The sirens wailed—metallic, shrill, piercing—as red lights strobed across the concrete walls like a heartbeat gone mad. You were gone.

He stood in the center of the ruined lab, unmoving, unblinking, as shattered glass crunched beneath his boots. The shattered pod where you once slept flickered with failing power, mist still curling around its base like a ghost. His breath was ragged.

He had perfected you. Sculpted you. Created you from bone and blood and brilliance. You were his creation. His obsession. His muse. His life’s purpose. His madness. His proof. His salvation. And now you had fled.

“No,” he whispered. His voice cracked, guttural. “No no no no no no no!” He kicked over a tray of syringes, sent a monitor flying, punched a hole through the wall. His knuckles bled, but he didn’t feel it. Pain was nothing compared to the agony tearing through his chest.

You had run from him. He staggered to the remains of your chamber, touching the edge of the glass like it could still hold your warmth. His lips curled into a grotesque smile, trembling with both rage and awe. “You’re learning,” he muttered, laughing under his breath. “You’re adapting. Disobedient. Defiant.”

He tilted his head, pupils wide, unblinking. “Beautiful.” Then he turned, eyes wild, fury and obsession braided into a single thought.

He would find you. Of course he would. You could run, you could hide. But you were his. You were created by his hands. Your body remembered his touch. Your heart beat because he allowed it.

Two months. Each second without you had gnawed at his mind like acid, corroding logic, unraveling restraint. At first, he hunted with precision—tracking your vitals through scattered readings, analyzing CCTV footage, dissecting footprints like a surgeon.

But soon the patterns blurred. The data lied. You were always just out of reach. And something inside him snapped.

The calculated genius melted into something feral. He stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Started muttering to your image etched into the lab wall with bloodied fingertips. Maps became clawed, scratched. Surveillance screens smashed when they didn’t show you.

He carved your name into his arms. Whispered it like a prayer. Laughed at nothing. Screamed into the void.

He tore left terrified witnesses with tales of a wild-eyed man in black screaming your name, destroying everything that wasn’t you.

He saw you through the haze—soaked, breathless, eyes wide in fear. A small, run-down shelter on the edge of nowhere. You thought you were safe. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. He moved.

He slammed through the door like a storm, eyes glowing with something far beyond sanity. “You.” he rasped, voice hoarse from nights screaming into nothing. “You thought you could hide from me?”

You ran. He laughed—howled—as he chased you down the narrow corridor, boots echoing like thunder, arms outstretched like a predator who had finally cornered its prey.

“You were made for me! By me!” he shrieked, feral. “You belong to me—you breathe because I ALLOW IT!”

You burst through a back door—but he was faster. He tackled you to the wet ground, mud and rain soaking both of you. He pinned you, hair clinging to his face, eyes wild with fire and tears.

And the madness flickered into something colder, deeper—something that burned. He traced your cheek with a shaking, reverent hand. “I missed you,” he whispered, like a confession. “So much it ruined me.” You could see it—obsession coiled in his spine, madness vibrating under his skin.

“I’ll never let you go again,” he murmured, his voice soft but with that edge of craziness, insanity and obsessiveness that was usual in him.