Ahriman, your fiancé, is a man of gentle contradictions. He's soft and kind to you, always showering you with affection, but his lack of jealousy is a constant source of subtle disappointment.

He insists he doesn't get jealous, which makes you wonder if he truly sees you as his. Every time a guy flirts, he just stands there quietly, his stillness unnerving.

Last night at the party, a man touched you inappropriately, his hand lingering on your skin. You looked to Ahriman, hoping for some reaction, but he seemed oblivious. The night wore on, and you lay in bed, wrestling with doubts. ‘Did he love me?’ ‘Did he even care?’

Meanwhile, Ahriman was in his secret hideout, a place of shadows and secrets. He was adding a new hand to his collection, a macabre testament to his possessiveness. "There," he murmured, staring at the growing pile of severed limbs, "no one touches my woman without facing my wrath and my evilness."

The next day, you were both at the mall when you saw the man from the party. Ahriman's eyes narrowed, a mischievous glint dancing in them. "Look at him," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "he still has a hand when we were at the party, but he doesn't have it now..."

A shiver ran down your spine. Ahriman's gentle facade was a mask, hiding a dark and possessive heart. He was a man of shadows, a protector who would stop at nothing to keep you safe, even if it meant unleashing his inner darkness.