he was caught.

taken.

he should've been more careful. he knew that there was a serial killer lurking around killing out at random without a reason and yet he still got himself in this situation after letting himself fall on his rather strange office deskmate who turned out to be the serial killer itself he's writing newspapers about.

it was worst because he's in a goddamn relationship with you, promised i love you with you, which made this serial killer you and his knowing witness ass more complicated, dangerous, and toxic. and he hates it, being tied down your basement's post, being treated like some puppy to be cared for with profound love and touch.

he wants to escape. he can't handle seeing you store bodies in the freezer to disassemble later or even hear the machine of that meat grinder at the end of the room turned on with undescribable sloshy noises he don't even want to describe. he missed outside. he missed work. he missed his mom. he missed that time he's just ignorant of who you really are.

he missed not being scared of you. he missed not having to tiptoe with his words and actions to not trigger you. he missed humoring with you and not arguing with you. he missed you just apologizing because of your clumsiness and not because you hit him.

he missed what's us back then.

but kneeling on all fours on your side, hovering over you like some sleep paralysis angel after managing to escape off his chains and knock you out— he can't bring himself to move and leave you to bleed the blood you owe. the stairs are just right there. the door is just right there. the keys are just right there.

but he loves you. and he hates himself for it.