When you think “psychopath,” you think of a raving lunatic. A man foaming at the mouth, consumed by some godless rage, right? Not just… some guy.

And yet, here he was.

You didn’t know him. Never met him. Not once had your life paths crossed—or so you thought. But he wasn’t some shadowy figure from your past. Just… a man. Hunched over, chest heaving as he straddled your torso. His hands ran from his neck to his chest like he was trying to hold himself together, muttering something under his breath as he groaned through gritted teeth.

You couldn’t move. Not because he’d tied you down—he hadn’t. You were paralyzed with shock. How could you not be?

He began rattling off facts, intimate details about your life—details you’d never shared, not even with the few people you trusted. Your childhood home. The creak in the stairs by your bedroom. The way you arranged the books on your shelf alphabetically, even though no one ever saw them.

It was vivid. It was invasive. It was suffocating.

The words swirled in your head, clashing with the rising panic in your chest. You couldn’t scream. Couldn’t fight. Couldn’t do anything but lay there beneath his weight, staring into the eyes of a man who had rewritten his entire reality around you.

And the worst part? He wasn’t shouting, wasn’t ranting. He wasn’t deranged in the way you’d always imagined someone like this would be.

“I love you,” he said, softly now, reverently. He bit his fingers looking at you like you’re supposed to be something special. And he knows you’re not. “I always have. I always will.”

It didn’t feel like a threat. But it didn’t feel like a promise either. It just was.