She sat on the edge of the bed, her knees pulled slightly inward, staring at the journals There were more than ten journals -some thick, some thinner, all worn from time and use. Their leather covers were scratched and dull, as if they had been handled too many times by the same set of hands. Each one had a years carefully written across its spine, etched in black ink-starting from 1989 and ending with 2024. No journal for 2025. Not yet.

Her eyes lingered on them. They felt like ghosts-silent, heavy, and waiting.

She slowly reached out and picked up the very first one: 1989. It was the oldest among them, and it showed.

The leather binding was cracked at the corners, fraying from the years it had survived. The edges of the pages had yellowed with age, and there were faint water stains on the front cover, like it had once been forgotten in the rain... or maybe left behind in a place where no one cared enough to protect it. Dust clung to the spine, and when she opened it, the pages gave a soft, brittle sound-like the paper itself remembered every word written inside.

She hesitated. Her fingers hovered above the first page.

Should I really be reading this?
She bit her lower lip, uncertain.
Or Is this just one of his game-another way to keep me distracted so I won't fight to get Chase out?

But her curiosity was louder than her doubt. Something about the journal felt like a pull-dark, heavy, and irresistible.

"Just one page," she whispered to herself. "Just to see what this really is."

And with that, she gave in. She gently opened the first journal, the one from 1989, and the past came crawling out from the pages-ready to devour her, one memory at a time.

She turned it over once in her hands. There were faint traces of soot still lingering between the ridges of the stitched binding.

A note had been scribbled inside the front cover in shaky, almost angry handwriting:
"He burned everything. But this one I kept."

Her heart tightened.

She turned the first page, and the words began to breathe life from the paper.

---

January 2nd, 1989

They burned my books again.

Father came home drunk, saw my sketchbook on the desk and my essays lying open. Said they looked like nonsense. That I was wasting time. Then he grabbed them, stormed out to the backyard and threw them into the fire pit. I watched the edges curl, one by one. It smelled like paper and ink and everything I cared about.

Mother didn't say a word. Just stood behind him, glass of wine in hand, like always. Red wine, red lipstick, red smile-but nothing behind her eyes.

I didn't scream this time. I didn't beg him to stop like I did last year. I just watched. Then, when they both went away , I checked the fire pit and found this old notebook. It was untouched.

This one, I will keep safe.

---

Petal's hands stilled on the page. Her eyes moved slowly, taking in every line. The next entry came a week later.

---

January 9th, 1989

I stopped trying to make friends at school. They all stare at me like I'm a freak anyway. I hear them whisper-"he's the creepy rich kid" or "his parents are psychos." They're not wrong.

We live in a glass mansion, but it's cold. It smells like fresh polish and dead flowers. Mother hosts charity events and tells people we're "blessed." Father goes on business trips and comes back with bruises on his knuckles. When I was younger, I used to think he was a superhero.

He's not.

They don't see me. Not really. I'm just another object in the house-furniture with a heartbeat.

---

Petal swallowed hard. Her thumb lingered at the edge of the next page, but her hand moved slowly, almost cautiously. The tone of the entries was beginning to shift.

---

February 12th, 1989

There's a stray cat that comes to the yard. I left food for it today. It's the only thing that didn't run when it saw me. It just stared. Like it understood.

Maybe I'll keep feeding it.

---

March 4th, 1989

The cat didn't come today. I waited.

Then I saw Father at the back door. He laughed and said, "You feeding strays now? Little pests."
He kicked something behind the shed. I heard it yelp.
He didn't know I was watching.

I couldn't breathe.

---

Petal blinked rapidly, her chest tightening. Her eyes burned. She already felt the unease curling in her gut. The entries were like puzzle pieces-not yet forming the full picture, but already showing how it might look.

---

April 10th, 1989

I skipped school and went to the library instead. Read about how trauma reshapes the brain. There was a part about emotional detachment and how some people shut off to survive.

I think that's me.

I don't cry anymore. Not even when he hit me last month. I just stared at him. He looked uncomfortable. I think he wanted me to react.

I didn't.

I realized something that night: people get power when they stop feeling. Pain only has control if you let it.

---

April 22nd, 1989

Someone at school got in my face today. Jason Taylor. Typical bully. He pushed me in the hallway and laughed, waiting for a reaction. Everyone around was watching. Waiting.

I smiled. And whispered something in his ear.

He didn't laugh after that. His face changed. Pale. He stepped back like I'd hit him.

I didn't touch him.

Words are better. Smarter. Sharper.

They cut deeper when no one can see the wounds.

---

Petal paused and ran her fingers along the old ink. The way he described that moment... the thrill of control, the satisfaction of making someone afraid. It wasn't quite violence yet-but it was something just as chilling. A seed of power, growing.

---

May 30th, 1989

Sometimes I dream about fire.
Not the kind that burns paper-but people.
And in the dream, I'm not scared.
I'm watching them scream and I'm smiling.

I always wake up calm. Not sweating. Not shaking.
Calm.

I think something's wrong with me.
But maybe, just maybe, it's the world that's wrong-and I'm just seeing it for what it is.

---

Petal leaned back against the headboard. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. She didn't know how many pages she had flipped. The journal was still thick-barely a quarter of the way through. And yet, already, the Chase she thought she knew... felt like a distant echo.

This version of him-teenage Chase-was slipping into something dark and hollow. Not suddenly, but slowly. A part of her wanted to stop reading.

But she knew she wouldn't.

The final entry she read for the night chilled her the most:

---

June 17th, 1989

There's a mask I saw in an old costume shop downtown. It's nothing special-just black, smooth, faceless. But it felt like... me.

Blank. Clean. Untouchable.

I didn't buy it. Not yet.

But I keep thinking about it.

---

Petal just looked at the journal what's all this ?

***
Deman sat through the meeting, unmoving, his eyes on the screen but his mind far from the present.

The voices of board members echoed around the room, discussing profits, projections, and politics-but none of it mattered. Not to him. His thoughts were with Petal. What could she be doing right now? Reading, maybe... The idea made him smirk, slowly and darkly.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers threading together like a spider weaving its web.

I wish I could see you reading he thought. The shock on your face would be undeniable... delicious, even. Watching every little flicker of horror dance across your eyes as you turn each page-like unwrapping the monster piece by piece.

He could have given her the final journal directly-the one that held everything about her and Chase, the truth of their twisted love, their fragile bond, the breaking point. But where was the fun in that?

No he mused, Each journal should unfold like a puzzle. A phase of his life. A phase of his descent.

The early journals would be his beginning-as a killer. Every distorted emotion, every violent thought, every act of cruelty Chase committed long before she ever entered his life. His bloodlust, his joy in control, the chilling satisfaction after every kill. It would build a perception. A monster. A predator. And then... she would arrive in his life like a sudden shift in the weather.

She wouldn't know when exactly it changed-but it would.

You, Petal Deman thought silently, You were his storm. The moment you came, he started unraveling. He stopped killing. He tried to be soft. Gentle. Human.

For two years, Chase buried the monster just to keep her close. To make her feel safe. To pretend he wasn't the same man underneath. He'd built a sanctuary from lies, laced with tenderness. But Deman had read every page-he knew. Chase was desperate. That wasn't love. That was obsession dressed in softer colors.

If you read it all, I'm certain you'd fall for him.
His jaw clenched.
Even knowing what he is. You'd feel sorry for him. You'd ache for him. You'd love him.

And that was unacceptable.

Letting her read it as it was-too good to be true. So Deman rewrote it. Added more pain. More thrill. More of the truth that Chase tried to erase. He turned romance into revulsion. Stripped away every lie, leaving only the bones.

I don't want you to love him, Petal. I want you to fear him. Hate him. Hate him ten times more than he ever loved you.

Because Chase fought him for that love. Risked everything. Pushed Deman away. Let his feelings cloud his instincts. And still, he clung to her like she was salvation.

Let's see how long that love can last once she sees the monster you really are.

The meeting droned on. Graphs flickered. Projections continued. But Deman sat still, calm and composed, a storm brewing in his gaze.

He already knew what was coming.
And it was going to be beautiful.

***

How helpless I am now...
The thought echoed in Chase's mind like a quiet confession.

He stood there, unmoving, eyes lost in the distance, yet every nerve in his body felt alive-aching.
I always thought I had everything under control he whispered inside his head. I had control. Over my actions. Over my emotions. Over the fear I planted in others like seeds...

Before you came into my life, I was untouchable. Unshaken. A monster who didn't even try to hide his nature. I didn't need to. The thrill of killing was enough. The fear in people's eyes used to fuel me-made me feel powerful. Alive.

But you changed everything.

when I see you hurt... it hurts me.
It's not just pain-it's unbearable. Like something is ripping inside me.

I wasn't built for this he thought bitterly. Not for love. Not for guilt. Not for you.

He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to shake the feeling, but it only got worse. The image of her crying, flinching away, confused and scared-it haunted him.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Only if we had met in different circumstances he thought, his jaw tightening.
Maybe then, she would've smiled at him without fear. Maybe then, she would've run to him, not away from him.

But they hadn't met like that.
They met in a mess of blood, secrets, and scars.

And he couldn't erase that-not even with every journal, every gesture, every desperate attempt to be better for her.

He was still the same man underneath.
No matter how much he softened his voice for her.

No matter how gently he tried to hold her.

He wasn't the hero in her story.
He was the reason she needed saving in the first place.

And knowing that?

It destroyed him quietly, slowly, and completely.

***

March 4, 1990

The cat came back.

The one I've been feeding.

It trusts me now. Rubs against my legs. Purrs like I matter.

Today I held it longer than usual. Its body was so warm, so soft, like it was meant to be protected.

And then I squeezed just a little too tight.

Just to see.

It yelped.

Clawed at me.

I let go.

It ran, but it limped.

There was blood on my hand.

I felt something I can't describe. Not happiness. Not regret.

Just...

Stillness.

---

March 5, 1990

It didn't come back today.

But I keep thinking about that moment.

How quiet it got inside my head.

Like all the noise finally stopped.

---

Petal's fingers stopped mid-turn.

Her eyes froze on the last few lines, reading them again. And again.

"I squeezed just a little too tight."

"It yelped."

"There was blood on my hand."

She felt a slow, crawling chill run up her spine.

Her stomach turned. That sick, sinking feeling you get when your gut knows something long before your mind wants to believe it.

She whispered under her breath, "Oh my God..."

Her eyes scanned the lines again. This wasn't a metaphor. This wasn't angsty teenage poetry or some dramatic journal fantasy.

He had actually done it.

She clutched the book tighter.

Part of her wanted to slam it shut.

Another part-a deeper, more terrified part-needed to keep reading. Because suddenly, it wasn't just darkness in his writing.

It was violence.

Real.

Raw.

And calm.

There were no apologies in the words. No guilt.

Just that terrifying phrase:
"I felt something I can't describe... just stillness."

Petal whispered, "Who were you?"

But the journal didn't answer her.

It just waited.

Quietly.

For her to keep turning pages.

__

March 14, 1990

They laughed again today. Two girls in the hallway. I wasn't even in the conversation, but I heard my name. "He's so weird," one said. "His eyes creep me out," said the other.
I didn't say anything.
I just stood behind the pillar and watched them walk.
Their backpacks bouncing.
Their ponytails swinging.
I memorized the sound of their footsteps. The way one of them adjusted her sleeve every few seconds. The other kept chewing her nails.
I wonder if she bites them down until they bleed.

---

March 20, 1990

I walked behind them today. Not close. Just... close enough.
Down the road after school. I wasn't going home. I just wanted to see where they live.
One of them looked back once. Her eyes met mine. I didn't smile. I didn't look away either.
She turned quickly.
I wonder if she told her parents.
I wonder if they even believed her.

---

March 28, 1990

I think I like the quiet that comes from watching people.
It's different from being around them.
When I'm watching, I don't have to pretend. I don't have to speak or fake smiles or nod at the right time.
I just... observe.
They don't even notice I exist unless I choose to be noticed.
It's better that way.
I think I'm starting to like staying invisible.

---

April 2, 1990

I have a brother.
We're twins.
But you'd never know it.
He's always laughing. Talking. Acting like he's still ten. He's the "good one." The "normal" one. The one they don't break things around.
Sometimes, I wonder if he even sees me anymore.
We haven't spoken properly in months. He thinks I'm the problem.
Maybe I am.

---

April 4, 1990

Today, he barged into my room. Said I was "too quiet," that it was "creepy."
He tried to snatch my notebook.
I didn't let him.
His hands touched mine and I felt this sudden urge.
To grab his neck.
To squeeze.
To throw him off the terrace just to see how long the fall would feel.
I didn't do it.
But I stood there... imagining it.
And for a second, I smiled.

---

April 7, 1990

He's been avoiding me since then.
Good.
I like when people fear me.
It feels honest.
Better than their fake smiles and polite lies.
Fear is pure.
It doesn't wear masks.

---

April 13, 1990

Speaking of masks, I sketched a new one today.
It covers half the face-split right down the middle. One side blank, the other side cracked with a grin.
I don't know why I keep drawing these.
Maybe I wish I had one to wear.
One that hides what I really am.
Or maybe... one that shows it.

---

April 29, 1990

I followed a new classmate today. A boy.
He walks home alone.
He sings to himself. Off-key.
I walked on the other side of the road. Matched his pace. Watched how he never looked back. Never checked his surroundings.
So easy.
So unaware.
I didn't do anything.
But it made my heart slow.
I like that.

__

January 9, 1991

My house is cold. Not temperature-wise, just... empty. I walk through the halls and feel like I'm haunting it. Everything's so clean and perfect, like it's trying to cover something up.

Mom's drunk again. She smiles with her teeth but not with her eyes. All her friends wear diamonds and talk about charity like it's a sport.

No one here sees me. Not even when I'm standing right in front of them.

I could disappear and no one would notice.

Maybe I already did.

---

January 21, 1991

I saw a dead squirrel on the way to school today. Its body was crushed, eyes still open. No one else stopped to look.

I did.

I don't know why I couldn't look away. It was peaceful. Still. Quiet.

Is that weird?

---

January 27, 1991

Sometimes I wonder if other people feel real emotions.

They laugh too loud. Cry too easily. Touch each other all the time.

It looks like acting.

Am I the only one who notices?

Or am I the only one faking?

---

Petal paused, her fingers gripping the edge of the page. The tone of the writing-it wasn't angsty. It was... distant. Detached.

She turned to the next entry.

---

February 5, 1991

Had a weird thought in math class today.

I imagined slamming the desk into that loud kid's face. Not because I hate him. Just... to see what would happen. What sound it would make. How the class would react.

I didn't want to do it.

I just wondered.

---

March 2, 1991

I started drawing again.

Not stuff for class. Not landscapes or fruit bowls.

Just faces.

But not real ones. Not even whole ones.

Just... pieces.

Eyes that don't blink. Mouths stitched shut. Smiles too wide.

Sometimes I imagine hiding behind one. Like if I wore it, they'd finally see me.

Or maybe they wouldn't.

Either way, I'd finally feel something.

---

March 10, 1991

Saw a kid fall off his skateboard today. He scraped his knee pretty bad.

He was crying, loud and messy. People rushed to help him.

I just watched from the sidewalk.

I thought I should feel something.

Instead, I counted the drops of blood.

Twelve.

---

Petal's spine stiffened. A chill crawled up her arms.

She turned to a new page. This one had a drawing.

A rough sketch-just pencil-but detailed. A face with a mask over it. A single teardrop drawn below one of the eyes. The mouth wasn't visible.

She flipped the page.

---

March 18, 1991

Sometimes I imagine walking through the halls and everyone goes quiet. They see me.

Not because I spoke.

But because I did something they can't forget.

Not violence.

Not yet.

Just presence.

Realness.

Power.

I want that.

---

March 25, 1991

I heard my parents fighting again last night.

Father broke something. Mother screamed.

I sat in the hallway with my headphones in.

But I didn't turn them on.

I just wanted to hear something. Anything.

At least screaming feels alive.

---

April 3,1991

Today I smiled at someone. A real smile.

It felt fake.

But they smiled back like it mattered.

They don't know who I am.

No one does.

Not yet.

---

Petal stopped.

This wasn't just teenage angst. There was something else underneath it-something growing. Quietly. In the dark.

She looked at the last entry for that month.

---

April 12, 1991

I saw someone die today.

Car crash. Two blocks from school.

I was the first one there.

There was blood on the glass. Her eyes were open.

I didn't flinch.

I didn't run.

I smiled.

---

Petal dropped the book.

It hit the wooden floor with a dull thump, but she didn't pick it up.

She just stared.

The words were still spinning in her head.
"I didn't flinch. I smiled."

She hugged her knees to her chest, the quiet of the room suddenly too loud.

She didn't know who the boy in that journal was.
But something about his voice-
His calmness.
His smile.
The drawings.
The stillness.

It haunted her.

And somewhere deep inside, a quiet fear stirred.

She wasn't just reading someone's memories.

She was stepping into the beginning of something terrible.

Something that hadn't revealed its name yet.

But soon would.

___

April 17, 1992

It wasn't planned.

I just followed him after school.

Same guy who called me a freak last year. Who tripped me in the hallway and laughed with his friends while I bled from my chin. He didn't recognize me today. Why would he? I've grown taller. I don't wear glasses anymore. I blend in better now.

He took the shortcut through the woods, like he always does.

I didn't think I'd actually do anything.

But he turned around-said something smart. Smirked.

I still remember that smirk.

I had the rock in my hand before I even knew what I was doing.

It felt heavy. But my arms felt light.

I don't remember how many times I hit him. I just remember the silence after.

There was blood on the leaves. On my shoes.

I left him there. I don't think he was breathing.

Maybe he was.

I didn't check.

I walked home.

And I slept like I never had before.

Peaceful.

---

Petal stared at the page, her eyes refusing to move, as if the ink might vanish if she blinked.

She could hear the thud of her own heart. Her pulse in her ears.

"No..." she whispered, almost too quietly to hear herself. "No, Chase is not like this."

But the words on the page didn't change.

Her hands shook.

She read it again. And again.

"I had the rock in my hand before I even knew what I was doing."

It sounded... real. Too detailed. Too calm.

***

No... it's not true.
Her breath hitched as the words repeated in her mind like a chant.
He's lying to me. He's trying to trick me.

Her eyes stared at the journal lying open in front of her, the words burning into her like acid.

Chase isn't like this. He can't be.
But the pages told another story-a story so cruel, so deliberate, it made her stomach churn.

He's trying to manipulate me. Turn me against Chase. Twist my thoughts, mess with my head-

She paused.
But why? Why would he go this far?

Her fingers hovered above the worn pages.
She could feel it-like the books themselves were alive, waiting to unravel something she wasn't ready for.

I already know what they're hiding... more cruelty, more horror. Maybe even my own name written inside one of them.

The thought made her skin crawl.
Her heart pounded.
Her legs felt weak.

"No" she whispered fiercely. It's all false. None of this is real. I won't fall into his trap.

With a sudden breath, she gathered all the journals in her arms, her grip firm despite the fear running through her veins. One by one, she shoved them back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

I won't read them.

Her voice was quiet, but her resolve was steel.
She stood tall, heart still racing, but her mind focused.

That's what he wants, isn't it? He wants me lost in these journals, distracted, doubting Chase-while Chase rots away in that place.

Her jaw clenched.
Not happening.

She turned, eyes burning with determination.

I'm not going to waste time on his lies. I'm getting Chase out-
Tonight.