𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

* Part I *

♥︎
2007
California
Word Count: 3.1k

  It was another Saturday night in California, but something about this one felt different. A tension hung in the air, quiet but palpable. You sat at your desk, bathed in the faint blue light of your computer screen. Outside, the city hummed with life, but inside, it was just you and the silence—an intimate kind of stillness, almost suffocating. The alarm clock beside you ticked with unnerving precision, its red numbers glowing like embers: 11:00 PM. The hour he'd promised to be there, waiting.

It had become your ritual—logging in at the same time every night, anticipating his presence like a dark secret you kept from the world. Each evening, you would talk for hours, sharing fragments of your day, your thoughts, your desires, until either sleep claimed one of you or the sky began to pale with the first light of dawn. Tonight, you could feel the anticipation building, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, waiting for the notification that would signal his arrival.

Just a few months ago, it had been nothing more than curiosity—a fleeting, reckless thought born out of desperation. You were behind on bills, struggling with tuition, and needed a way out. You started exploring the shadowy corners of the internet, slipping into chat rooms that promised solutions to the problems you didn't want to admit aloud. What you were looking for, in the beginning, was simple: a sugar daddy, someone who could ease the burden and pay for the things you couldn't. But what you found was something else entirely.

His name was strange, almost ominous: Dr. Black. The moment you saw it, a shiver ran down your spine—curiosity mixed with an unspoken sense of danger. But when he reached out, his words were anything but cold. They were smooth, carefully crafted, slipping through the screen like honey. He knew just how to talk to you, drawing you in without ever revealing too much of himself. There were no photos, no video calls—only his words, lingering in the empty spaces of your room long after the conversations ended.

He was generous, almost to a fault. Money would appear in your account like clockwork, every two weeks without fail. But it wasn't just the money. Lavish gifts followed—diamond necklaces that caught the light and danced across your skin, bouquets of rare flowers you'd never even heard of, their scent intoxicating. Once, after you mentioned how your old car was falling apart, he didn't hesitate. A few days later, a brand-new vehicle arrived at your door, sleek and polished, waiting for you like a gift from a stranger you'd never laid eyes on.

And yet, despite his lavish displays, he remained an enigma. He had never shown his face, never revealed his true identity. You knew only what he wanted you to know. The more you talked, the deeper the mystery became, his presence seeping into every corner of your life—always there, always watching, but never close enough to touch.

Now, as the clock crept past eleven, a weight settled in your chest—a subtle, growing pressure, like something unseen wrapping itself tighter around your heart. You couldn't shake the thoughts swirling in your mind, the questions that lingered unanswered, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. Who was he, really? His voice—well, his words—were familiar, comforting even, but the mystery of his existence was beginning to take root in ways you hadn't expected. Why hadn't he ever asked to meet in person, despite how close your conversations had become? Why did it feel like, with each passing day, you were being pulled deeper into something you couldn't fully understand? And why, despite the gifts, the money, the lavish attention, did an unease settle in the pit of your stomach?