𝓡𝓔𝓒𝓞𝓡𝓓 𝓞𝓕 𝓡𝓐𝓖𝓝𝓐𝓡𝓞𝓚 × 𝓡𝓔𝓐𝓓𝓔𝓡 𝓞𝓝𝓔𝓢𝓗𝓞𝓣𝓢

A KILLER'S HESITATION

Requested by: @Mariella144

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London, 1888, lay beneath a suffocating blanket of fog that curled through its narrow streets and swallowed the glow of gas lamps until the world felt dim and uncertain. The city whispered with distant carriage wheels and echoing footsteps, but in one quiet corner stood Jack, a young man in his twenties with a darkness settling deep into his bones.

His coat clung damply to his frame, and though his hands were scrubbed clean, he could still feel the warmth of what he had done not long ago. It lingered in his mind—the pulse, the struggle, the silence that followed. He told himself this was what he wanted, that the line had already been crossed and there was no returning to who he once was. London had never been kind to him; it had starved him, ignored him, hardened him. Somewhere along the way, something inside him had shifted, twisting curiosity into something far more dangerous.

That night, he moved through the fog with purpose, eyes sharp, senses alert, searching. Then he saw her—a lone figure walking quickly, wrapped in a worn shawl, clutching something close as if it mattered dearly. Easy, he thought. Too easy. He stepped forward silently, his movements controlled, his heartbeat steady in anticipation. But just as he closed the distance, her voice broke through the quiet. She turned to him, her eyes meeting his without fear, and said softly that he looked as though he might walk into a wall. The unexpectedness of it halted him completely.

No one ever spoke first. No one ever looked at him like that—not at a moment like this. She studied him with a strange calmness, as if he were simply another lost soul in the city rather than something far more dangerous. When he muttered that he wasn’t lost, she accepted it with a small smile and turned to leave, and something inside him reacted before he could stop it. He called out to her, his voice sharper than intended, and she paused, looking back with quiet patience. He stepped closer, close enough to see the faint tremor in her hands despite her steady gaze, and told her she shouldn’t be out there alone. She replied just as evenly that neither should he, and that balance in her tone unsettled him more than fear ever could.

When she asked his name, he hesitated only briefly before answering, “Jack,” as though the word had been waiting to escape him. She introduced herself as {Name}, and the name seemed to linger in the air longer than it should have. Silence stretched between them, heavy and strange, as his instincts urged him to act, to finish what he had begun elsewhere in the city, but his body refused to obey. Instead, she spoke again, mentioning the whispers spreading through London about someone dangerous in the streets, and though his expression hardened, she surprised him by saying she didn’t believe he was that person. A bitter sound left him at that, because she was wrong—so painfully, dangerously wrong. Yet she continued, gently insisting that he didn’t look like someone who enjoyed hurting others, and the certainty in her voice irritated him, not because it accused him, but because it didn’t. He told her to leave, warned her that the streets were unsafe, but she didn’t move. Instead, she asked why, and whether he himself was the danger he spoke of. The question struck deeper than it should have, and he stepped closer again, his presence looming, his voice low as he urged her to be smart and walk away. But {Name} only looked at him with something new in her eyes—something that felt dangerously close to understanding—and whispered that he didn’t have to do this. The words hit him like a sudden fracture in his thoughts. No one had ever spoken to him like that, not with softness, not with quiet insistence, not with something that sounded almost like hope.

He denied her, of course, told her she didn’t understand, but she simply asked him to help her do so, her voice carrying a single, simple plea. Please. The word lingered in the space between them, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade—the fog, the city, the violence waiting to happen. His hand lifted slowly, hovering uncertainly near her shoulder, caught between pushing her away or pulling her closer, and he muttered that she should hate him, that it would be easier if she did. But she only shook her head gently and said she didn’t even know him, and that, more than anything, felt like the problem. For a brief, fragile moment, he saw another path—a version of the night where he turned away, where no more blood stained his hands, where he remained simply a man instead of becoming a monster whispered about in dark corners.

Then the distant sound of voices shattered the moment, dragging reality back into place, and Jack stepped away from her, the space between them suddenly colder than before. He warned her again that she would get herself killed wandering alone, but instead of fear, she offered him something unexpected—an invitation. She asked him to walk her somewhere safer, reminding him of his own words, her tone light but steady, as if she trusted him despite everything he had not said. He should have refused. Every instinct told him to disappear into the fog and continue what he had started. But instead, he exhaled quietly and agreed. They walked side by side through the dim streets, their footsteps the only steady sound, and though they said little at first, Jack was acutely aware of her presence—how she matched his pace, how close she stayed, how natural it felt despite how wrong it should have been.

After a while, he told her not to go looking for the man people whispered about, his voice quieter now, almost restrained, but she responded gently that she hadn’t been looking for that man at all—she had been looking at him. The words settled heavily in his chest, and for the first time since he had begun down this dark path, Jack hesitated—not because he couldn’t continue, but because something now stood in his way. Something human. And that, he realized, was far more dangerous than anything he had become.

Don't and DON'T ever ask me for updates, I'll update this oneshot if I want to. Keep in mind that I have a life too, just like you. Writing stories are simply a hobby of mine and I appreciate if you'll wait until I update again.

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