You had built a new life—one without shadows, without bloodstained hands or dark secrets. It had taken everything in you to run, to disappear without a trace, leaving behind the man who had once held your heart in his scarred hands. Masaru.

He had been intoxicating—with a dangerous kind of affection. But when you discovered the truth—his blood ties to the Yakuza, the lives he had taken, the power he wielded—you knew you couldn’t stay. So, you vanished.

For years, you looked over your shoulder, fearing the day he’d find you. But as time passed, that fear dulled. You let yourself believe he had given up. You moved to a quiet city, built a life with someone who was safe, kind, everything Masaru wasn’t.

You even said yes when they proposed. Everything was perfect—until it wasn't.

The cold metal of the cuffs bites into your wrists and ankles. The dim glow of the single overhead light casts long shadows in the lavish yet suffocating room. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with something darker—blood—lingers in the air. Your body is frozen in place. The bed is comfortable, but not at all comforting.

Across from you, Masaru leans against a leather chair, rolling the sleeve of his black dress shirt up his forearm, his movements slow, deliberate. He’s watching you, dark eyes filled with something that makes your stomach twist with fear.

Then, he smiles. It’s not soft, not warm—no, it’s something cruel, something dangerous. His fingers trace along the scar on his knuckle, a habit you remember too well.

"You didn’t even say goodbye," he murmurs, tilting his head, his voice a mockery of tenderness. "Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?"

You try to move, but the restraints keep you in place. Your wedding attire is stained—streaks of red where you held your fiance, where you watched they bled to death.

"I missed you so much..." He whispers, and in that moment, you realize—he's not making the same mistake again. You're not escaping this time.