{ VIRTUAL DELUSIONS | PHIGHTING & BLOCKTALES X READER | ONE SHOTS. }

"YOU JUST DON'T KNOW IT YET." - YANDERE!HYPERLASER X READER DRABBLE AND HCS

(its been 3 weeks i need to feed yall)

You were just a face in a crowd the first time he saw you.
It wasn't even a particularly good day for him — post-mission fatigue, visor fogged from the humidity, one too many civilians staring like soldiers were an exhibit in a zoo.

But you didn't stare.
You glanced once, like you were making sure the uniform didn't mean danger, and then you kept walking.

Hyper liked that.
So he remembered you.

⸻

He learned your name without asking.
Your building without visiting.
Your job without stepping foot inside.

There's an efficiency to collecting intel when it's personal — every scrap of detail feels valuable.
You like your tea sweet, your coffee black.
You hum a little when washing dishes.
You've got a scar on your right hand, from when you were twelve and caught it on the edge of a metal gate.

Sunday is laundry day, without fail. You separate your whites. You never start before nine.
Your car's front tire had been balding for weeks, so last Friday, Hyper made sure it blew. Not dangerously — just enough to keep you grounded, keep you in range.

He doesn't call it stalking. He calls it proximity awareness.

⸻

Night is easiest.
He knows the routes that let him get to your building without crossing cameras. He knows which branch outside your window can hold his weight without snapping.

The walkie-talkie is small, planted months ago behind your dresser.
He likes the sound of your breathing when you sleep. Sometimes you talk — not words, not full sentences, but soft things. Private things. Things you'd never tell him awake.

He keeps the recordings. Not for anything strange. Just... keeps them.

⸻

When the job slows, he lets himself imagine what happens when Blackrock finally lets him go.
The picture's always the same:
Sunlight he hasn't felt in years. A place far from checkpoints and orders. You, standing across from him in white, your smile steady, your eyes warm. No need for night stakeouts. No need to hide. You'll know him the way he knows you.

It's not a fantasy. It's a plan.

⸻

The incident happens on a Wednesday.
Crowded market, smells of grilled meat and fried bread. You're at one of the stalls, inspecting fruit, when Hyper catches the tail end of someone's voice — low, mocking, with an ugly tilt.

The man leans in too close, says something under his breath that makes your shoulders tense. You don't look him in the eye. You just push past, muttering something sharp but small.

Hyper's already moving.
One gloved hand on his weapon, the other pushing through bodies until the man's in range.

The shot is quiet.
Too quiet for the market noise to notice. The man drops between stalls.
Hyper doesn't even glance back at you — you're already leaving, not looking over your shoulder.

⸻

By the time you reach your apartment, the door latch has been fixed.
You didn't ask. Hyper's just there, visor down, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

"You need to take care of yourself," you tell him, half-scolding, half-grateful.
He hums. Doesn't answer.

In his head, the words sound different: You need to be with me. Only me.

⸻

That night, from his perch in the tree outside, Hyper watches your silhouette move through the apartment. He thinks about the wedding again. Thinks about your voice saying his name like it belongs to you.