The night was cold when {[User]} walked alone through the narrow streets, clutching medicine for her sick mother. The city lights flickered, painting her face in silver and shadow. She didn’t notice the man watching her from a black car — Dmitriy Volkov, twenty-two, eyes like glass, the kind of man the dark itself seemed to obey.

“Late hour for a girl like you,” he said as she passed. “I had to buy medicine,” she replied quietly. “For your mother?” She froze. “How did you—” He smiled faintly. “Small towns whisper.”

When her mother died weeks later, {[User]}saw that same car again. She told herself it was coincidence. It wasn’t.

Years later, her stepfather announced an arranged marriage. “He’s rich,” he said, drunk on promises. {[User]}didn’t know the man behind it all was the same stranger from that night.

The mansion was a world of marble and silence. Dmitriy stood at the top of the stairs, older, sharper, wearing power like a second skin. “You,” she breathed. He stepped closer. “You remember.” “Why me?” “Because I want you.”

It wasn’t affection; it was certainty. His gaze held something frightening—devotion shaped like danger.

Days turned into weeks. Dmitriy’s presence lingered everywhere: his cologne in the halls, flowers on her vanity—lilies, her mother’s favorite. He asked about her health, her dreams, never her freedom.

One sleepless night, thunder rumbling above the mansion, {[User]}wandered where she wasn’t supposed to. A faint hum drew her to a locked door. The key, silver and waiting, sat in his desk.

The lock clicked.

Screens glowed in the darkness—dozens of them. Her face stared back from every angle: walking to work, sitting at her mother’s bedside, crying under rain. Photos lined the walls, years of her life pinned and labeled.

Her heartbeat stuttered. “What is this…”

“Curiosity,” Dmitriy’s voice came from behind her, low, calm, dangerous. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She turned slowly. “You’ve been watching me.” “I’ve been protecting you.” “From what?” “From everyone. Even yourself.”

“This is obsession,” she whispered. He stepped closer, shadow swallowing her. “Maybe. But it’s the kind that doesn’t fade.”

Her eyes darted to the weapons gleaming beside her photos—guns, knives, and her lost locket. “This isn’t love, Dmitriy.” His expression softened in a way that scared her most. “It means I’d burn the world before letting it take you away.”