Chapter Text
Vil knew the exact alchemy of a gaze — how to look into a lens and steal the viewer’s breath when when they met the finished frame. He never called it talent; talent was a word for the lazy, a hollow refuge for the weak. To him, it was a rigorous science: the slight elevation of the chin, the tongue pressed against the palate to soften a smile, the precise tilt of the head so that light would graze the cheekbone and linger, expectant, on the lips.
He gave his audience exactly what they craved: perfection, served at the perfect angle.
The public called it a natural gift. Vil called it discipline.
His own magnificent image was a monument he had carved himself through grueling training, the denial of common pleasures, sleepless nights, practiced smiles, and calculated words. It was an endless, agonizing labor. He had built himself like a palace stately and flawless where there were to be no cracks, no shadowed chambers, just litle one places hidden from the world's appreciative eye
The problem was that after years of staring at the palace from the outside, people eventually began to believe they were entitled to the key.
After graduating from Night Raven College, Vil’s trajectory as an actor and supermodel continued its meteoric rise. Everything followed his meticulous design: major contracts, high-fashion shoots, global campaigns, and increasingly prestigious roles. Yet, closer to his heart was a dream he guarded fiercely the day he would launch his own pharmaceutical company and create cosmetics truly worthy of being called "perfect."
He maintained ties with old friends, though few remained as close as they once were. But one man had stayed by his side with unwavering constancy. Perhaps it was no surprise that, a year after graduation, he and Rook finally became a couple. They kept their bond a private sanctuary; a public revelation could jeopardize not only Vil’s career but the fragile peace of their shared life. Only those in their innermost circle knew the truth.
Vil finished his shoot late. After bidding his colleagues farewell, he allowed himself a quick group selfie for Magicam—a small token of appreciation for a team that had worked exceptionally well. The service corridor greeted him with its familiar silence: echoing, slightly dusty, and smelling of cheap vending-machine coffee. The rhythmic, sharp click of his heels bounced off the half-empty walls. Stepping outside, Vil wrapped his scarf tighter. The cold air tasted of metal and the rain that had been persistent of late. Wet leaves clung to the asphalt like old letters at the bottom of a drawer no one dared to open. The streetlamps glowed with a tired, sickly yellow. Loocking the anticipated service car, the young actor headed toward it. The driver, as always, asked where he was headed today.
“Home,” he told the driver, his eyes never leaving his phone. “I’ve had enough for today.”
A message shimmered on the screen.
Rook: Text me when you’re home, my Queen.
Vil stared at the words for a few seconds before typing back, almost instinctively:
Vil: Almost there. Don’t act like an anxious wife.
The reply was instantaneous.
Rook: Too late. I’ve already picked out the curtains for our imaginary living room.
Vil snorted softly. After another brief exchange of trivial but sweet messages, he stepped out of the car. He was already rehearsing what he would say to Rook no doubt something sharp, something biting to mask what he actually felt.
"Stay the night."
The words had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for two days, feeling too much like a confession of weakness. Admitting he loved waking up next to someone felt more dangerous than any interview or camera lens.
He reached his floor and pulled out his keys. He had almost reached the lock when something crunched faintly under his sole. Vil frowned, his grip tightening on his phone. Silence followed. No movement, no sound—only the flickering of a fluorescent bulb overhead.
He looked down. A white envelope lay at his feet. On the front, written in a hand that was unnaturally neat and more terrifyingly hauntingly familiar, was his name.
VIL.
Vil picked up the envelope with two fingers as if it were something filthy. He stared at it for a long moment, praying his intuition was wrong. Inside his apartment, he threw the deadbolt—as if the click of a lock could still offer protection. Without even taking off his coat, he went to the kitchen and tore the envelope open. Inside was a card with a message that made his skin crawl:
“You are beautiful. This look suits you much better.”
A slow, sick knot tightened in his stomach. He set the card aside and pulled out the photographs. They were recent; the clothes he was wearing in them had been purchased less than three days ago. In the photos, Vil was standing by the window of his own apartment. He was barefoot, wearing a casual shirt, a mug of tea in his hands. The evening light was soft, almost cozy. They were the kind of photos a lover might take. Except they had been taken from the street. Through his window. Vil stared at the image, motionless, his fingers slowly crushing the thick cardstock.
His phone vibrated.
Rook calling.
He didn’t answer immediately.
In that moment, it became chillingly clear: this wasn't an accident. This wasn't a fan crossing the line or a tasteless joke he could simply hand over to his manager with a dry "Fix this."
Someone had been watching.
For a long time.
And they hadn't been watching Vil Schoenheit—the star, the model, the icon of cinematic perfection. They were watching the Vil who took off his rings at night, who drank chamomile tea to unwind, and who occasionally forgot to close the curtains.
The screen flashed again.
Rook calling.
This time, he answered.
“You’re usually faster to pick up,” - Rook said softly, the smile evident even through the speaker. Vil looked at the photograph one more time. At his own shoulders captured by a stranger’s lens. At the warm light of an apartment that now felt like a stage he hadn't realized he was standing on.
“Rook,” - Vil’s voice trembled. He took a jagged breath.
“What’s wrong?” - The smile in Rook’s voice vanished instantly.
Vil closed his eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt truly, viscerally hunted.