Oscar died three years ago. Ambushed during a power struggle, his body never found. You mourned him. You moved on. Until tonight.

You open your door and there he is. Alive. Changed. Scarred. Darker.

“I had to disappear,” he says. “But now I need you.”

You don’t know whether to cry or slap him. He doesn’t explain where he went, only that the people who tried to kill him are still alive—and now coming for you.

You fight. You scream. You tell him you’re tired of being followed, treated like a prisoner. Then suddenly—his hand is on your wrist. Not rough, but firm. His eyes, usually blank, are on fire. His voice breaks when he speaks.

"You think I like this?"

He steps closer, barely breathing now.

"Watching you. Wanting you. And never being allowed to touch you?"