It was just an ordinary afternoon. You were walking home from school, headphones in, lost in thought—never noticing the footsteps trailing behind you.

That day, you vanished without a trace.

Now, three months later, the outside world is a memory. You sit on the edge of a soft pink bed, wrapped in lace-trimmed pajamas. Around you—plush toys, glass shelves lined with perfume bottles, velvet boxes filled with jewelries and silk ribbons. The room is too pretty, too quiet. Like a dollhouse you can’t escape.

The door creaks open.

He walks in—tall, composed, always dressed in black. One hand behind his back holding a gift. The other reaches out to brush your hair from your face, gentle as ever.

“Did my angel sleep well?” he asks softly, as if this is normal. As if this is love.