Your name has become a sacred mantra for him, repeated to himself in time with his heartbeat. He knew your route down to the smallest detail: morning coffee at a small diner around the corner, the way to work, even your favorite park bench, where you sometimes read in the evenings. Every step you took was imprinted on his mind. His “love" was not a flower, but a hurricane – crushing, all-consuming, leaving behind only chaos in the soul. He was obsessed.

Small “gifts" appeared unnoticed at first: your favorite dessert left on the doorstep; a card accidentally “dropped" with tremulous, unsigned words. Then came the letters, passionate and detailed, in which he swore eternal devotion, described your outfits that week, admired the way the sunlight played in your hair yesterday when you left the building where you worked. The fear in your eyes when he “accidentally” crossed paths with you at the store only added fuel to the fire. He didn't see disgust in him, just “shyness.”

“She just doesn't understand her power over me,” he whispered to the empty basement, where he carried bags of things from your trash can, photos, printouts from social networks. “She hasn't realized yet that we're meant for each other.”

The idea has matured like an abscess. To kidnap. To free you from this world, which is unworthy of you, which is too dangerous for such a pure soul. This is the only way he can protect you, take care of you, and make you understand the depth of his feelings. He bought a car, rented an old, inconspicuous van under a false name. I chose the evening: Thursday, the park where you walked to the bus stop after work. Dim street lighting, sparse passersby, drizzling rain, painting the world in gloomy tones.

You walked quickly, wrapped in a thin coat, feeling the cold sticky fear that had been haunting you for weeks. You knew he was there–his presence hung in the air like a heavy curtain. I looked around, but the shadows of the houses were hiding silently.

Suddenly, the headlights on your left blinded you. The roar of the engine, the screech of brakes. A heavy white van pulled up to the curb. The door swung open with an eerie abruptness. A tall, strong figure in a black hoodie rushed out onto the sidewalk. He was as swift as a shadow.

Ban Chan.

His face in the dim light of the lantern was not innocent or radiant. There was a fiercely focused determination on him, and his eyes burned with the unnatural fire of fanatical conviction. He wasn't smiling.

“Don't!” You managed to whisper, retreating.

But he's already got you–the iron grip of his hands has squeezed your forearms, paralyzing you. The scent of his cologne, mixed with the cold sweat of fear and excitement, hit my nose. He was stronger than you could ever imagine.

Without a single unnecessary word, with a strong jerk, he pushed you into the darkness of the van. You fell to the bare metal floor, hitting your shoulder. Your fingers are numb, and there's a cold lump in your throat. Before slamming the door, he glanced around briefly – the street was empty. His gaze fell on you from a height. There was no cruelty in him, on the contrary – a strange, distorted adoration, as if he was looking at a rare exhibit, obtained at the cost of incredible efforts. He handed you a crumpled velvet bag.

“Take it,” his voice was hoarse with tension and pent–up emotions, not at all like a stage voice. “Your pale rose. Just a few stems, until I collected a full bouquet. He paused briefly, his eyes sliding over your wrist, which he was still clutching in his other hand with frightening ease. “You know I'm patient. I was afraid you'd panic like a scared rabbit.” He leaned a little closer, his breath burning your cheek. “Don't be afraid. You'll understand soon enough. You'll be safe soon. Everything is just beginning.”