured to the disheveled living room.

The officers glanced around, taking in the scene of disarray you had created earlier. “Do you mind if we take a look around? We need to ensure the area is secure and see if there are any signs of the perpetrator,” the second officer added, his hand resting on the holster of his belt.

“Of course,” you replied, stepping aside to allow them entry. “I haven't touched much since the incident. I was too shaken up.”

As the officers moved through your house, you followed closely, continuing your narrative. “He came at me right there,” you pointed to a spot near the overturned lamp. “I managed to push him off, and I tried to get away, but he got me again in the kitchen…”

One of the officers inspected the scene, broken dishes all over your floor and cupboards flung open. However, the look on his face reeked of confusion. He spoke, still examining the scene. “So… He just ran? No shots fired?” 

The line of questioning made your stomach tighten. You could tell he wasn’t entirely buying it. “N-No. I knew he had that gun, so I just kept throwing things at him and trying to move out of his sight. Once we got in the kitchen, he was close to shooting me, but… I hit him with that.” Your hand raised, pointing at the bloody shovel near your back door. The officers immediately examined it, and to your luck, it still had a few strands of red hair on it.

They were silent for a moment before the older of the two spoke up, shaking his head. “Shit, looks like you got him pretty good.”

Relief washed over you. “Y-Yeah. I swung a few more times but I missed, I guess he just decided it’d be better to run, thank God.”

“You say he went out the back?” 

You nodded in response, moving between the two to open your back door.

Below, your neighbor, groggy and disoriented, slowly awoke on the cold concrete floor. His head throbbed painfully—a harsh reminder of the blow he’d suffered. Panic set in as his eyes darted around, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. The room was barren except for the stark mattress in the corner and the sound of his own heavy breathing echoing off the concrete walls. Some of his memory came back to him then—he remembered he was chasing someone back to their house. He went downstairs and saw this place. He specifically remembered seeing the mattress before he woke up on the floor. Frantically, he patted himself down, finding all his weapons gone, leaving him defenseless and trapped.

Desperation mounted as he stumbled to his feet, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He had a sinking feeling that he knew why the mattress was there.

It was for him.

He shuffled towards the door, trying to open it but finding that it was locked. He slammed his body against the door a few times, but it was solid and unyielding, showing no sign of giving way under his weight. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pounding his fists against the door in a slight panic. “Hello?! Let me out of here!!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with fear and confusion. 

Back upstairs,  you watched as the police officers investigated the scene around your back door. Inside, the house was serene and quiet, betraying no hint of the desperate, muffled thuds coming from below. The officers peered out into the dark, one of them using a flashlight to trace the path you pointed out. “We'll need to call in a team to follow his trail,” one officer decided, turning back to you. “You've been very helpful. We might have more questions later, but for now, try to stay safe and secure inside your house.”

“Before you leave,” you blurted, causing the officers to pause, “... You didn’t find him?” You asked unsteadily, trying to look desperate. The officers hesitantly exchanged glances before shaking their heads. 

“No. But we’ll have officers in the area continuing the search. As long as you stay inside, you should be safe. As it looks now, it seems like he bailed, trying to flee the scene and buy himself time to run. But cases like this are unpredictable. You see anything out of the ordinary, don’t hesitate to call, okay?” The officer instructed. You nodded your head, following their instructions.

“Alright. Thank you.” You watched them step out into the night, closing the door softly behind them. As their footsteps receded, you leaned against the door, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. Looking at the wall, you adjusted a picture frame slightly askew from the earlier staged struggle, your hands steady, your breath calm.

Back in the basement, your neighbor paused, leaning against the cold door, his breath heavy in the chilly air. He slid down to the floor, his mind racing for any solution, any small object lying around that he could use as a tool, but it seemed that the room was a fortress, built precisely to prevent escape. His escape. He gritted his teeth together before remembering something that brought some respite. 

The knife in his boot. The one you hadn’t bothered to check for in your panic.

Once the lights of the emergency vehicles disappeared beyond the trees, you let out a deep breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The silence in the house felt deeper now, more profound, as if even the walls had been holding their breath. You glanced towards the basement door, a faint smile playing on your lips as you reveled in the execution of your plan. Somehow, for the time being, everything had gone smoothly. You’d have to find a better place to hide his belongings in the future, if not completely destroy them, but for now you were eager to go see how he was doing.

With a sense of anticipation, you grabbed the first aid kit from the hallway closet, the contents rattling slightly as you hurried towards the basement. Your steps were brisk and eager as you made your way down, passing through the first two securely locked doors. You paused before the third, your hand hovering over a small sliding device installed at eye level—a feature reminiscent of those seen in movies, used for peering into hidden or exclusive rooms. It was fortified with a heavy latch on the outside, ensuring it could not be opened from within.

You unlatched and slid the panel aside, peering into the dimly lit room. Sure enough, he was up on his feet, near the stark, lonely mattress in the corner. He was jumping up, trying in vain to reach the small, bolted window set high in the concrete wall. Despite his efforts, it was clearly out of his reach, a fact that brought a pleased smile to your face.  It was a relief to see that the hit to his head hadn't incapacitated him too much; he was still full of fight, confirming that you had struck the right balance—enough to subdue and confuse, but not to debilitate.

“You’re quite the climber,” you remarked, watching him cease his futile attempts to scale the wall. “I wouldn’t bother, though. That window is bolted shut. Can’t be opened.” Your words floated through the tense air, punctuated by his heavy breathing and the slight echo of the confined space. There was a brief moment of eye contact, charged with a blend of emotions—his wariness and your barely concealed excitement.

There was a prolonged silence as he glared at you, the coldness in his eyes a stark contrast to the sweat beading on his forehead. You held up the first aid kit, trying to inject a lighter tone into the heavy atmosphere. “I brought some first aid,” you announced, waving the kit slightly. “I wouldn’t want you to be down for the count because of something as mundane as an infection.” Your tone was casual, almost teasing, as if the gravity of his captivity was just another playful scenario.

He almost refused to answer you, just eyeing you down with a stone cold look on his face. You paused, uncertain, but decided to press on, figuring he was only feeling unsure of himself because he’d been separated from all his weapons. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. Can I come in?” You asked gently.

“... Okay.” His tone was flat, and almost quiet, but it made you smile. It was a good thing that he was actually conversing with you, even if it was simple.

You shut the panel, latching it back up before unlocking the heavy door, opening it with a swing before grabbing the first aid kit at your side.

“See? It’s just a normal—” Your words were cut off as the large man charged at you, growling as he brandished a knife that he had hidden at his side. The world almost slowed as you held the kit out, the knife plunging through the plastic case instead of your own flesh as it was torn from your grip. 

How had you not seen that knife before? Where had he hidden it?

There wasn’t time to consider any questions. He was on top of you, his weight pressing down as he tried to drive the knife deeper. You struggled beneath him, your arms straining to hold him off, feeling the blade nick your skin on your arms multiple times. His breath was ragged, his actions fueled by raw, unfiltered survival instinct.

He was like a rabid animal, sweat beading along his forehead as he struggled with you, his own pants coming out like that of a stray dog. He was bigger, stronger, but desperation lent you cunning. In a swift move, you yanked his arms up and jerked your head to the side, narrowly avoiding the knife as the tip plunged into the concrete next to your head. You hissed as you felt the blade slice into your ear, the warm trickle of blood immediately tickling your scalp as it seeped into your hair.

Your hands shot out and you jammed your thumbs into his eyes, skillfully looping your fingers beneath his sunglasses. He screamed in pain, abandoning his grip on the knife to use both of his hands to tear yours away. Your sweating palm fumbled with the handle of the knife a few times before you successfully grabbed it, whipping it up just as his hand shot out to retrieve it. The blade plunged through his palm, just between his middle and index finger, and he screamed again, yanking back his hand and spraying blood everywhere as he held it against his chest.

Seizing the moment, you plunged the knife into his side. He gasped, staggering off you, his good hand now clutching at the fresh wound. Scrambling to your feet, you delivered a frantic kick to his side, which elicited a soft groan from him as he curled up on the floor, writhing in pain.`

Now in control, you couldn't contain the anger that surged through you. You kicked him again, this time in the head, instantly knocking him unconscious. Breathing heavily, you stepped back, glaring down at him. “Fucking idiot!” you spat some blood onto the floor, your voice shaking. “ Idiot! Don’t you see I’m trying to help you?! I didn’t want to hurt you! You made me do this, it’s your fault!” Your words echoed off the walls, unheard by the unconscious man at your feet. You stood over him, breathing heavily as you tried regaining your composure.

Great, you’d hit him in the head again, and this time you weren’t thinking straight enough to try and limit your strength. It wasn’t your fault, though. Where in the hell did he get a knife?! 

You stared at the bloodied blade in your hand with disdain, your eyes darting back to the redhead who was bleeding all over your floor. You’d patted him down, and with a blade as big as that, there was no way he could have been hiding it in his pockets. 

Your eyes drifted to his combat boots, and realization dawned as you saw the small leather holster peeking out from his socks. You cursed yourself for overlooking them earlier; it was a rookie mistake.

Despite not meaning to hurt him, a part of you still felt indignant. To you, his attack felt like a betrayal, akin to a pet lashing out against a caring owner. You struggled to understand why he raised a blade at you, getting violent despite the fact that you were clearly trying to help him. You’d even said so yourself!

Despite your anger, you knew you needed to ensure he didn't die; that was never the intention. Kneeling beside him, you pressed your fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse. It was there, strong and steady, a small relief amidst the turmoil. Checking his wound, you noted that it wasn’t too deep, only cutting his side more than it had actually stabbed him.

With a heavy sigh, you dragged yourself to your feet and stared at him with your hands on your hips. This incident could not simply be overlooked. Trust, already a fragile thing, had been shattered. He was hiding things from you, lunging at you and attacking you despite you entering with good intentions.

Your brow furrowed again, knuckles turning white around the knife still in your hand. If he wanted to hide things in his clothes, then you were going to do what you should have done in the first place. 

Stealing the leather holster from his boot, you put the knife in your own pants before you began stripping him down, grunting with some effort to peel his clothes off him until he was left in nothing but his underwear, a dark-colored pair of boxer briefs with some holes in them.

Clothes were a luxury, and unless he wanted to cooperate, he wouldn’t be getting them back.

You lugged everything upstairs, dropping it in your laundry room before walking out back to your shed, a frustrated expression on your face as you retrieved a bundle of rope from your shed.

Making your way back downstairs, you used the knife to cut out small segments of rope, first starting with his ankles, tying an elaborate knot around his limbs, restraining him. Movement was a luxury, too, and he’d have to earn your trust back before you ever considered freeing him again.

As you tightened the knot, a small part of your head couldn’t help but wonder if you’d secretly been expecting his resistance the whole time, given how you’d spent more months preparing for the worst instead of expecting the best, case in point: you practicing elaborate knots in your free time until you remembered them almost like the back of your hand.

As you moved to his hands, he suddenly began to stir. When he awoke again, he sucked in a gasp, immediately flailing as soon as he saw your face.

You stumbled back, grabbing the knife and climbing back up to his chest, pressing the blade into his throat. “Stop,” you ordered firmly, watching as his body stiffened when he felt the cold metal against his Adam’s apple. “Fucking stop moving or else I’ll let you bleed out right here on the floor,” you growled, carefully watching his face for any sign of restraint. When he didn’t move, you slowly took the knife from his throat and continued tying up his hands, feeling a small sense of pride when he went limp in your hands, allowing you to finish your work with ease. “I can’t believe you’re making me do all this,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head again like a disappointed parent.

“Who are you,” he croaked as you retrieved the first aid kit, examining the cut on his side. 

The question left a bitter taste in your mouth as you rummaged through it, finding bandages, antiseptic, and gauze. Of course he didn’t remember.

“I’m your neighbor,” you answered simply, not bothering to explain further as you began to treat his wounds.

“Why—Why am I down here,” he hissed through clenched teeth as the sting of the antiseptic hit the raw skin, doing his best not to make any sudden movements lest you attack him again.

“Because I’m trying to help you ,” you explained as you applied fresh gauze, securing it in place. “We’re going to have to work on trust, you and I. I mean seriously, what was that stunt out there with all the guns? What were you thinking? ” You couldn’t keep the irritation from your voice, pausing to shoot him a stern look.

“The sick,” he gasped out, eyes drifting up towards the concrete ceiling, “I was weeding out the sick. You’re… You’re one of them. You won’t infect me, you know. I’ll find a way out of here. You can’t keep me here.”

You stared in confusion for a moment before audibly laughing at his words, which was obviously not the reaction he was expecting given his perturbed look.

 “The sick? That’s what you got out of those messages I left for you? Jesus, that’s rich. I mean, I didn’t think they were gonna send you on a mass shooting spree or else I would have edited them a bit, but jeez, you gotta cut me some slack here. I didn’t know you had it in you.” You shook your head, moving on to tend to his bloody hand.

“... You’re better off in here anyways. With what you did, I’m sure people would applaud me if they knew I had you down here,” you stuck a needle through his skin, making him hiss as you sloppily stitched up the hole in his hand. Another thing you’d been practicing, though probably not as much as you should have. “But, by all means, leave if you want. You won’t survive very long out there. I’m sure everyone wants your head on a spike, what with you killing all those officers and innocent people.” Of course, you weren’t actually going to let him leave, but you needed to nail the message into his head: He was safer with you than out there on his own.

“... What? What messages?” Confusion clouded his face, clearly struggling to piece together your involvement.

Leaning in close, your whisper was almost intimate. “It was all me. You getting fired, the eviction, the messages—I planned it all for months.” You leaned away, gesturing towards the concrete room surrounding you both, “I also made all this! Just for you! But you know…” Your voice got quieter as you eyed him lying there, completely exposed aside from his underwear. “I didn’t want it to be this way. But you didn’t leave me much choice…” 

Unable to control yourself anymore, you ran a finger up the trail of hair on his stomach. His body tensed as you traced a line up his body, his muscles tightening under the unexpected touch. “I had a room all ready for you upstairs. We didn’t have to go through all this, but you had to go and start stirring up trouble. I hide you away from the cops and you repay me by attacking me. You see this?” You turned your head and pointed to your ear, which was just barely drying, dark red blood beginning to crust up along the edges of the wound. He slowly nodded his head as you looked at him again. “You’ve always been so cruel to me for no good reason. I was the only one who welcomed you when you moved in, the only person who was nice to you, and all I got was a ‘fuck off’.” You finished off his hand, moving to tightly wrap it up in gauze.

He was silent for a few moments before his face tightened as the memories came flooding back to him.

“You,” he suddenly blurted, making you smirk as you realized he remembered you. 

You’d been the black sheep of the small neighborhood for as long as you could remember, often shunned or whispered about by the other residents. They avoided you, and rumors swirled endlessly, leading to numerous complaints being lodged against you. So, when the redheaded man moved in across the street, you saw a fresh start, a chance to connect with someone who hadn’t been brainwashed by all the rumors floating around.

You could see it in the way he handled himself, he was like you. He shied away from social interactions and held an imposing presence, spurring others to avoid him. In your head, there was absolutely no reason that the two of you shouldn’t be best friends. After all, you were certain he’d be glad to finally meet someone who understood him for once.

The more you watched him over the coming days, the more your thoughts began spiraling deeper, reaching beyond the notion of a simple friendship. Before you’d even gone up to say hello, you were already imagining a vivid and intricate love story unfolding between the two of you, the ruggedly handsome loner falling for the fellow timid outcast, the two of you growing closer and closer over time over shared experience, it would have been a slow burn for the ages.

Yet, much to your chagrin, the first time you finally went up to introduce yourself (he was in his backyard, building a doghouse for a dog he didn’t own), he barely acknowledged you. You left, feeling a little miffed about the interaction, but you figured it wasn’t going to be easy to break his shell. You knew eggs like him were tough to crack. You persisted, going up to him every time you saw him. He never got any friendlier. Eventually, you began to show up at his work and even follow him home in the early hours of the night, after his graveyard shift had ended. Apparently, one evening he’d had enough, and wound up cussing you out on the side of the road, demanding that you leave him alone  “or else.”

Rejection. 

It stung, and as you went home to lick your wounds, a burning anger was kindled inside you. You failed to understand why he couldn’t see how good of a match you two were. You theorized that he was just too comfy in his current life, able to return home whenever he wanted and hide away from the world. He had no reason to interact with you, and therefore, he wasn’t giving you the time of day that you deserved. Thus enacted your master plan that would eventually thrust him into your arms, desperate and alone.

Although there’d been some hiccups along the way, the result had turned out more or less the same, you kneeling above him with a smile as he was tied up near-naked in your basement.

“Yes, me,” you affirmed, your hands unintentionally brushing along his thighs as you noted their solid build. He had always carried a robust, stocky frame, but now you could see the signs of decline. It appeared that his period of isolation had taken a physical toll; the muscle seemed diminished, his body much leaner, with signs of muscle atrophy likely from inadequate nutrition. Still, you could not help but admire him. He had been all you could think about for nearly an entire year.

You positioned your hands on his ribcage, leaning in close as you inhaled deeply. The musky scent of his skin, likely a result of his prolonged isolation and neglect, was oddly intoxicating to you. Emboldened, you let your tongue trace a line up his chest to his nipple, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from him as he clenched his eyes shut, trying to block out the sensations.

You adjusted your position, moving closer to his neck to breathe in his scent again, your hand wandering down to his boxers and giving him a squeeze. The sudden contact made his body jerk, and you heard him gasp, a sound that punctuated the quiet of the room. Despite your touch, he remained completely flaccid, yet you continued groping him, caught up in the ecstasy of having waited so long for that moment.

However, his body language was unmistakable—tense and recoiling under your touch. His eyes remained tightly shut, his face contorted in an effort to remain passive, fearing any reaction might provoke further advances. It wasn’t until your fingers began to dip beneath the hem of his underwear that he spoke up.

“... Don’t,” his voice came out weaker than you’d ever heard it, tinged with a desperation that actually made you feel a little bad for him. You paused and sighed, slowly withdrawing your hands from him. Hovering just above him, you gave a gentle kiss on his lips—one that he did not return. You pulled back, eyeing him softly.

“Okay. I’ll stop, because we need to be able to trust each other. Right?” you asked gently, seeking his slow, hesitant nod in agreement. “Good.”

You stood with a bit of a grunt, circling around him and looping your arms under his own with a bit of a struggle. “Alright, come on. Let's get you to the mattress.”

He was uncooperative as you half-dragged, half-carried him across the cold concrete floor to the mattress. When you finally laid him down, his body didn't quite fit; his feet dangled over the edge, but it would suffice for now. He could curl up if he needed to, you thought, assessing the makeshift bed.

With him settled, you straightened up and looked down at him. "It'll be cold tonight, but it won’t kill you. You'll get your clothes back once you've proven you can be trusted," you told him, your voice carrying a mix of sternness and reassurance. You hoped this arrangement would help establish some boundaries and start rebuilding the trust that was so crucial for whatever lay ahead.

Satisfied with the setup, you wished him a simple, "Goodnight, I’ll bring you breakfast tomorrow morning," before cleaning up all the items from the floor, turning and exiting the basement. Each step felt heavy yet satisfying as you climbed the stairs and shut the heavy doors behind you, locking them securely. You adjusted the rug back into place, covering any signs of the door, a small precaution to keep everything as normal as possible.

In the bathroom, you washed up, the water running over your hands and face, refreshing and grounding as you tended to your wounds. Despite the unexpected and volatile turn of events, you felt that things were progressing, that your control over the situation was solidifying.

This sense of control, of moving forward according to a plan—even one as unconventional and fraught as this—was exhilarating. You allowed yourself a moment to revel in this feeling, the complex emotions of the evening swirling within you as you prepared for bed. 

In the mirror, you stared at your reflection, searching the eyes that looked back at you. They were cold and empty.