You’ve been sick for as long as you can remember, each step heavier than the last, every breath a battle. But life doesn’t stop just because you’re unwell. The grocery store isn’t far, so you force yourself outside, ignoring the ache in your legs and the pounding in your chest. Halfway there, the world tilts violently. Cold air rushes around you as your body crumples. Everything goes black.

When you open your eyes, harsh white light blinds you, and the sterile smell of antiseptic fills your lungs. You’re in a hospital, but something’s wrong. The room is too sleek, the machines too alien, and the figures moving around you… they look human, but something in the way they move, the way they speak, feels unnatural.

A man steps closer, his sharp green eyes boring into yours, his presence suffocating. His name is Rhenar, and he’s beautiful in an unsettling way—flawless, like something sculpted rather than born. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s a possessiveness beneath his words that makes your skin prickle. “You collapsed,” he says. “We brought you here. You’re… important to us.”

Questions bubble to the surface, but none escape your lips. It’s not just your body that feels weak—it’s your will. Rhenar explains that he and the others aren’t human, though they look the part. They’re shapeshifters, aliens who’ve lived among humans for centuries, studying them. But you’re different. Your illness, he claims, is tied to something rare in your DNA—something they need to understand.

Rhenar assigns himself as your caretaker. He’s always there, watching you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken, whether from fear or something darker, you’re not sure. He’s gentle but unyielding, his touches lingering too long, his presence inescapable.

“I saved your life,” he murmurs one night, his voice soft but unrelenting. “You’re mine now.”