four, the manipulator

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...

Sitting in that car was absolutely terrifying, to say the least.

Levi comforted you by sitting in the passenger seat and leaving his door open. You weren't meant to go anywhere, only sit and hold the wheel.

Doing so made something weird jolt up your arms, but you tried to swallow it down and sit there for a few minutes. Just sit. But the memories had you nearly trembling in your seat. You had glanced at Levi a few times, but he would only look back at you.

Honestly, it helped you stay in reality. Helped you realize you weren't moving, that nothing was going to happen.

Luckily, that didn't last long, and the therapy session ended with mental exercises you were familiar with and a few new ones.

It's been quite a few hours since then, and now you were standing at the bottom of your stairs glaring at them. It's been oddly quiet all day. You haven't heard any creaks or groans from your floorboards or anything that would make you question your sanity.

Your picture hasn't moved since the last time you sat it on your nightstand. The only thing about today was the note you found in your drawer. And then there was last night.

When you swore you heard someone whisper to you, and then you woke up to nobody there. You stayed awake for about an hour or two after that, and within the first few minutes, you heard the soft click of your front door shutting. Almost as soon as you heard it, you jumped up and peeked outside your bedroom door.

It was quiet, so you tiptoed to your kitchen and grabbed the biggest kitchen knife, bolting back up the stairs and barreling into your room. You hoped you hadn't awakened Jean, but really, all you could think about was what if you had to fight for your life.

Sweat dripped down your forehead, and your breathing was erratic. But eventually, you succumbed to sleep once again.

Now, you hesitantly walk up the stairs and to your room to grab your earphones. Once you quickly retrieved them, you descended the stairs in a not-so-elegant way. You were so stupid.

No, not for being afraid, but because you hadn't thought about the back door during all this. You whipped around the railing of your old staircase and ignored the door to your bathroom, instead looking down what seemed, at that moment, to be a damn corridor leading to your doom.

Down the hall, there was a sectioned-off part of your house where another small living space took place. You hardly came down this far unless you were doing your monthly clean-up, where you straightened up the entire house for a day, maybe two. Except you often neglected this space because, by the time you got down here, you were exhausted.

A big bookcase was built into the walls on each side of the room, but honestly, it was mainly filled with dead plants and old antiques you found while moving into this place. You would put the books you're currently invested in on these shelves if you came down here more often, but you deemed them unworthy of holding your precious books, so you don't.

You decorated the space with chairs and small tables and threw drapes that matched the rest of your house decor on the windows. A big window on each side of the door.

Then, finally, in the middle of it all was the door.

It taunted you, the way it seemed to tower over you even from where you stood by the beginning of your stairs' railing.

You took in a breath and decided to take a quick look around. You slowly walked down the hall, your figure seeming to disappear as the darkness of the shadows that lined the pathway engulfed you.

Natural light mainly took up this space, but you still flicked on the light you had installed when you first moved in. The majority of the backdoor was made of glass, and if it wasn't for the blinds you had there, anybody peeking in could've seen down your hall, and at least past your dining room and to the opening of your kitchen.

You quickly walked up to your door and peeked through the blinds.

Nothing but your trashy backyard.

Your house had land of its own, so there wasn't another house for quite another few miles. Nothing seemed different in the room, or outside, so you quickly got out of there and went down to your living room.

You tucked your earphones in and plopped down on your couch, letting your legs tuck themselves in front of you in a crisscrossed-applesauce manner. You were not about to let your innocent, oblivious legs dangle in front of your couch so a sea serpent could crawl out and yank you underneath into the black portal that leads to its underwater lair.

That would be the stupidest fucking thing you could ever do.

You open your laptop, and pretty much immediately, you're notified that you were recently sent an email. You sigh, contemplating your options. Watch T.V., or take a look at the emails bombarding your inbox.

You usually wouldn't, but right now, you supposed you felt a little more productive. Which is generally how it went on your therapy session days. Twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays.

You decided to skim through your inbox for anything that stands out. As an artist, you get requests to illustrate something for somebody occasionally, but mainly you're notified every time somebody buys what you have up for sale.

And man, did somebody buy what you had for sale.

Over a single month, one person bought all that was in stock in your shop. Talk about impulsive buying. You were keen on ignoring a lot of shit, but because you saw this, you grabbed your phone and scan through all the messages and calls you swiped away without a care in the world.

You were intently searching them for your manager. They weren't hard to find since that single month was last month. They sent you a few messages, but you didn't even read them you just called her immediately.

As you waited for her response, you scrolled through your newer emails, and the one at the top caused your jaw to drop, but before you could scream, you heard Pieck's voice flow into your ear. "Hello? Ms. L/n?"

You blink.

"Y/n?" She deadpans.

"Pieck. I-I... don't even know what to say,.." you stutter, rubbing a hand down your face.

"Are you talking about all the sales? That guy went crazy and bought everything," she says.

"Who?" You question.

"Some guy named Armin," she dismissed. "People love your work. But I've told you that before. You're really getting more popular."

"Wow, I... but I have to tell you something," you bite your lip, eyes skimming over the email.

"What??"

"The famous indie author, Anonymous, asked me to make a piece for a book they're writing. They want to meet at some bar to talk about it. The email seems legit. They provided me with a phone number and everything," you say, unable to hide how thrilled you are. This is probably the most alive you've felt in a year.

"Oh my Gosh, for real?? That's fucking amazing. I need their phone number so I can put it in the system. I hope everything goes smooth- oh, but you should bring someone with you just in case it is a scam or something," she says, and you hear rustling in the background.

"Oh, sure," you tell her the number, and you think she's scribbling it on a piece of paper.

"See?? You really are popular and getting out there, babe! Good for you!" She says happily, and you can't help but smile big.

"Thanks, Pieck." Pretty soon after that, you let her go and simply stare at the email for a minute. You're nervous, but you reply back, agreeing with the location and time they picked.

But as soon as you hit send, you realize you're in trouble.

How are you going to get there?

-

"Jean, I'm second-guessing everything I can't do this," you whine, looking in your mirror at your outfit.

"You're going. There's no way I'm going to allow you to skip this I'll drive, you'll be in the backseat, and everything will be fine. I promise," he says as he leans against the threshold of your bathroom with folded arms, watching you stew.

It was now Friday— the day you meet Anonymous. And you were absolutely terrified.

Jean's dressed in a casual suit, his mullet combed back and his stubble not as... stubbly. You told him about the email, and he's more than willing to go to Kruger's with you. He says it's the talk of the town, so that's great, you guess.

But that's not helping your nerves in the slightest.

You huff, "Me? Riding in a car? I literally haven't done that in over a damn year how do you expect me to suddenly be cool with it?"

"I don't, Y/n," he sighs. "I just need you to trust me. I promise everything will be alright. I won't drink at all, and when you meet, Anonymous, I'll be right there. Okay?" He says, meeting your worried gaze through the mirror.

"Okay, okay..." you breathe, trying to keep your trembling under control. "I'm just really... scared." You admit, despite it not being a big secret.

His features soften a ton and he nudges you. "You're also the strongest person I know, so c'mon, this is, like, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"But what about my dress?" You question, looking down at it. "It's outdated." It's also the only dress you haven't grown out of. A dress passed down from your Great-Grandma to your Grandma, your Mom, and then finally, to you. You're pretty sure it's from the 1930s or something. Your Mom made you wear it for your graduation party, and back then, nothing could bring you down you made sure you rocked it, but now... you don't have that same confidence anymore.

"And you still look beautiful. You were literally made to wear it," Jean winks and then beckons you as he turns away, expecting you to follow him.

You give yourself one more look of determination, willing yourself not to give up.

Jean helps you into the car, letting you hold on to his forearms as you sit yourself inside his car, in his backseat no matter how tight, he waits until you settle to shut the door and walk around to his side.

Just remember this week's therapy sessions.

You breathe in and out slowly through parted lips and shakily strap yourself in the car. This is the part where you should feel safer, but to be honest, you feel trapped.

Jean gets in and huffs as he gets inside, the car shaking slightly. He looks back at you, "Ready?" he asks.

You don't want to let him down, so you nod, but your heart is racing a million miles a minute, and you think you're starting to feel lightheaded. You turn to look outside, nervously biting your lip.

"Listen, Y/n, if you really can't do this-"

"Don't let me back out now, Jean," you interrupt, looking at him.

He purses his lips and gives you a single nod he buckles up, notifying you that he'll be driving soon. You hold your hands tightly in your lap and look back outside, gazing at your big house. This place really looks creepy on the outside. But you suppose it's fitting for your fears.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a shaky hand and jolt as Jean starts the car. Oh, fuck.

No.

Don't freak out. You close your eyes, thinking of happy shit like butterflies and rainbows. But then, you genuinely start thinking about how proud Jean would be. How proud Mr. Ackermann would be. How proud your parents would be if they knew.

How proud you'd be if you could stop being afraid, even for just a second.

You were so lost in your happy thoughts by this point that you didn't even notice Jean was slowly pulling out of your driveway. It's when he sped up a little more that your eyes flew open, and you looked back to see your house fading from view.

It's been so long.

So long since you've been in a car.

This was all so terribly real, and you were a bit overwhelmed. You watched as the dark forest and foggy sky surrounding your land faded away too, and you were met with stars. Bright stars—millions of them. The sky was actually so visible. You almost forgot what it looked like. How beautiful it was.

Your lips parted as you looked outside, nearly smashing your face against the glass as you tried to see a little more.

Jean chuckles from up front and you look at him. "You can roll the window down, you know," he says and you look at the button and slowly pull it up, the late-night breeze smacking you in the face.

You were far enough from home to tremble slightly, but you ignored the doubt. You really couldn't back out now.

You found the corners of your lips slightly tipped upwards as you breathed out through your mouth, gazing up at the stars. You passed other grand houses like yours and there was a stark difference between them.

Theirs seemed to be well-kept, not creepy in the slightest. In fact, if anyone drove as far down as your house they wouldn't see it coming. The vibes were totally different. The sky was way clear, with no trees towering over the building or shadows lurking from behind it. It was insane.

But for some reason, you weren't mad about it.

It felt right. Like that house was meant to be yours someday. And it is.

You don't know anything about its history or the occupants before you, but it's yours now.

Your chest feels oddly light right now like you can breathe a little deeper and can hear your heartbeat a little better.

After a little while, Jean says, "Almost there," you can't help but look at all the stores and shops around this area. You don't think you've been to this part of town before.

It was bright like the lights illuminating from the buildings were in a competition with the stars. Soon enough, Jean was pulling into a parking space and helping you out of the car. As soon as you were on two feet he pulled you into a tight hug.

The heartfelt kiss he pressed to your forehead nearly made tears well in your eyes. But you were wearing mascara, so.

He let you go and you smiled at him. Your body still had that slight tremble, your body buzzing from the adrenalin you had mustered up. It sucks it took that much for you, but you felt good about this. Like just maybe, you were getting better.

"So proud of you," he murmured, looking at you as he took your wrist and led you inside the building. Compared to the crisp air outside, here it felt as if a warm blanket fell over your shoulders and wrapped around your body. It made you straighten up a bit, some confidence flowing into you.

"Thanks, Jean," you bring your other hand to squeeze Jean's arm admirably. He was someone you looked up to. Kind of like a brother from another mother-type beat. So when he's proud of you, it feels amazing.

He smiles, looking around. "So where's our author? Anonymous," he hums.

"Oh," you perk up and grab your phone. "They told me to call when I made it." You pull up their contact and dial it, pressing the device to your ear as you wait for a response. You should've called outside; the music makes it challenging to hear.

A shiver runs up your spine suddenly and you turn your head instinctively, almost as if you thought someone was staring at you. But when you look, no one seems to be looking.

Finally, you hear the line click but for a second it is silent. You suck in a breath, trying to work through your anxiety and say hello, but despite the time it took for them they still beat you to it.

A voice flows into your ears, a voice like the ocean when most of the world is asleep. A bit rough, yet something about it still soothed you in a way— that didn't stop a jolt, of whatever feeling, from rolling down your spine.

"Hello?"

Deep.

His voice was also deep like the ocean, yet still had that... sultry smooth sound to it that you didn't know how to feel about.

"It's Y/n, the artist. You asked to meet at a bar?" you tried your best to keep a steady flow of voice but you were really nervous right now. You looked at Jean, who was looking at you as he listened, watching with furrowed brows.

"Yes," He said, a lilt to his voice as he spoke. "Who's that you're with?"

Your spine snapped up impossibly straighter as you heard his words and your eyes searched your surroundings, yet still not finding anyone who stood out. Except, ...

There was a man up behind the counter. Looking at you dead in your eyes as if he had no fear. Even when you meant his gaze he didn't look away. It made something inside of you twist. He was being very diligent with the glass in his hands, wiping it down with care, his hands and arms flexing as he did so, the veins in his hands so visible it made another shiver run down your back.

You didn't get to linger on him for much longer as the man on the line spoke again, "Distracted?"

"Uh, ... no, sorry, I um, I brought a friend. I hope that's alright. I didn't know what to expect tonight," you tell him, as quickly as your jumbled brain would allow.

"That's alright, I understand. You don't know me, I could be anyone for all you know," he says, and you hear a glass clink, you think that's his drink but honestly being in a bar, you can't tell.

"Right,... so.. where are you?" you swallow.

"Right in front of you, darling," he says, and again your eyes fleet up to the man behind the counter. This time he's pouring whiskey into a glass.

But his eyes,... unwavering.

It can't be him. He's not on a phone. Honestly, the way he was staring at you like you were the only person in the room made you feel... really weird. But because, you think, Jean was right next to you, listening intently and waiting patiently, you didn't feel the need to leave.

His piercing forest-green eyes were looking at you as if he could see right through you. As if he could read the depths of your soul and know everything about you. But you blinked when you heard Anonymous's voice in your ear again.

"Guess again," he chimes lowly.

You looked side-to-side, and you even let your eyes sweep over the counter. But no one seemed to match who you were looking for.

"What's going on? Are they here??" Jean asks, clearly growing impatient.

You nod but continue searching.

It wasn't until you felt someone's gaze on you again that you looked up and saw an equally piercing pair of eyes staring at you from over his shoulder.

But... it was like he materialized out of nowhere. You already looked over the bar, was he there the entire time? His ocean-blue eyes made you feel small but when he spun around on his stool, his blond hair tossing around a bit, his soft, innocent smile made you relax.

"Is that you?" you whisper, feeling a subtle smile tug at your lips for some reason. Almost as if he manipulated the action with his own.

"Yes," he says, his lips moving as he spoke and the sound dancing into your ears. It was him.

With that, you suck in a small breath and tugged Jean along with you to the author. When you made it over, he clicked a button on his earphone and the call ended. You dropped your hand and tucked your phone into the small bag you brought along.

"Hello," he smiled, giving you a boyish wave. "Hope you don't mind the place I chose, a close friend of mine owns it."

"Oh, that's okay, it's a nice place," you say, glancing at Jean as you both sit down, shocking yourself with how at ease you feel.

"So, ... let's talk business, shall we?" he smirks and his boyish characteristics suddenly feel a lot more manly.

LilReaper_

originally written 07.10.24/07.11.24

published  07.11.24

total words; 3426

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