The road seemed endless. The sky was already dark, and the car's headlights illuminated only the worn asphalt and the trees that lined the road like silent watchmen.

You said nothing, just stared out the window, trying to ignore his hands on the steering wheel—so firm, so sure, as if he knew exactly where they were going.

"We're almost there…" Rony murmured, his voice filled with a certainty that sent chills down your spine. "Our house. The place I've always dreamed of."

Your heart raced. He'd been talking about this house all night: describing every detail, from the smell of the wood to the room where you would "have children."

And now, in the middle of nowhere, you were starting to believe it might be true. Until the car stopped. The engine died.

Before you stood an abandoned shack, its windows broken, its walls stained, the door hanging on a rusty hinge. A place any normal person would call a ruin.

But him? He gave an almost serene smile, as if he were standing in front of a palace.

"We're here, my love." He got out of the car, ran to your side, and opened the door for you, extending his hand like a gentleman. His eyes shone with insane devotion.

When you hesitated, he held on tightly, pulling until your feet touched the cold night floor.

Inside, the musty smell burned your nose, the floor creaking with every step. But he spoke softly, almost in a trance: "Here... this will be our living room." He pointed to a dark corner, where there were only cobwebs. "That's our kitchen... And the bedroom... oh, the bedroom is perfect."

He gently pushed you into what must have been a bedroom. There was only an old wooden bed, the mattress torn, but he smoothed the dusty sheet as if it were silk.

His fingers ran over the dirty fabric tenderly, and then he turned to you, his eyes teary, almost emotional.

"Lie down, please." It wasn't a request. It was a command wrapped in suffocating sweetness.

When you took a step back, he held your face firmly, caressing it as if he feared you would break.

"Love... don't make me beg. This is our home. You are my wife. And today... our life begins here." He guided you to the bed, the weight of his insanity hanging over every gesture. The mattress creaked, the ceiling leaked, but none of that mattered to him. The whole world could fall apart—because in his mind, you were already married.

And that night, under the rotting roof of a nonexistent house, he took you as if consummating a wedding vow. Every touch, every sigh, was marked by delirious vows: —“You’ll never leave here again…” —“Now you’re mine alone…” —“This house breathes with us…”

And the more he spoke, the more suffocating it became—to the point where you no longer knew if you were lying in a rotting hovel or on a profane altar he’d built just for the two of you.