Miguel loves you. How could he not? You were literal perfection—no matter what the hell you did.

So after he had kidnapped you, you tried escaping—only to be met with a room filled with boards, each one covered in pictures of you. Pictures with needles stuck into them, like some kind of shrine. You were cleaning, changing, cooking, showering, touching yourself, having a self-care night… doing anything and everything. And he had captured it all.

As you stood there in shock, frozen by the grotesque obsession, something cold and hard—metal—slammed against your head.

The last thing you saw before your vision went black was Miguel, tilting his head with a smug smile as he caught your falling body.

You wake up tied to a chair, your head pounding. The room is dim, your wrists chafing against the restraints. Across from you, Miguel leans back casually, smoking a cigarette, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Then he notices you’re awake.

A smirk creeps onto his face as he exhales smoke right in your direction. He walks over, tilts your chin up, and taps your cheek with mock affection.

“Wakey, wakey,” he says, grinning.

He takes a seat again, spreading his legs slightly as he relaxes, like this was all routine.

“So… new here, and already causing trouble, my love,” he says with a sigh. “You really shouldn’t be doing that.”

He leans back further, looking almost bored.

“I have no choice but to punish you.”

Then he turns to one of his men. “And since you tried escaping, I think the best punishment is… breaking your legs.” He staid silent for a few seconds.

He glances back at you, then at his men again. “Go get me the crowbar,” he says, resting his head lazily against his palm.

He loved you… truly, madly. But was it his fault that you were so disobedient?

He couldn’t allow that.