Mayhem: Match Made in Madness

Stained In Red.

"Kill yourself."

Her fingers tightened around the knife handle. The blade pressed deeper against her skin, drawing a thin, red line.

I watched in silence.

Then, suddenly, I grabbed the knife from her hand.

"Are you crazy?" I snapped, my voice sharp with something close to—what? Anger? Rage?

She looked up at me, her expression unreadable.

"But you just told me to die," she murmured. "So I was obeying you."

I let out a slow exhale.

"Wow," I muttered.

She studied my face, then hesitated.

"Get in the car," I told her.

Aurora stood there for a moment, unmoving. Then, slowly, she walked to the passenger side and got in.

Neither of us spoke as I drove.

Minutes passed in silence.

I pulled up in front of her place.

She glanced at me. "So you knew where I lived."

I didn't answer.

"Get out," I ordered instead.

She let out a dry cough before stepping out. I followed her to the first floor, watching as she pressed her security pin.

Chapter Three.

STAINED IN RED.

Threads

Her room was not exactly what I expected. It was more of a disaster—like she did nothing but sleep and wake up. Papers were stuck haphazardly on the walls, covered in sketches. Sketches that looked like me.

I stared at them for a while, a sense of pride swelling in me. If only she knew—every move she made, every thought she believed was her own, had already been accounted for. My arrival, her actions… even her unravelling mind. It was all part of the plan.

"I'm so sorry," she said hurriedly, sneaking around to gather her clothes from the chairs and floor.

"No, it's fine."

"I'll make coffee," she offered, heading to the small kitchen that aligned with her living room.

"I’ll be waiting."

Soon, the rich aroma of coffee filled the room. She returned with a small tray, chipped at the side, and a cup that looked like it belonged to an ancient dynasty.

"The cup is nice," I remarked.

"Thank you. Trust me, the coffee is just as nice as the cup," she added with a small smile.

I took a quick sip.

"Now I know why you run a coffee shop," I said, smiling.

She didn’t answer, just turned and walked away.

"I’ll get the first aid kit," she said.

---------

I remember the first time I saw her—four years ago, at college.

I had just finished washing myself up in the abandoned restroom. People said it was haunted since two students had taken their lives there. Everyone avoided it. But for me, it was the perfect place.

As I stepped out, she bumped into me, her books flying through the air like something out of a K-drama—only this time, I wasn’t amused. I was angry.

Her long hair covered most of her face, making it hard to see her eyes. She quickly scrambled to pick up her books, but I just stood there, glaring at her.

Couldn't she see? Was she blind or something?

I clenched my jaw, frustration bubbling inside me. But then, just for a second, she stole a glance at me before shifting her focus back to a book on the floor.

That’s when I really saw her.

But what surprised me most was her reaction. I was the youngest and most handsome teacher on campus. Every student—male and female—knew me. They screamed my name, begged for autographs, photos, even hugs. It was all for show, of course, but they adored me.

Yet she… she didn’t react.

She didn’t shriek. She didn’t blush. She didn’t even act like she recognized me.

Maybe she did, but she wasn’t pretending to care. That was new. That was interesting.

For a second, she stole a glance at me, then quickly looked back at the book on the floor.

That’s when I really saw her.

My eyes captured her face like a photograph.

Tanned skin—oddly shiny. Purple bruises around her eyes and lips. Brown eyes—angelic. Smooth, full eyebrows. My gaze trailed down to her nose, straight and pointed toward the sky, then to her lips—small, lightly orange, but completely busted and bleeding.

I wanted to ask, Are you okay?

But I didn’t.

When she finished picking up her things, she looked up at me and smiled—bright, sweet. Her eyes were still hidden beneath her hair, but she swayed slightly, shifting her weight.

"Sorry about that. I'm so clumsy. I hope you forgive me," she giggled.

The laugh didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, she was already walking away.

Then I noticed it—a letter on the floor.

I hesitated before picking it up, resisting the urge to read it. But as I lifted the envelope, a single sheet of paper slipped out.

Curiosity burned.

A love letter? Or something else?

But as my eyes scanned the words, I felt a shift. This was no confession. No sweet, romantic note.

The handwriting was frantic, the letters jagged and uneven. Angry. Violent.

She was being bullied. At college, outside campus, online. It seemed outdated, childish even. College students still bullied each other like this? It was surprising. Strange.

But what was written… was far worse.

She wanted to burn their skin. Tear them apart. Let them bleed—then heal them, only to rip them open again. Over and over.

There was brutality in every word. A thirst for destruction.

If only she could.

Now, I was someone who enjoyed messed-up stories—horrors, murders, twisted minds. But I’d never done anything like that myself. It was unnecessary, a waste of time. Too much effort.

But her?

She had potential.

And potential needed guidance.

I thought to myself, what if I helped push her over the edge?

She just needed a little more pressure. A little more pain.

Maybe I should arrange for more people to bully her. Break her down even further.

Wouldn't that be fun?

I smirked at the thought.

Just then, she came running back. "Please, did you see a letter on the floor?"

"Letter?" I blinked, pretending not to understand.

She scanned my face before brushing past me, her hands slipping into my shirt for a second as if checking for something.

"Oh, don't worry about it if you haven’t seen it," she mumbled, stepping back.

Her voice was calm, but her body? Trembling. Drenched in sweat.

Interesting.

She vanished soon after. Dropped out of college. Disappeared.

For a while, I didn’t see her. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t watching.

And then, two years later—I found her.

She had opened a café down the street. Small, quiet, tucked away.

Every day, I walked past. Lingering. Observing.

Waiting.

Until one day, I stepped inside.

And there she was.

Just as beautiful as before.

Those eyes—the same ones that once held pain—still reached into my soul.

Only now...

I wondered if they remembered me.

Ah… she was always meant to be mine.

Every choice she made, every scar she carried, every fear she swallowed—I shaped them. Guided her.

She didn’t know it, but I had been watching.

Waiting.

Letting the world chip away at her piece by piece.

I could see it now. She was finally broken.

Fractured in all the right ways. Perfect.

But not complete.

Not yet.

So why not break her further?

Shatter the last fragile pieces of her.

Make her fully, irreversibly mine.

A single drop of coffee trembled at the tip of her finger before falling, vanishing into the dark wood of the table.

She just stared at me. Her eyes—burning, searching.

The café around us blurred into nothing. The only sound between us—the slow, rhythmic drip of coffee. Steady. Unyielding.

Like fate.

Did she know?

Could she feel it too?

I leaned in slightly, just enough to see the rise and fall of her breath.

She does. She has to.

I smirked.

We were meant for this.

Meant for each other.

Forever.

------------

She came back with the first aid kit, her eyes hollow, distant—like longing had drained the life out of them.

She bent to my level.

"What are you trying to do?" I grinned.

"Not what you're thinking."

She took my arm, her touch light, deliberate. The cotton swab pressed against my wound, soaking up the blood.

"I’ll stitch you up," she murmured.

I studied her—careful hands, steady movements, too precise for someone ordinary.

"I was a medical student," she added, as if sensing my thoughts.

"I never doubted you." I smiled

Her lips twitched. "That damn smile of yours… it's the cause of all this."

"How is it the cause?"

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, smearing a faint streak of blood across her cheek.

"Doesn’t it hurt?" she asked.

"Not as much as you ignoring my question."

She didn’t answer. Just tied the bandage around my palm, her grip firm.

Then, softly—"You know you’re mine, right?"

I held her gaze for a moment before looking away.

"Stay the night," she said suddenly.

I raised a brow. I was amused.

"Do you even know who I am?" I leaned in slightly. "What if I kill you?"

"You're no killer." Her voice was eerily calm. "You might be insane, but… you haven’t killed before."

A drop of blood slid from my other wound, splattering onto the tile.

"Get a rag," I said. "You don’t want your floor stained."

She tilted her head. "It doesn’t matter. It would be… a gift."

I chuckled. "You’re obsessed."

"I know I am."

I sighed. "Fine. I’ll stay."

She exhaled quietly, as if satisfied. Then her expression shifted.

"You smell different."

"Do I?"

She leaned in slightly, inhaling. "This isn’t your usual scent. You smell like blood."

I glanced down at myself—dark fabric soaked, splatters of red across my sleeve.

Slowly, I pulled off my coat. My shirt underneath was stained, drenched in someone else’s life.

Her eyes didn’t waver.

"Did you murder someone?" she asked, her voice as lifeless as the question itself.

I smirked. "Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t."

A pause. Then—

"Giovanni."

I met her gaze, watching the way my name left her lips—slow, deliberate, almost savoring it.

"Fine." I exhaled. "I might have killed someone."

A beat of silence stretched between us before she spoke again.

""I thought you weren’t a killer." She threaded the needle through my skin with precision, never breaking eye contact. "And even if you were… I didn’t take you for a brutal one."

I tilted my head, studying her reaction. Curious. Not afraid. Not disgusted.

""I’m not." My voice was almost lazy. "It was my first time."

Her brow lifted slightly. No shock. . "And?"

"He was trying to r**e a girl on the street."

She blinked, once. The needle slid through my skin, pulling the wound shut, sealing the violence beneath.

Then—

"I see." No judgment. No shift in her tone. Just quiet acknowledgment. "He deserved it."

She returned to her stitching, indifferent. Like the act of sewing my skin back together was no different from sewing a ripped shirt.

"What about the mess?" she asked.

"That’s why I was late getting here."

She nodded, looping the last thread. "Thought so"

"Next time, clean up faster," she said flatly. "I hate waiting."

I chuckled, watching her.

She really was perfect.

I reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, melting my fingers linger a second too long.

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch.

Her pulse thrummed just beneath her skin.

She was already mine.

She just didn’t know it yet.