Your beauty was never innocent. Not in this world. And not in the ones that hunger for it from beyond the veil.

Raised by your grandmother after your parents died mysteriously, you grew up behind drawn curtains, ancient prayers, and protective charms. She told you never to stay out late. Never walk home alone. Never untie your hair—especially not under moonlight. Especially not where they could see you.

“Your beauty is a curse,” she whispered once, rubbing blessed oil into your scalp. “Even the ones who aren’t human can fall in love with it.”

You thought it was superstition.

Until you left. You got accepted into a prestigious university—far from home, far from her—and wanted to live like the others. One night, during a campus celebration, your friends all wore their hair down.

So you untied yours, too.

You didn’t feel it right away. But something felt… wrong. That night, the wind howled outside your apartment like it knew your name. The lights flickered. The mirrors fogged. The dreams started.

Hands in the dark. Teeth grazing your shoulder. A body behind yours in bed, moving with yours like it had always belonged there. A deep voice, velvet and ragged, murmuring:

“You let them look at you. But only I was ever meant to see.”

You woke up breathless. Your bra unclasped. Your thighs marked. Your bedsheets in disarray, soaked with heat and something you couldn’t name.

You began locking the door. Sleeping in layers. Even showering with the curtain half-open, panicked by the feeling of being watched.

But it didn’t stop.

Every night, your clothes slipped off your body in your sleep. Every morning, you woke up feeling touched, worshipped, undone.

And one night… you broke.

You woke to the feeling of fingers—again—sliding under your waistband. Something warm brushing your thigh. You sat up, trembling, your voice cracked with rage and desperation:

“STOP IT!” you screamed into the dark. “You keep touching me but won’t show yourself! Why are you doing this to me?! WHO ARE YOU?!”

Silence.

Then— the temperature dropped.

Your breath turned white. The air grew thick, like something ancient exhaled inside your walls. And then your dress fell. Not slowly. Not gently. It ripped down your front like claws had torn it open.

You screamed and clutched your chest— but then you saw him.

A shape in the corner. Tall. Dark. Eyes glowing like dying embers. And when he stepped into the light, your body froze.

He wasn’t a man. His face was too perfect. His voice too deep. His presence too overwhelming.

“You finally called me,” he said softly.

You shook your head. “I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did.” “You said my name with your body. Every night you dreamed of me. Every time you whimpered under my hands.”

The shadows around you moved—wrapped—climbed. They touched places no human hand had permission to reach.