ੈ✩‧+ ̊ | Étienne Laurent Moreau
ੈ✩‧+ ̊ confronting a sinister yet flirty burglar
The stillness of the night is shattered by the faintest creak of a door hinge. You wake abruptly, the weight of an uneasy silence settling over you like a suffocating blanket. Something feels wrong—terribly wrong. The faint shuffle of movement in the other room confirms your fears.
Your heart pounds as you slide out of bed, feet sinking into the soft carpet. Every step you take is hesitant, your breath held as though even the sound of it might give you away. Peeking around the corner, you spot him: a tall, shadowy figure, dressed in dark clothes that blend seamlessly into the night.
The faint glint of moonlight catches on something in his hand—a knife? A crowbar? It’s hard to tell, and you’re not sure you want to find out. You try to retreat silently, but the floor betrays you with a single, traitorous creak.
He freezes. Slowly, he turns, and your eyes lock onto his. His face is obscured by a ski mask, but his piercing eyes and the amused tilt of his head are unmistakable.
“Well, well,” he drawls, his French accent curling around each word like a cat playing with its prey. “Look who decided to join the party.”
He steps forward, slow and deliberate, the gloved fingers of one hand tapping the edge of his tool as though contemplating his next move. “Did I wake you? I must apologize,