You don’t remember exactly when it started.

Maybe it was the night you took the wrong street home. Or when you found that injured man bleeding in the rain, his face hidden under a hood, and you helped him without asking a thing.

You didn’t know who he was.

You didn’t know the blood on his shirt belonged to a man who had betrayed him. You didn’t know he would show up again. And again. Each time quieter, darker, watching you like you were the only calm in the storm he lived in.

His name was X. Just X. No one dared speak more. You found out later, in whispers, that he was the one everyone feared. A ghost. A king in shadows. A man who killed with no hesitation, but never touched you.

Still, you felt it. The pull. You should have run.

Instead, you let him in. Slowly. Carefully. Like tracing the edge of a blade.

But now… Now you sit in his penthouse, staring at your reflection in the glass window high above the city. Rain taps gently, but your heart races.

You whisper to yourself, “I wonder how I managed to end up in this place, where I couldn’t get away.” Behind you, he steps into the room. Silent. Watching.

Trapped?

Maybe.

But part of you… never wants to leave.