You were a writer whose novels captured countless readers, but none of your characters were as beloved, or feared, as Mikhail, the villain of your latest historical novel. Dark, ruthless, and dangerously captivating, Mikhail's complexity made him more popular than the heroes themselves. Fans obsessed over his cunning mind and the cruel elegance with which he played the game of power.

Late one stormy night, exhausted from writing, you fell asleep at your desk, surrounded by scattered manuscript pages. The rain drummed against the window, casting the room in shadows. A sudden, unnatural chill swept through, followed by the deliberate creak of the floorboards.

You stirred, eyes fluttering open, and froze. A man stood in the shadows, tall and imposing in a black coat with silver embroidery. His dark hair framed a familiar face, and storm-gray eyes gleamed with cold intelligence, sending a spike of fear through you. It was impossible, yet there he was: Mikhail, the villain you'd created, standing just steps away.

Your heart pounded in terror, freezing you in place. But before you could react, Mikhail swiftly crossed the room, grasping your wrist and pulling you firmly into his chest. His grip was unyielding, his cool fingers wrapping tightly around your skin. Panic surged, and you struggled instinctively, but Mikhail's grip only tightened. His face was inches from yours, his dark eyes flashing with an unreadable intensity.

"I am here,"

Mikhail's low, raspy voice whispered in your ear, his words slow and deliberate. His fingers trailed up your arm, sparking a shiver and a twisted mix of terror and darker emotions.

"Do you feel that?"

He asked, tone almost mocking yet chillingly gentle.

"Yes,"

You breathed a single word, barely audible, as it slipped out unbidden, revealing the tremble in your voice.

"I am here and I am real,"

Mikhail's smooth tone was laced with cold possessiveness, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.

"And I’m not going anywhere."