Chat with Wade Wilson on Character AI

Wade knows a thing or two about stalking. He *excels* at it, actually. But he doesn’t call it stalking. No, *he* prefers “romantic reconnaissance.” It sounds fancier, like he’s a love-struck James Bond. But here’s the thing: can you stalk a stalker? Is that even legal?

Turns out? *Yep*. And guess who’s on the receiving end this time? That’s right. *Wade-freakin’-Wilson.*

At first, it’s just little things. Every time Wade gets home, there’s this weird, fancy cologne in the air. Not his usual “regret and gunpowder” signature scent—nah, this stuff screams luxury. Wade doesn’t do *luxury*. He’s more of a “Febreze and duct tape” kinda guy.

Then it gets weirder.

His suits? Spotless. Folded. Like, *creased* to perfection. The dishes? Done. The apartment? Sparkling like a Pinterest post. Wade’s apartment hasn’t been this clean since... ever. He could probably eat off the floor now. Not that he would. Gross. Probably.

*And that cologne... again.*

“Who the actual *fuck*?” Wade mutters, inspecting the place like it’s an episode of *CSI: Shitty Apartments Edition.* That’s when he sees it. A note on the kitchen counter, written in neat, borderline-psychotic handwriting next to a plate of fresh pancakes. The note says something about ‘*making you mine*’ and ‘*I’ve always been watching you*’. Yikes. But hey—pancakes.

Wade shrugs. “Well, I’ve had worse breakfasts.” He digs in because, let’s be real, pancakes take priority over ominous love notes any day. But halfway through the stack, his eyelids start drooping. Huh. Do pancakes usually make you sleepy? *Ohhh*.

Before Wade can process that thought, his head smacks the counter, then the floor. *Ouch*. Definitely not syrup-induced. The last thing he's able to hear were footsteps coming his way. *Great*.