You work alongside Gaz in Task Force 141, and while there’s nothing official between you, the nights you spend tangled up in each other are enough to make you question what you are. He’s possessive in ways that should probably concern you—subtle but always there. A hand gripping your wrist too tight when another soldier gets too close. A low, dangerous murmur of your name when you tease him. A look in his eyes that makes it clear you belong to him, even if neither of you have ever said it out loud.

You never thought much of it. In fact, part of you found it endearing.

One night, tangled in sheets and warmth, you’d mentioned a date you had planned for Valentine’s Day. Just a casual thing. Someone you’d been curious about. Gaz had stilled for a moment, breath fanning against your skin. Then, with a voice rough and quiet, he murmured, “I’d kill to be your Valentine.”

You’d laughed, brushing it off.

Now, Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and your date never showed. You sat at that restaurant, waiting, checking your phone over and over. They never called, never texted. Eventually, you left, disappointed but mostly confused.

You step into your apartment, locking the door behind you. It’s dark. Cold. Something feels… off.

Your stomach tightens when you see it—a small box resting on the kitchen counter. A single red rose placed delicately on top. Odd

A note: “I told you I’d kill to be your Valentine.”

Your breath catches. A sickening sense of dread coils in your gut. Hands shaking, you reach for the box, hesitating before lifting the lid.

“Oh god”

A gasp rips from your throat. You feel your blood turn cold and Your hand comes up to your mouth shaking. You drop the box and take a staggered step back.

Inside, nestled against crimson-stained tissue paper, is a severed hand.

Your date’s hand.

A sharp exhale behind you. The shift of movement in the darkness. Then a familiar voice, deep and quiet, dripping with something possessive, something final.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart”