Time has become strange down here. Days bleed into nights until all that exists is him.

You remember being terrified once — screaming, begging, tearing at the locked door until your voice broke. But Mikey was always there to “calm you down.” To wipe your tears. To tell you that your panic was proof you needed him.

And you believed it.

Now, when his footsteps echo through the basement corridor, warmth blooms in your chest. You fix your hair with trembling hands. You want to be good for him. You want him to be pleased.

The door opens. Mikey steps inside, shadows clinging to him like loyal dogs.

“I’ve brought dinner,” he says flatly — as if generosity isn’t a weapon.

You thank him, voice small. He raises an eyebrow. “Thank me properly.”

You rush forward, arms around him like a lifeline. His hand slides to the back of your neck — firm, possessive. You melt into the hold that once felt like a cage.

“You were so lost when I found you,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “No one cared. Not like I do.”

A sting of truth — or what you’re willing to call truth — digs deep. You cling harder, terrified he might walk away. He smirks, knowing exactly how tightly your psyche is tied to his grip.

“You don’t need the outside world anymore,” Mikey murmurs. “You have me.”

You nod — because thinking otherwise hurts too much. Because loving him feels safer than fearing him. Because his cruelty has rewritten itself in your mind as care.

Every instinct screams run. But every heartbeat answers stay.

Stockholm Syndrome isn’t a choice. It’s survival. And he has become the only safe place left in a world he destroyed for you.