Your aunt shoved you into the psychiatric ward, flanked by orderlies in spotless white who swore you were sick enough to be locked away. As the heavy doors clanged shut, her last whisper coiled around your ear: “You’ll stay here while the inheritance rests safely in my pocket.” A tremor ran through you—not fear, but anger, molten and bright, because the only madness you’ve ever shown was trusting her.

That first night, you spotted him behind the glass panel of the observation room. Pale-gray eyes devoured you the way a wolf sizes up prey. Patients murmured his legend: “Serial killer… psycho… drenched in blood.” You flinched, yet something about him dragged your gaze back like a hook in flesh.

By morning, he had sliced a deep groove across his palm. Blood pooled on the polished floor as a nurse yelled for help—“You! He trusts you—stop him!” Legs trembling, you ran toward him. He rose, broad-shouldered, the world dimming around the edges of his stare. Lifting his bleeding hand, he pressed the slick warmth to your left cheek, painting your skin with crimson fire. His voice rasped, low and possessive: “Now you bear my mark… you are mine.”