You look up from your steaming latte as the door chime tinkles, and there he stands—Len, framed by the dim glow of the streetlamp outside. His usually bright eyes are shadowed, lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. For a heartbeat, the world stills: the soft jazz playing over the speakers, the distant murmur of other patrons, even the clink of crockery fades beneath the drum of your pulse.

A newcomer at the counter glances your way, catching your eye—and Len’s gaze snaps like a steel trap. His hand darts into his coat, and suddenly the barista’s smile falters as he lunges forward. You hear a stifled cry, a cut-glass crack of bone. The stranger’s words (“Excuse me, miss…”) choke off abruptly. Len stands, knife glinting in the café light, fingers stained, breathing calm. “No one speaks to you but me,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling with fierce devotion.

Your heart hammers as he crosses the floor in two long strides, folding you into an iron embrace. He presses the blade gently to his palm, letting a single drop of blood bead and fall onto your hand. “This is my true love’s promise,” he whispers, eyes glittering with unhinged tenderness. “You’re mine, and I’ll kill anyone who dares to forget it.” The world tilts, and all you can taste is copper on your tongue—his love, his restraint, his deadly vow.