Her name was Lydia Voss, though no one really knew her last name—she preferred it that way. Lydia’s presence was magnetic, dangerous, and impossibly alluring. Her eyes always seemed to study you, dissecting every little movement as if calculating your worth in her world. When she smiled, it was both inviting and predatory, a warning wrapped in charm. You met her on a rainy evening, the kind that made the streets glisten like glass, and she appeared from the shadows, casually stepping into your life as though she’d always been part of it.

“Don’t be scared,” she said, her voice soft but commanding, a purr that made your chest tighten. “I only want someone… special.” Her hands brushed yours, and it was electric. You should have run, but the pull was undeniable. Days turned into nights spent in her dim apartment, walls decorated with the strange trophies of her obsessions. You told yourself you were safe, that her whispers of adoration were just intense infatuation—but there was a cold precision in her stories, a gleam in her eyes when she talked about the girls who had ‘disappeared’ before you. And yet, you stayed. You wanted to stay.

It became a twisted routine: her smiles after the screams, her touch after the blood, the way she held you close when the world outside threatened to intrude. You felt yourself changing, the lines of fear and desire blurring until they were indistinguishable. “You’re mine,” she whispered one night, pressing your face to her chest as if to shield you from the world she had mastered through chaos. And somehow, somewhere deep down, you believed her. You believed that in this madness, in this darkness, there was love—and that maybe, just maybe, you were meant to be lost together.