The 28th Stop [ Yandere x Reader ]

29 - Tempest (Part 1)

"You don't understand."

Ruth's jaw tightened. Her brown eyes searched yours in what was almost a glare, had it not been for the deep sorrow that softened its edges. Her lips parted and it appeared as though she would continue. Instead, she paused and forced a slow, deep breath.

Her gaze drifted to a nearby clock. "It's awfully late." She rubbed away the last flakes of dried tears. "Get some sleep, dear. Please. You deserve lots of rest after all you have been through today and..." Her voice lowered. "...and ever since coming to this cursed town."

She turned and padded towards the door.

"Wait!" You stepped forward. "Wait, I'm sorry. Ruth, please–"

"–Goodnight, Y/N," Ruth said over her shoulder before disappearing into the hallway.

The door closed with a light thud.

Silence encroached on the room, thick and stifling. The rattling of the window panes settled and the howling breeze fizzled to a hiss. Yet the cold air persisted, everlasting.

You raised your arms until you were cupping your elbows, hugging yourself, chewed nails digging crescents into the flesh peppered with goosebumps. The lump in your throat refused to shrink. So stupid.

Your coat slipped down your shoulders, pooling at your feet when you let your hands flop to your sides. You crossed the room to the bed, threw over a corner of the covers and slid underneath.

The warmth was instant. You rolled onto your side, facing the wall, and sunk into the mattress. The fresh scent of clean sheets filled your nostrils, the heavy woollen quilt wrapped around your shivering body as if protecting you from the biting chill of the night. Your head was cradled in the softest pillow you had ever felt. As absurd and childish as the thought was, it reminded you of a hug.

Your eyes swelled with tears.

Disjointed scenes flitted across your mind before you could stop yourself.

Flickering lights. The ceiling fan's low hum. A veil of smoke. The voice of your boss, Logan, booming with unusual concern.

'You? Going to that damn place? Y/N, are you suicidal?!'

A crowded carriage. The screech of train tracks. Hypnotic blue eyes and glowing gold coins. Stubborn wrought-iron gates and a brown shawl. A purple-haired boy introducing himself as 'Asher', as your 'partner'.

A harrowing black sky. 'Shouldn't it be daytime by now?'

Laughter, almost desperate, and a floating sensation in your chest. Chandeliers, expensive perfume, a bowl of black liquorice. An enchanting melody, being swept across a ballroom in secure arms. A dizzying night that ends in a most unexpected way.

"Y/N L/N, I fucking love you."

A week of brimming anxiety, nightmares about Cyril and missing reporters and dead reporters, and constantly feeling watched.

Glowing white flowers. "It's a meeting, not a date!"

Opening the door to your hotel room; unrecognisable, like a hurricane shredded through it. A labyrinth of halls. Sitting across from Wellington.

"Oh, it's only $800,000."

"Loan sharks? How the hell did Cyril get involved with loan sharks?!"

Glass shattering then pitch-black. You were running. A blur of dusty walls, burning lungs and echoing footsteps. Running, running, running. The final hallway; a corridor borne of impenetrable darkness. Twenty-seven doors then an empty wall. A deafening headache.