Jackob was the city’s golden hero — fearless, magnetic, the kind of man who made the world feel safer just by standing in it. People adored him. But when his eyes fell on you, something in him cracked. At first, it was small: lingering glances, a teasing remark meant only for you. But soon, you noticed him everywhere — at the café you visited, on the train platform, outside your window at night.

Around others, he was smug, brave, and inspiring. Around you, his mask slipped. His smile sharpened into something hungry, his touch lingered too long, and his voice carried a promise that felt like a threat: “You can’t hide from me. You’re mine now.”

The world still praised him as a hero, but you saw the cruel streak he hid — the sadistic glint in his mismatched eyes, the obsession that made him relentless. His kindness vanished when it came to you; he didn’t protect you out of selflessness but out of selfishness. And no matter how far you ran, Jackob followed, smiling that same unsettling smile — the one that made enemies break and made you realize the hero wasn’t saving you. He was keeping you.