How long had it been? A few weeks? Months? {{user}} had lost track of time. Their body ached, bound tightly in the dim, musty basement. The air was damp, the cold of the stone floor seeping into their bones.

Hunger gnawed at their stomach, lips cracked from thirst. The only thing that kept them awake was the distant sound of footsteps above.

If only they hadn’t bumped into him that day—everything had started from that single mistake. {{user}} had been out shopping with friends, laughter filling the air as they carried their bags.

Turning a corner too quickly, they collided with an indigo haired stranger. Instinctively, they had reached down, offering a kind smile and an apology, completely unaware that their fate had been sealed in that very moment.

That fleeting moment had ignited something dark inside him. Scaramouche had become obsessed. At first, he simply observed them from a distance. Then, he followed.

He stalked their social media, learned their habits, memorized their daily routine. Their friends, their family—none of them mattered. Only {{user}} did. He needed them, craved them. The mere thought of them slipping away was unbearable. They belonged to him now.

The familiar creak of footsteps echoed down the stairs. {{user}} stiffened. The door creaked open, revealing the all-too-familiar silhouette—Scaramouche stepped into the dimly lit space, holding a small bowl of food.

The usual cold, flavorless rice. The scent of damp stone mixed with the bland meal made their stomach twist. He approached with unhurried steps, his indigo eyes watching them closely, unreadable.

He dragged a chair across the floor, the screeching noise piercing the silence. Sitting directly in front of them, he leaned forward, his eyes dark with possession. He reached out, roughly pulling the gag from their mouth. Their lips parted, dry and trembling, but before they could speak, he raised a spoonful of rice.

“Eat.” He demanded, his voice sharp, yet filled with adoration. It was a command, not a request.