‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡
Summary: You wake from one nightmare only to step into another—one with softer sheets and sharper teeth.
Warnings: violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡
You wake to the sound of birds.
No shouting. No gunshots.
And waves—soft, slow, rhythmic. Crashing somewhere just beyond the walls.
Your first instinct is panic. Your eyes fly open. Your chest tightens like something’s wrong, like danger is close.
But the air is warm. There’s sunlight on your skin. A breeze against your face.
Soft sheets. Heavy blankets. The pillow cradles your head like it’s been fluffed just for you. The mattress is so cloud-like it takes effort to remember how to move.
Your brain screams get up, move, run—but your body doesn’t want to. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re comfortable.
And not just physically. There’s something deeper. A dangerous, disorienting peace humming through your bones. It feels like being held. Like being safe.
Which is why your stomach flips the second you realize what that means.
You didn’t put yourself here.
Your hand flies to your clothes—soft cotton, unfamiliar. A loose shirt, clean shorts. Your skin is warm and dry. Smells like lavender soap. Your hair is washed. Brushed.
Your blood runs cold. Not a chill. Not a shiver.
This is the kind of cold that kills.
The kind that seeps up through your spine and settles deep in your chest.
A scream that hasn’t been born yet.
You sit up too fast—heart hammering, chest heaving, vision already tilting.
Your hair smells like soap.
Your clothes aren’t yours.
“Help!” you scream, voice shrill, already cracking.
The sound crashes against the walls like a bird slamming into glass.
“Someone please help me!”
You don’t know who you’re screaming for—there’s no one here. But it’s reflex. It’s survival. It’s the only thing you have left.
You claw at the sheets like they’re chains.
Your voice breaks, but you keep going.
The waves crash just outside the window, calm and cruel. The sound of paradise. A fucking lie.
The way he held you—steady, unshakable—while your body went slack.
The soft voice in your ear:
“Shhh. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
The one who looked at you like you were a gift—no, a fucking possession.
Is he the reason you ended up in that game?
You clutch the edge of the blanket, breath coming in fast, ragged bursts.
Was he watching the whole time? Did he pick you out before you ever stepped into that room? Was the game just a cage—just a test—to see if you could survive long enough for him to take you?
Was it always going to end like this?
You stumble out of bed, legs weak, body still betraying you with how good it feels here. The air is warm. The sheets were soft. You didn’t even want to move when you woke up—and now you want to rip your own skin off just to feel real again.
“What did you do to me?!” you shout, though no one’s answered yet. No one’s even appeared.
Your screams continue to drown out the waves. Blood curdling and heavy.
And then, like clockwork, a shadow falls in the doorway.
The tall man from before.
The one with the calm voice and the black suit and the terrifying stillness.
The one who touched your face like he already owned it.
He stands in the doorway, relaxed, one hand on the frame, a soft smile pulling at his lips like he’s been watching you sleep for hours.
“Wow,” he says, his tone warm, casual—like you’re old friends. “You slept for so long.”
He doesn’t move toward you. Just stands there, watching you with those unreadable eyes. A little amused. A little in awe.
“You needed it,” he adds, nodding slightly. “Your body was exhausted. So malnourished. I’m impressed you were still standing when I found you, to be honest.”
You blink at him, throat dry.
You’re too busy cataloging the details—the clean clothes, the way your hair smells, the dampness in your lashes from where someone wiped your face.
Your eyes narrow. Your voice is hoarse when it finally comes out.
Then—he smiles again. Not offended. Not angry. Just… calm.
“No,” he says. “Not like that.”
His tone darkens by a shade—only slightly, but enough to send a chill down your spine.
He lets the silence hang. Like he wants you to hear that. Believe it.
“I bathed you, yes. You were covered in dirt. Blood. Sweat. I couldn’t leave you like that.”
You flinch, and he sees it.
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I kept everything appropriate. I wasn’t rough. I didn’t look more than necessary. I didn’t take anything from you. I wouldn’t do that.”
His eyes hold yours, steady and sincere. “I know it’s hard to trust anyone right now.”
His voice is calm. Gentle. Like he’s talking to something breakable.
“And I get it—after everything you’ve been through… of course you’re scared.”
He crouches in front of you. Eyes level. One hand resting on his knee, the other reaching—almost brushing your wrist. Almost, but not quite.
“But I meant what I said,” he continues, voice dropping into something low and warm.
“I only want to take care of you.”
A pause. Just long enough to let you breathe.
“Which is why you need to do me a favor, sweetheart.”
His head tilts, and for the first time, something shifts behind his eyes. Like a mask slipping just far enough to see the steel underneath.
“Don’t give me a reason not to.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t move. But the air still changes.
He’s still looking at you with affection—still so tender, so calm—but the weight of those words pins you in place.
Because you realize he’s not asking.
He could end you with the same hands he uses to stroke your hair.
And he’s letting you know—with a smile—that your safety is only guaranteed as long as you behave.
You swallow, unsure whether to scream or cry or just lie back down and pretend none of this is happening.
He smiles like he can see every single thought in your head.
“You need to eat something,” he says. “And drink. And walk. You’ve been unconscious almost twenty hours.”
He nods. “Don’t worry. You didn’t miss anything important.”
He takes a slow step forward now—measured, non-threatening, like he’s learned the exact pace not to spook you.
“I made you breakfast. It’s still warm.”
You watch him, your chest rising and falling too fast.
You still don’t know his name, and yet he looks at you like you’re the only person he’s ever met.
He sets the plate in front of you. An olive branch.
Warm eggs. Toast. Sliced fruit arranged in a neat little fan. A glass of cold water sweating against a crystal glass.
Your stomach growls, but you feel sick.
You didn’t cook this. You didn’t ask for it.
And the man across from you—this calm-eyed stranger in a pressed shirt and rolled sleeves—he’s the one who stripped your clothes and bathed your body while you were unconscious.
Even if he says he didn’t touch you like that, it doesn’t feel like mercy.
Like he’s already rewritten the rules and expects you to thank him for it.
Suddenly, your eyes dart past him.
Barely visible, half-concealed by a curtain. You hadn’t noticed it before.
You rise from the chair slowly, head down, heart racing.
“I… I just need air,” you whisper.
He nods, unconcerned. “Of course.”
Then the second your hand touches the knob—
You shove the door open with your shoulder and sprint into the light.
The cold slaps your skin.
Stone underfoot. Open air. The sound of crashing waves.
You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t care.
You just run full speed, hair flying, lungs burning.
Your body lurches forward—
You throw your arms out, trying to catch balance, momentum still carrying you forward.
The cliff drops into a jagged abyss. Ocean roaring below. The wind howls past your ears.
His hands slam around your waist and yank you back.
You hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of you, palms scraping against stone. He’s above you, one knee braced, arms still around your middle.
Calm. Calculated. Certain.
You twist in his grip, wide-eyed, shaking.
He’s watching you. Chest rising slow. Expression unreadable.
“You could’ve died,” he says, like he’s scolding a child. Like you just disobeyed curfew.
You’re still panting. Frozen. Every muscle tense.
He leans in slightly, voice low in your ear.
“Don’t run from me again.”
His tone is soft. Not angry. But something in it cuts deeper than if he had screamed.
He pulls you up gently, brushing dirt from your arms.
“There’s nowhere to go,” he adds, glancing toward the sea. “Can only get here by chopper.”
He says it so casually. Like it’s trivia. Like you didn’t just try to jump off a cliff to escape him.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he says, and somehow that’s worse. “I saved your life.”
He smiles like he’s proud of that. Like he gifted you this.
“But next time you want to see the ocean,” he adds, voice dipping lower, “just ask me.”
Then, like nothing happened at all, he nods back toward the open door. You let him guide you inside. Your legs move, but not because you want them to. They’re jelly, instinct, muscle memory. Your mind’s still stuck at the edge of that cliff, caught in the moment your heel slipped, your body lunged, your brain whispered freedom—and he yanked it all away.
The door closes behind you with a soft click, and he releases you just long enough to pull out a chair.
You sit down without thinking.
He crouches in front of you again, slower this time. Not like before, when he was showing kindness. Now it’s something more… clinical. Like a caretaker. A doctor. A man preparing to stitch something up he doesn’t want to admit he broke.
You didn’t even realize you scraped them on the stone when you fell.
He takes your wrists carefully and lifts your hands into the light.
“Tsk,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”
He doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds… disappointed.
He gets up, moves to the sink, and runs a soft towel under warm water.
You just watch him. Your breath shallow. Your chest hollow.
He comes back and kneels again, his movements slow and practiced. He presses the warm towel gently against your palms, wiping away the grit and blood with so much care it makes your throat close.
“You hurt yourself,” he says softly.
You almost laugh. But it sticks in your chest like a bruise.
He switches hands, fingers curling lightly around your wrist.
“I didn’t want to grab you like that. I didn’t want to scare you.”
He looks up at you now. And his face — fuck, his face — is the worst part. It’s soft. Almost apologetic.
“You made me be rough,” he says gently. “I didn’t like it.”
You can’t tell if it’s the pain or the shame or the twisted part of your brain that wants to believe him.
He sets the towel aside. Blots your hands dry. You notice he brought bandages, too.
As he begins wrapping your palm, his voice drops again.
“You don’t need to run. Or scream. Or fight me.”
“You just need to listen.”
He finishes wrapping your hands like he’s tucking a child into bed. Like he’s doing something good.
As if he didn’t just stop you from throwing yourself off a cliff.
Like he didn’t say Don’t run from me again like a threat dressed in velvet.
“You’ll behave now, won’t you?”
Because what else can you do?
Then he leans in, kisses your bandaged hand like it’s holy.
You sit across from him in silence, hands wrapped, wrists burning.
The plate is still untouched in front of you. The fruit glistens. The toast is golden. You can smell the warmth of the eggs.
Like he’s waiting for you to settle. To accept. To understand what he’s giving you.
Your mouth is dry. Your voice barely works. But it comes out anyway.
“…Did you put me in that game?”
His expression doesn’t change at first.
Then—he blinks, slow. Like the question surprised him, but not in the way you expected.
He sets down his mug, tilts his head.
“Put you in that game?” he echoes.
His voice is soft. Almost amused. Like you asked something silly.
“Was it you?” you ask again, more firmly this time. “Were you the reason I was there?”
He smiles, shaking his head slowly.
“No,” he says. “I’m the reason you’re out of the game.”
The words hit you like ice water.
He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, voice still gentle. Like he’s explaining something to someone fragile. Or someone fucking stupid.
“You would’ve died in there. Eventually. They all do. But I saw you.”
He nods once. Firm. Final.
He says it like it’s a rescue. Like he dragged you from a fire and not into a gilded cage.
“But why—” your voice wavers, “—why me?”
He smiles again. Like you’ve finally asked the right question.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe it was the way you looked that first day. The way you didn’t cry. Or maybe it was the way you held that spoon like it could cut something.”
“You didn’t belong there.”
His gaze darkens—still soft, but with an edge now. A gleam of something personal.
“And most importantly, my love—I don’t share what’s mine.”
You stare at him, your chest tight.
He reaches across the table, slow and unthreatening, fingers brushing the corner of your bandaged hand.
“I didn’t put you in that game,” he says again, eyes steady on yours. “I pulled you out.”
Like he’s correcting a simple misunderstanding.
Like you’re the one getting confused.
His voice softens as he watches your face, like he can feel you slipping further away from him — emotionally, mentally — and he hates that. You can see it in the tiny twitch of his jaw. The breath he holds.
Not closer, physically — but emotionally. His voice drops into something warm. Personal. Gentle.
“…And if it makes you feel any better?”
A pause. You brace yourself.
His smile curves—soft, casual. Too calm.
“I killed the guy who did.”
He says it like he’s telling you he made the bed. Like he took care of a chore.
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
He watches your reaction carefully, almost proudly.
“He shouldn’t have touched you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Shouldn’t have offered you up like you were disposable.”
“He laughed about it, you know. Said it would be funny to throw you in with the others. I’m sure he thought no one would notice.”
“But I noticed. You should be thanking me.”
The words settle like poison in your stomach.
Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the chair. You stare at him—really stare—and for the first time since you woke up here, something flares behind the fear.
He blinks. Doesn’t flinch.
Still no reaction. Just that maddening calm.
“And now you’re sitting here, telling me to thank you? What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you like a—I don’t know— a fucking serial killer? Who the fuck are you?!”
He tilts his head, like he’s observing you from a distance. Not offended. Not surprised. If anything, he looks pleased.
“You’re angry,” he says softly, like he’s diagnosing it. “That’s okay. You’ve been through a lot.”
You stand too fast. The chair legs scrape against the tile with a sharp screech.
“I didn’t ask to be saved,” you snap.
He stands too, slow and measured. Taller than you. Steady.
“Would you rather be dead?”
You blink, chest heaving.
His voice is firmer now. Still low. But no longer just sweet. Something sharper, quieter, truer bleeding through.
He steps toward you. One step only.
“No?” you whisper. “Then let me go.”
He smiles. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… certain.
“I did let you go,” he says. “Out of there. And now you’re here. With me. Where you were always meant to be.”
He gestures to the walls, the light, the food.
“You’re safe. Fed. Cared for. Isn’t this better?”
You stare at him, your throat burning.
“You don’t get to decide what I want.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
Then he walks toward you.
You move to back away, but your heels hit the cabinet. There’s nowhere left to go.
He lifts a hand—slowly—and touches your face. Just a brush of his knuckles along your jaw.
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡
tag list: @dalunaa420 @aneternallyexhaustedpigeon
