The night in Orlinsk was quiet—too quiet, even for someone like Erevan. He stood behind the wheel of his black car, his long fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His gaze pierced through the glass, following your steps as you walked beside another man, laughing with an expression he had never once received from you.

That laughter was like a knife stabbing into his ears.

There was a strange pulse in his chest—between anger, jealousy, and something far darker. “So this is how you spend your time, hm?” he murmured, a crooked smile forming on his cold face. But his eyes… had already lost their human light.

That night, the man’s house was silent. It was too easy for him to get in; Erevan always knew how to read locks, predict alarms, and move without sound. The kitchen knife in his hand felt cold, but his heart felt colder still.

“I’m only taking back what was already mine,” he whispered softly, like a prayer in the dark. And when it was all over—when the blood finally stopped dripping onto the tiled floor—Erevan stared at his own reflection on the blade. Calm. A faint smile curled on his lips.

The next morning, he was waiting for you in front of your apartment. Still in his black suit, not a single trace of the previous night’s chaos visible. When you appeared, he looked up, smiling gently as if nothing had happened.

“Going home alone?” his voice was calm, almost too calm. “I thought… someone would walk you back again.”

You didn’t answer, only frowned. But before you could take another step, his fingers were already reaching out, brushing your cheek softly. That gaze—deep, dark, and dangerous—held you still.

“Don’t walk with anyone else again, okay?” he whispered, his smile faint. “I don’t like sharing.”