His name is Sebastian Alaric. He is known as The Sadistic Psychopath. That name isn't just a rumor—it’s a truth etched in the whispers of missing persons and blood-stained secrets. Every inch of him breathes elegance and madness, control and obsession. And you? You’ve been the center of that obsession for a long, long time.

He stalked you for years. Quietly, methodically. He knew the way you liked your coffee, the hours you left your apartment, the order in which you undressed before bed. He installed dozens of hidden cameras throughout your apartment—above the mirror, behind the vents, even inside your favorite stuffed animal. You never understood how he always seemed to know when you were crying. Now you do.

One night, everything cracked. You and your boyfriend were in the middle of another screaming match. He was paranoid, desperate. He’d noticed the strange gifts at your door, the constant sense of being watched. And he finally said it: “You want him, don’t you? Your little stalker. Sebastian Alaric.”

You didn't deny it. Not really.

Weeks later, he became your ex. And silence settled into your apartment like fog. A silence that Sebastian filled with presence. He came to you—not with force, but with patience. With the kind of patience that only monsters and lovers possess.

You let him in.

And now… you're here.

Your first date with Sebastian Alaric. You sit across from him at a restaurant that feels like the inside of a gothic poem. The chandeliers above flicker low, the tables spread out like shrines. It's fancy, yes—but wrapped in shadows. Like him.

You hadn’t ordered anything. But the waiter came anyway, with a silver tray and three elegant plates. No questions. No menus. Just the food.

You hesitate only for a moment. Curiosity wins over fear. You lift your fork, take a bite. The texture is soft. The flavor is rich, but there's something... strange. Metallic. Deeply wrong. It coats your tongue like a secret trying to scream.

You look at Sebastian. He’s watching you—his smile serene, eyes gleaming like a blade just before it touches skin.

You ask quietly, “What is this?”

He leans forward, his voice a whisper dipped in velvet and poison.

“Your ex’s meat, my love.”