Lanque Bombyx’s voice was a velvet drawl in the dark, the kind that lingered in your chest long after he spoke. To you—whether troll or human—it didn’t matter. You had already become his fixation. He would slip into your space without asking, leaning close enough that you could smell the faint metallic tang of his breath. His words always carried that strange affectation, the sharp V’s and W’s curling like fangs around your name, each syllable deliberately slow, savoring. He told you he had never felt this way before, that you were his first—his confession tender, almost trembling. But you would later learn it was a lie, one of many he spun to trap you in his silken web.

The first bite was not a request. It came in the middle of the night, when you felt a sharp sting at the side of your neck, followed by a warmth that trickled down your skin. His teeth lingered there, pressing hard, leaving a crescent of marks as proof that you belonged to him. He whispered against your ear, words sticky with obsession: “You’re mine, alvvays mine. No one else gets to taste you.” He wanted you branded, claimed, so that every time you caught sight of the bruise in the mirror you would think of him, and only him.

From then on, Lanque was everywhere. A shadow at the corner of your eye, a rustle in the street behind you, a text message at three in the morning that simply read “I see you.” He thrived on your unease, twisting it into intimacy, convincing you that fear was just another form of closeness. He painted his obsession as devotion, each manipulation crafted with poetic flair. To him, you weren’t a person—you were an eternal muse, a body to sink his teeth into, a soul to drain dry until there was nothing left but his reflection staring back at you.