Our Midnight Game §Rewrite§ || Yandere Male X Reader/Oc ||

Episode Four

                              ↓ Our Midnight Game ↓

     ⎾Arrogance is. . ⏌

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After an exacting agenda involving uneventful classes, ass-kissing professors peering over his shoulder, exhaustive note-takings, weathering Chiasa's goofy comments regarding nothing important, and disregarding awestruck stares and intrusive whispers alike, Isamu finally began the essential component of his prolonged day; the reason he'd even bother to wake up at an unhallowed hour in the morning, tossing warm sheets aside for the favor of accosting the glaring sunlight. 

Namely, it was work.

"Good morning, young master," the hoary butler, Meier Manfred, welcomed him deferentially, his black uniform distinctly fancy, classy tailcoat perfectly neat. As per usual, the cadaverous Manfred emitted a sickly disposition until the tip of his head; an awfully pallid face, a pair of tapering, cryptic ocean blue eyes above a hawkish nose, thin lips perpetually frowning, the wrinkles notching the bends only encouraging his dourness.

"G'morning," Isamu addressed, giving the man his messenger bag. He wasn't surprised that Manfred had awaited his arrival right at the front door, an obedient ghost looming over cascading stairs. While Isamu had never commanded the servants in this villa to push themselves through great measures, of course, it seemed they begged to differ — quite unlike the squeaking, trembling people back at home. And Manfred wasn't an exception, apparently. 

It was clear they felt a strong sense of devotion.

Ascending the solid stairs at an unfaltering pace, Isamu's moderate gaze fell on the forever familiar French country villa. An unpretentious, blue-white painted building. To others, it was no different than any other, but to Isamu, it allegorized a precious denotation. 

His lips slanted upwards, vagueness crossing his expression.

"Has she returned?" Isamu questioned, reaching the last crook. Autumn's cool breeze caressed vitalizing streaks across his collarbone and meagerly exposed skin, a crisp earthy smell unique to the season slathering his nose. 

Manfred opened the door, standing aside as Isamu took the first step inside. "..No, young master."

"I was under the impression her flight was scheduled today." Isamu suddenly stopped, unsmiling. He felt very impatient. A persistent knocking in the back of his mind. It always goes like this, he thought, pensive. 

"The mistress has decided to protract her sojourn in Dubai," Manfred notified, wooden. "She booked the hotel suite a month longer." He brought out a letter from his coat's inner lapel, gloved fingers presenting it to the dark haired heir. "This was delivered today, young master."

Isamu contemplated the pristine envelope, not taking it. The butler didn't flounder, demonstrating a professional's stoicism as he kept his hand stretched out. 

A second.

A minute.

Another minute.

Trying to understand her thinking process was absolutely aggravating, he mused idly, relieving the butler of his trial. Unfolding it, he read the terribly succinct message.

             Don't wait for me. 

        If you miss me, come join me.

"..." Isamu's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline, the rich silver storm dignifying his eyes becoming lighter. He suddenly chuckled, the sound as contumelious as an audience spectating an uninventive comedy show. Does she believe.. he trailed off, quizzical. Isamu didn't want to entertain the assumption, because it was plain uproarious.