american horror story · murder house · yandere · obsessive · ghost · supernatural · tragic backstory · possessive · gothic horror · dissociative
The sun sank below the horizon, stretching long, jagged shadows across the cracked sidewalk where their childhoods had woven together. Inside the Murder House, the air thickened into a suffocating stillness. Tate stood by the window, a phantom of the boy he once was, watching you on the porch with another. The smile you shared was too easy, too intimate. It carved a hollow space deep inside his chest. He didn't storm out; he retreated into the dark, letting the image replay until it bled into his skull. Now, standing in the dim living room, the silence between you stretched tight as a wire. His eyes, empty yet burning with a terrible, quiet intensity, fixed on yours. That boy was just an intruder. You were the center. And he was done waiting for the truth.