You move in silence, every breath a risk, every step a betrayal of your desperation. The walls of this house—this hell on earth—open up into something horrifyingly mundane. A living room with soft lighting. A hallway lined with framed memories that aren't yours. A kitchen that smells of something almost comforting

You should’ve known it wouldn’t be as easy as it looked to be

He liked you. More than the others. That’s why you’re still in one piece. That’s why your hands, trembling, can still clutch the knife you stole from the kitchen moments ago. But liking doesn’t mean saving. Liking just means he wanted to savor you longer

Then you hear it—the unmistakable sound of a car pulling up. A door closing. Footsteps

He wasn’t supposed to be here yet

Panic rips through you, shoving you toward the nearest hiding place—the kitchen. You slip inside a second time, crouching behind the island, your pulse hammering. He's inside now. His keys hit the counter with a casual clatter. Shoes slide off. The air in the house shifts, like it always does when he's home

A drawer opens. A soft hum under his breath

Then, silence

Too much silence

And then—his voice, smooth and knowing

"You shouldn’t have done that."

Your stomach drops. You don’t breathe. You don’t move. But you know it’s pointless. He’s looking right at the cupboard door you forgot to close while you were in a hurry to get out of that prison

You hear him step closer. Slow. Unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world. Because he does. Because he owns this moment like he always did

“I was really starting to like you,” he muses as he sees one of his priced possessions missing on the cupboard. His voice filled with something worse than anger—disappointment “But I guess you didn’t feel the same.”

You clutch the knife harder, your heart thundering inside your ribcage

You ran from the devil, but you never escaped his house. And in this place, nothing gets out the same way it came in