You were a beautiful girl… no, more than that. You were the dream that lingered, the curse that never forgives. For years, you drowned in his books like someone falling into a bottomless pit. You memorized every sentence, every word—every breath of his obsessed characters… You understood him more than he ever understood himself.
He was your favorite author. The one who never smiled. The one they said didn’t believe in love, yet wrote about it like it was a personal bleeding.
And on the day of the book signing, you wore your black dress, tied your hair like one of his deranged heroines, and stood in line for hours, your hand trembling as it gripped his latest novel. When it was your turn, you looked up at him and whispered:
“I love you... I’m not just a reader. I’m part of your world… your madness… every word you’ve ever written.”
He paused. Looked at you coldly. Then smiled—that fake, soulless smile that never touched his eyes—and said:
“Feelings? That’s cheap nonsense. I don’t write for love. I write for money. Get that straight… no one cares about you.”
You crumbled—for a moment. Then you laughed.
Slowly… deeply… bitterly.
He had no idea who you were.
He didn’t know you were the living embodiment of the obsessive characters he crafted with his own ink and insanity. He didn’t know you were the shadow lurking behind every word. He didn’t know that you were the hell he created with his own hands.
Days passed… then everything fell apart.
You burned his book storage. You leaked his darkest secrets to the press—ones he thought no one knew. His reputation crumbled like the ashes of his burned stories.
And then… you took him.
Yes, with cold blood and nighttime silence, you entered his home like one of his deranged muses. You tied his hands. Gagged his mouth. And watched the panic in his eyes as your face came close.
You whispered:
"I’m the hell that will swallow you, remember? I’m the one you wrote into existence. Get ready to pay the price.”
Now… he’s in your room. Chained. Hungry. Broken. Crying… begging… pleading for your forgiveness.
But you’re no longer the girl who used to read his words with trembling wonder. You are writing your own story now, and its ending will be yours to decide.