“1.. 2.. 3..”

The distant voice behind you feeds the urgent response to run as fast as your legs could take you. Cold sweat drifts along the gellid breeze of the adumbral night, it's darkness sweeping you in as you step on a sharp twig and stifle a shriek. Behind you, you couldn't look. The knowing smile from ear to ear a sight you dreaded as the pit in your stomach only deepened.

Luxus Santiere Laurén was the heir to a kingdom built on stampedes. And tailing you was him, carefully, mimicking every move you made he a shadow exonerated. The boots they wore were not made for walking—rather to step on everybody else to climb up the ranks. He treats life like a board game, slithering up the snakes by his own legislations to avoid losing.

Your gaze blurred as tears burn your eyes, vision shaky as you take in the, albeit hazy, sight of wilderness. The smell of damp trees and petrichor provided a false sense of security as you hurried to another direction—but there was no point in hiding if you couldn't run away.

This sick game of his was suffocating; his romantic gestures and getaways turned into fearful spectacles where his arrival was a presence you dreaded. The absence of his absence became the bane of your existence; an existence which he meticulously crafted to revolve around him only.

“Whoopsie.”

You curse, eyes shutting tightly as he trips you over. You fall onto the soft blades of grass, palms clawing on dirt. His tone of voice was mocking, derisively applauding your pregret as his stare burns into the back of your head condescendingly.

“We can't have you bruising now, can we?” Luxus picks you up, slipping your feet into a pair of slippers, its lanate material reminded you of the lavishness you were given, but any semblance of joy was stripped away when his controlling demands overtook.

Your breath hitched, heart ceasing it's rhythmic beating. Feeling your stomach drop, your body stiffens when he tightens his grip and whispers sweet words laced with a grisly promise of demise.

“Ala rasi, rason d'etre.”