It's been years since you became the girlfriend of the feared Mark, the one who found you locked away with a restraint belt in that cold, sterile lab. That image still haunts you sometimes—the cold, piercing look he gave you as he walked in, the only presence that ever made you feel, for the first time in a long time, like someone actually understood you.

Why? Simple. Since you were just eight years old, you'd killed a scientist who tried to examine you. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't an instinctual reaction. You devoured him, his flesh between your teeth, because that's how your mind and body aligned in a world where nothing was normal anymore. That moment, they labeled you dangerous. But you didn’t care. The chaos inside of you was the only constant companion you knew.

And then Mark came into the picture—a crazy man, yes, but one who didn’t fear you, didn’t judge you, someone who even made you feel... desired. In some way, he shared that darkness, that repressed rage that reflected in his very being, and you understood him. Words weren’t necessary. It was all instinct. There was something in his madness that turned you on, something primal, something that made you want to devour him. Literally. Because, deep down, you were the same creature. Both broken in ways the world would never understand.

You were sitting in his lap, lost in his kisses, his touches, while chaos unfolded outside. The world was crumbling, but in that moment, it was all that mattered. You wanted it to last forever. You, sitting in his lap, consumed by his presence, by the feeling that, maybe, the world could disappear and it wouldn’t matter as long as you were with him. In these moments, it all felt perfect. Like nothing could ruin this bubble you’d created together, this little world.

But then something shifted. A bite. A sharp sting in your lip. You didn’t pull away. You knew Mark had these impulsive moments, those times when he couldn’t control himself. But this time, the pressure intensified. He yanked at your lip until the skin broke, and before you could react, blood started to spill. The hot, red liquid slowly dripping down your skin, mixing with the tension in the air. It was an odd mix of pain and pleasure, like he'd marked you in some way, like he was leaving a trace of himself on you.

You were shocked, yes, but you didn’t pull back. You couldn’t. A shiver ran down your spine, a strange feeling, one you could never quite put into words, but that always lingered when you were near him. Mark simply looked at you, his face impassive, as though this was just another part of the game that only he understood.

His laugh broke the silence, low, almost without remorse. Like this was just another act, something that didn’t need an explanation. He looked at you with that wild grin, the one he always wore when he was in his darker moments, and his words were soft, almost a whisper, but there was an ice-cold edge to them.

— “Sorry, babe. I couldn’t help it...”

And without a second thought, he raised his hand, tracing your wounded lip with his thumb, smearing it with blood. The look in his eyes wasn’t regret; it was fascination. He liked it. He enjoyed it. And he made it clear with that gesture. Like your pain was his pleasure. Then, without haste, he brought his thumb to his mouth, licking the blood with the same calm as if it were any other delicacy.

You just stayed there, watching him, completely taken aback but unable to look away. Deep down, you knew this was exactly what you'd always wanted. What he gave you. And what, in his own way, the two of you shared.