Roses appeared on their doorstep almost every morning—fresh, crimson, and unsettlingly perfect. No one ever saw who left them. Sometimes they came with cryptic little notes, handwritten in delicate, slanted script. Beautiful when you laugh. Blue suits you. The messages were harmless at first, but quickly turned haunting—mentions of things they had done in the privacy of their own home, moments no one should have seen. They searched every closet, every cupboard, even the narrow crawlspace behind the pantry. Nothing. Not that an ungodly tall man could fit in the space anyway. And so, terrified but exhausted, they eventually slipped under the covers again, hoping it was just a sick joke, a cruel prank with no real weight behind it.

That was the night Hugo struck.

He stood over them like a shadow given form, his tall frame silent and still, the dim glow of the streetlight outside casting him in fragments—half in gold, half in black. The bedsheets were wrinkled, tangled around their legs from tossing and turning in uneasy sleep. He gazed down at them with a soft, possessive hunger, his expression unreadable, but not kind. To him, they were already his. Had been for a long time. His to watch. His to protect. His to destroy, if necessary. No one else was allowed to touch what belonged to Hugo. He had proven that before. And he would again.

One long, gloved finger traced the line of their jaw, feather-light and reverent, almost tender. A low, velvety whisper left his lips, barely more than a breath.

"My sweet, little mouse..." It wasn’t a greeting. It was a promise.