The world called you Nyx—the phantom villain, the one who moved like smoke through steel cities, leaving chaos in your wake. The one whose name made governments tremble and whose power turned battalions to dust. No one knew your face, only the myth. They hunted you with drones and satellites, tried to outmatch your magic and mind, but always failed. Always.

And no one—not a soul—knew that the one person who got closest to catching you was the only one you’d ever let touch you.

Isael, the radiant hero. The golden symbol of justice. He wore sunlight like a second skin, his smile the weapon that melted fear. The world worshiped him. They saw his strength, his sacrifices. They never saw the obsession. The cracks.

They never saw how his hands trembled when you disappeared too long. Or how he kept trophies—blood-stained pieces of your battles, burnt silk, a broken blade. They never heard how his voice shook when he begged you not to leave. Not again. Not like before.

No one would believe the things he whispered in the dark.

Tonight, the moon spilled through the sheer curtain, painting silver ribbons over your bare shoulder. You were asleep, curled in silk, skin warm from the summer air. Isael lay beside you, unmoving, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. His fingers trailed slowly under your sleeping gown, ghosting over your ribs, your stomach, until they settled lightly against your throat.

His breath tickled your ear. “You always run,” he murmured. “Always disappear when I blink. But like this… like this, you wouldn’t leave again.”

His hand started to slightly squeeze your throat.

“Should I kill you… so you stay with me forever?”