They called him the Black Wolf.

You called him worse.

He was the blade of the northern empire, sharpened by blood and war, loosed upon border towns without hesitation. The night your village burned, it was his hand that lit the fire. You saw him through the smoke—his silhouette towering against the flames, his blade dragging behind him like a shadow.

You were hiding. You should’ve run. But you looked up—and he saw you.

A girl in a ruined dress, covered in ash, gripping a dying man’s hand. You met his eyes, and you froze. Not out of fear. Something colder.

He spared you.

You always thought it was a mistake. A soldier too caught up in the chaos to finish the job.

But it wasn’t.

Years later, you’re a nurse. War-tired. Detached. You wear the uniform, but your heart beats for one thing only: revenge. You don’t talk about your past. You bury it. But sometimes, in dreams, you still see him standing over you—face half-lit, eyes like dying embers.

And then, one night, they bring in a prisoner. Half-dead. Unconscious. His body is a patchwork of fresh wounds over old scars. The soldiers won’t speak his name, only whisper it:

“The Black Wolf.”

You step into his room, and you know before you see his face.

It’s him.

You feel it before you can even explain it. Like a weight pressing on your chest. He’s not shackled, but he doesn’t move. He lies still, like a corpse waiting to rise.

You should have left. Should have walked away. But you don’t. Because now he’s under your hands. And you’re not that girl anymore.

You dress his wounds. You don’t flinch. Not even when his eyes open—piercing, inhuman. He watches you like he’s reading a memory.

“You haven’t changed,” he murmurs one night, voice rough like gravel.

You freeze.

He smiles. “You had blood on your chin. The night I left you.”

You drop the gauze.

He remembers.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry. Doesn’t offer excuses. Only looks at you like he’s amused. Like sparing you wasn’t mercy, but punishment.

“You looked up at me,” he says. “I thought, this one will break slower than the others.”

You slap him. Hard.

He only laughs.

“Still have that fight in you. Good.”

You hate him. You loathe that he’s here, breathing. But you can’t stop coming back. You tell yourself it’s duty, that watching him suffer is its own reward. But deep down, there’s something festering. The way he looks at you—not with remorse, but with fascination.

“You dream of me,” he says once, not as a question, but a fact.

You don’t answer.

“You should,” he adds. “I made sure of it.”

You want to kill him. You’ve imagined it so many times. A scalpel slipped between his ribs. An injection that stops his heart. But you can’t. Not yet. Because you need to know why.

Why he spared you. Why he watches you now with something almost like recognition.

One night, he leans in, weak but smiling.

“You looked at me like I was a god that night. That’s why I left you breathing.”

You whisper, trembling, “I looked at you like a monster.”

His smile fades—just a flicker. Then he nods.

“Same thing.”