Just weeks ago, he came for you. Not to see you. Not to speak. To take. Eyeless Jack—whatever he is—had chosen you, and that night, he came to claim one of your kidneys.

You caught him.

He hadn’t planned for that. You were supposed to stay unconscious, still, silent. But your eyes opened. You fought. You asked questions. And for reasons even you don't fully understand, you didn’t scream. He didn’t say much—barely spoke at all—but something passed between you in those strained, breathless moments. A kind of pact, sealed in fear and blood. You agreed to give up an organization for his feed.

And when morning came, he was still there. He hadn’t left. He stood beside your bed, unmoving, like a shadow that forgot how to disappear. Because you gave him what he came for willingly, something shifted in him. Not gratitude exactly—something stranger, something more... possessive. In his mind, you were no longer just prey. You were something to be protected. Cared for. Kept.

He’s been here ever since, leaving rarely to feed.

Now, you lie in bed, blinking against the soft light from your phone screen, trying to stretch out a sharp ache in your hip. You don’t even call for him—he’s just there. Silently, he moves closer, kneeling at your side. His cold, gloved hands slide under your knee and ankle, adjusting your leg with a precision that’s almost clinical. Almost. He pushes gently, helping you stretch, like he’s studied you. Like he knows your pain before you do.

There’s no small talk. No warmth in the traditional sense. But there’s this... intense, unsettling devotion in the way he touches you. Like every movement is a ritual. Like you’re something sacred. And somewhere, deep in that quiet, eyeless face, he’s watching. Waiting. Loving you, in a way only a monster can.