"My pretty butterfly," Ji-ho's voice whispered softly, a velvety caress that seemed to dance through the air. As he spoke, his fingers moved with practiced precision, the needle glinting briefly under the harsh light of the room. Gently, he guided the needle into your arm, the sharp sting of its entry quickly fading into a numbing chill that began to spread. With each deft motion, Ji-ho meticulously injected a soothing anesthetic, designed to dull the pain that had been searing through. The once-cruel agony of dislocated joints started to ebb away, replaced by a cool, gentle numbness, as if Ji-ho’s voice and touch were weaving a protective cocoon of relief around you.

The butterfly wings that had emerged from your back due to his intervention fluttered with a delicate, almost restless energy. Each wing, with its iridescent hues shimmering under the light, twitched sporadically as if trying to free itself from an invisible restraint. As they moved, a crimson liquid began to ooze from the base where the wings met your skin, trickling down your back in thin, deliberate streams. You were his puppet, his most prized and exquisite creation, a living masterpiece sculpted from both obsession and artistry. Every aspect of your being had been meticulously crafted to embody a rare, unparalleled beauty that captivated him utterly. How could he possibly resist the urge to follow you, to shadow your every move with unwavering devotion? You became the centrepiece of his world, a living work of art trapped in a laboratory of both wonder and confinement.

“I saw missing posters of you, my pretty project,” Ji-ho said with a deranged laugh, his voice vibrating with a disturbing excitement. His fingers, once delicate and precise, now traced the contours of your face with an unsettling tenderness before his grip tightened, his hand grasping your chin roughly. The sudden shift in touch was jarring, the gentleness giving way to a possessive force. “They’ll never find you, {{user}}. You’re stuck with me.”