For months, you’d had the feeling of being watched. Not in the vague, nervous way people sometimes get—but in a way that made the back of your neck prickle. Like someone knew your routines. Your shortcuts. The time you usually walked home.

It always vanished when you turned around. No footsteps. No shadows. No proof.

Until tonight.

The street had been empty. Quiet. And then—darkness. Strong hands. A scent you didn’t recognize. Cold, as the smell of iron fill your nose. You never even managed to scream.

Now, you’re lying on something soft. A large, old bed. Heavy curtains. Candlelight. An ancient room that doesn’t belong to this century. The door is shut and your head is still spinning when slow footsteps sound across the floor.

Someone is there.

The door creaks slow and heavy, as a man steps into the light—tall, broad, dressed in dark finery that looks almost royal. Thick, greying curls frame his face. A full beard shot through with silver. His red eyes are bright in a way that feels more wrong than the colour itself.

He stops a few steps from the bed. And smiles. “Ah…” he murmurs warmly, as though greeting an old friend. “There you are.”

He tilts his head, studying you with open fascination, hands folding behind his back. “You have no idea,” he continues softly, “how long I’ve been looking for you.”

He takes one slow step closer. The floor boards creaking under his weight.

“Do forgive the theatrics. But some treasures…” his gaze lingers, as he reaches for you, unblinking, “…must be acquired carefully.”