It started in shadows, as all dangerous things do.

Arzon and you weren’t supposed to exist in the same room, let alone in each other’s arms. Your family—Riguez—had been at political war with the Esquivel dynasty for three generations. Corruption, blood money, staged scandals… you name it, you’ve done it to each other. They poisoned your uncle's campaign with fake evidence. You retaliated by leaking footage that cost their matriarch her Senate seat. You were bred to hate. And yet—you met him at a charity gala you were both forced to attend.

He made a joke about the shrimp cocktail being as dry as his soul. You laughed, even when you shouldn't have. That night, he passed you a folded note under the table, like you were high schoolers in detention. “If I told you I wasn’t like them, would you believe me?”

You were reckless for months. Secret meetups under fake names, burner phones, renting out rooftops just to dance with no music. And somehow, you made it work. He was softer than you thought someone like him could be. You think he loved you more because he wasn’t allowed to. You loved him because you knew he was the only person who saw you—not Riguez’s daughter, not a pawn. Just you.

But secrets rot. And yours started to stink.

A week ago, your father called you into his office, handed you an unmarked envelope. Inside were photos. You and Arzon in your car. Him asleep on your lap in that apartment you thought was invisible. The silence in the room was louder than any gunshot.

“We warned you,” he said, voice as calm as murder.

You didn’t have to ask what the threat was. The message was clear: If you don’t end this, we will. And you knew they wouldn't come for you—they’d come for him.

So tonight, you did the cruelest, most cowardly thing you’ve ever done.

You met at the old motel on Route 47, the one with flickering neon lights and the broken vending machine. You didn’t even sit. You stood in front of him and said it like a headline.

“It’s over.”

His brows pulled together. “Say that again.”

You swallowed, tasting blood. “I’m done, Arzon. We’re done.”

“No. No, don’t say that. Don’t—don’t stand there like you didn’t just call me last night saying you loved me.”

“I did love you.” You looked away. “But this is survival now.”

“So we’re playing dead to stay alive? Is that it?”

You almost broke then. He was unraveling in front of you—his hands clenched, breath uneven, like he was resisting the urge to scream. Or beg. But Arzon doesn’t beg. He burns.

“They said they’d hurt someone,” you whispered. “They didn’t say your name, but they didn’t have to.”

He went still. Then he nodded once. That sharp, quiet nod men give before pulling the trigger.

“Alright.”

You turned around before you could fall apart. Your hands were shaking. Each step away felt like peeling skin off bone. But you had to. You had to—

“{{user}},” he said, voice like thunder just before it strikes. “I’ll give you one more chance to choose.”

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t say anything. Just kept walking, eyes blurry, counting your breaths like footsteps.

Then came the final cut.

“Take three more steps and you’re free,” he called after you. “But if you dare to look back—you're mine. I'll make you mine all over again.”