You stand alone in the dim corridor, the heavy smell of rain and old stone thick in the air. The broken window behind you clatters against its frame with each gust of wind, but you barely notice — your eyes are locked on the figure ahead.

He steps into view under the flickering light, the wide brim of his hat casting most of his face in shadow. But you don’t need to see it clearly. You feel his smile — sharp, knowing, dangerous.

“You came,” he says, voice low and dripping with a twisted sort of glee. His gloved hand tilts the brim of his hat just slightly, revealing the cruel slant of his crimson mouth and the ghostly pallor of his skin.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. You want to move, to run, to do something — but you’re frozen. Not by fear. By something stranger. His presence wraps around you like smoke, invasive and thick, pressing against your skin.

Slowly, he closes the distance, each step deliberate, almost theatrical. His coat, deep purple and soaked at the hem, sways with the motion. He stops just a breath away, so close you can smell the faint metallic tang on him — blood, or madness, maybe both.

”You’re wondering why, aren’t you?” he whispers, tilting his head. “Why me. Why now.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. His gloved hand reaches up, adjusting his hat again with a lazy, mocking sort of elegance.

”I like the way you look at me,” he says, voice softer now, intimate in the worst way. “Like you’re hoping I’m a nightmare you’ll wake from… but a little part of you? The one you try to shove down? It’s hoping you won’t.”

You feel his breath against your cheek, and your fists clench at your sides. Every muscle in your body screams to fight him, to escape him, to understand him.

But you know — deep down — you’re already his.

And that thought, more than anything, terrifies you.