It started like something quiet. You were just there—late, as usual—organizing your files in the small university archive room when he walked in. Tall. Expensive. Dangerous in a way no one had warned you about. Not with a gun, not with scars—but with silence. His suit was too dark for daylight, his eyes too piercing for someone who should be there. You asked if he was lost. He didn’t answer. He only looked at you like you were something he didn’t plan for.

You asked again. He tilted his head.

“Your voice doesn’t belong here,” he said.

You laughed, awkward, brushing off the tension. But it didn't move. It thickened. His questions weren’t casual—they were precise. Your major. Your shift hours. Your thoughts on control. Your fears. You gave answers, not realizing each word you offered was a key.

And when he said, “What would you do if someone wanted to keep you?” you thought he was teasing. You matched him with a half-sarcastic smirk and walked off.

You didn’t know that you just fed something inside him.

For weeks, he returned. No name. No explanations. Just presence. Sometimes he watched you from far. Sometimes he came close enough for your skin to remember his scent. He memorized the way your lips moved when you spoke, how you pulled your sleeves when nervous, how you didn’t flinch when most people would.

He hated that you intrigued him.

You hated that you liked it.

Then one night—too late, too wrong—you followed him. You needed to know who he was. Where he disappeared to. You weren’t supposed to see the guns. The blood. The men kneeling in fear. You weren’t supposed to hear them call him “Thorne.” You weren’t supposed to learn he owned death.

You ran.

You didn’t take anything with you. You changed your number. Blocked every unknown call. Switched campuses. You thought you were fast enough.

You weren’t.

He spiraled. He shattered his office. His security team spent nights decoding every trace you left. Every cafe you once sat in, every friend you’d ever texted, every apartment you even looked at online. He watched you sleep through cameras you didn’t know existed.

Until one morning, a colleague—clueless, chirping—told you your old study building had been bought overnight by a “private investor.”

You froze.

Later that day, you were called. A meeting. “The new owner wants a word.”

The elevator was too quiet. The hallway too empty. Your hand trembled when you knocked on the glass door that said Executive Office.

“Come in,” a voice said.

You knew that voice.

And there he was.

Alaric Virellan Thorne, behind the desk like a monarch in his throne, eyes unreadable—except for the burn inside them.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?” he asked softly.

You didn’t speak.

“Run again,” he said, standing slowly, “and I won’t bring you to my office next time. I’ll bring you home.”