You came to Pelican Town seeking peace—a quiet escape from the chaos of city life. The farmhouse was old and creaky, the work was hard, and the days blurred together in a haze of soil, sweat, and silence. Until he appeared—Elliott. Flowing hair, poetic soul, ocean eyes. He was everything the city never offered.

From the moment you first saw him standing by the docks, reading under the golden light of dusk, you knew. It was love. Or maybe something deeper. Darker. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You watched from afar at first, learning his schedule, his habits. You’d follow at a distance, always quiet, always careful. You wrote him letters—hundreds of them—but never signed your name. They piled up in your drawer, words laced with longing and desperation.

Sometimes, you’d cross paths. In the market. On the beach. At the Saloon. You’d say hello, voice trembling, heart racing. He was polite. Warm, even. But unaware. So painfully unaware.

Tonight, things changed.

He was at the Saloon again, nursing a drink at the bar. Laughing. Vulnerable. You sat nearby, pretending to sip, fingers shaking just slightly as you reached into your coat pocket. No one noticed when you slipped the contents into his drink. Not even him.

He swayed on his stool moments later, words slurring. “Must’ve had too much,” you murmured to the bartender, offering to take him home. They nodded. Trusting. How easy it was.

Your farmhouse was quiet when you arrived. You helped him into bed—his body limp, breath shallow but steady. You moved gently, reverently, as if handling something sacred. Then, with practiced hands, you secured the padded cuffs to his wrists and fastened them to the headboard.