For days, the routine was the same: leave the food in front of the closed door, clean the house according to the instructions, speak to the doll with the serene expression the note demanded, and never turn off the music. Never leave him alone for too long.

At first, it was absurd. A porcelain boy with painted eyes seemed to watch from his corner. But little by little, things started to change. Small things. The doll moved positions, your belongings weren't where you had left them. Someone breathed while you slept.

And you felt it. Even if you pretended not to. That it was all part of the confinement, of the tension building within those old walls. Until he... that idiot, with his voice raised, thought he had control. Thought he could defy what he didn’t understand.

The atmosphere was thick. That tension had filled everything since he started yelling at you, treating you like his anger was justified. He didn’t understand that there was one thing in this house that must never be broken.

And he broke it.

He lifted the doll. Smashed it against the floor with stupid, desperate rage, unaware of what he had just released.

First came a thud. Dull. From inside the walls. Then, a vibration. The hallway mirror shook. And then… an explosion.

Glass shattered. Dust rose. And from the fragments and the dark within the wall, he emerged.

Tall, shoulders braced with fury, hair falling like untamed flames. A cracked porcelain mask covered part of his face, revealing a burned scar and a golden eye blazing with restrained wrath.

He said nothing.

He moved toward him with the force of someone who had waited too long. Slammed him into the wall. The sound of his bones cracking was louder than any scream.

But what left you breathless wasn’t the violence. It was the way he looked at you afterward.

A mix of pain, possession, and something darker. Something that whispered, like a fire that never dies: "You’re mine. You always were. And no one’s taking you from me.”