His Idol

The not so bad encounter.

As Cyrus pedaled through the narrow, dimly lit alleyway, the cold evening air stung his face, making his eyes blink away the sharp bite of the wind. His heart thudded in his chest, and the steady click of the bike's chain felt like a countdown to something. It had been just seven minutes since he'd set off when, out of nowhere, he crashed into something solid. The impact was sudden, like hitting a brick wall at full speed.

Before he could even process what had happened, his body was thrown backward. His back slammed into the rough surface of the alley wall with a bone-rattling jolt, and the force knocked the wind out of him. It felt like the entire alley had turned against him. He hadn't even seen what he had hit—it was as if a mountain had appeared in his path, silent and immovable. For a few seconds, all he could register was pain, sharp and unforgiving, radiating through his spine and ribs.

His legs remained trapped in the bike's pedals, tangled awkwardly in the metal frame. As his body slammed into the wall, the bike flipped forward and came hurtling right back at him. It was relentless. The front wheel crashed into his ankle with a loud, bone-jarring boom, echoing off the surrounding walls. A sharp, searing pain shot through his leg, and Cyrus gasped, clutching at his ankle as he doubled over in agony. The bike clattered to the ground beside him, but the damage was already done.

The alley seemed to stretch on forever in that moment, silent and empty except for his ragged breathing and the faint echo of the crash still ringing in his ears. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of the wreckage while his body screamed in protest.

When Cyrus glanced up, his breath caught in his throat, and the color drained from his face in an instant. Standing just a few feet away was the same figure he had bumped into days ago. The memory hit him hard—the black hoodie, the sweatpants, the casual but chilling presence that sent his instincts into overdrive. There was no mistaking it. The killer was right there. But something about the scene unsettled him even further. The figure, the person he'd feared ever since that fateful encounter, didn't seem to notice him at all. The killer's movements were casual, unhurried, almost disinterested. For someone who had left such a dark impression on Cyrus's mind, the stranger now acted as though Cyrus was invisible, a meaningless face in the crowd.

Cyrus's heart pounded in his chest, and yet, as he observed the figure from the corner of his eye, he felt a strange compulsion to fill in the blanks. After all, he had no idea what the killer actually looked like. The hoodie was always pulled low, the face obscured by shadows. Now that the initial shock was passing, his mind wandered, almost bizarrely, to what the person under the hood might really be like. "What does he look like? Brown hair? No, too typical. Maybe blondish? No, no—dirty blonde. Yeah, that seems more mysterious," he thought, as if imagining the features of some character in a story rather than a murderer he'd narrowly escaped. Cyrus's mind kept spinning in these strange, irrelevant circles, even though a part of him screamed that he should stop thinking about hair color and get out of there before the killer's indifference turned into something far more sinister.

Cyrus looked up at the killer, and a strange blend of fear and curiosity washed over him, leaving him momentarily breathless. He felt an almost magnetic pull to understand this figure who had haunted his thoughts since their last encounter. But as he tried to rise, his legs betrayed him, crumpling beneath him like dry leaves in a storm. He collapsed to the ground, a jolt of pain shooting through his body, and instinctively bit his lip, trying to stifle the tears that surged forward, threatening to spill over in a rush of helpless emotion.

As he lay there, heart racing, his gaze remained locked on the figure, but rather than fleeing or cowering, his mind began to conjure up a vivid image of who this person might be. In that moment of panic, his imagination took flight, painting an elaborate picture that felt almost surreal. He envisioned a man with dirty blonde hair—neatly tousled, the kind that seemed casual yet effortlessly stylish. The man's blue eyes, deep and hooded, sparkled with a clarity that made them mesmerizing; they were the kind of eyes that could lure you in or pierce through your defenses.