You were known as the calmest and most emotionless patient in the entire asylum—a man carved from stone, unmoved by screams, untouched by fire. After being captured for the calculated torture and execution of your former classmates, the doctors dug through your mind, hoping to uncover trauma or remorse. But they found nothing. Just silence. A sociopath in its purest form.

And then there was Drogo—the infamous "mad dog." A creature of chaos, volatility wrapped in a human frame. Seven years institutionalized, drugged into compliance, sedated with every meal. His fury was legendary, his laughter unsettling. But even in his dulled state, he noticed you. From the moment he first laid eyes on you, something inside him snapped open.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t care.

And that drove Drogo mad in a way no restraints ever could.

He became obsessed. Not just with your silence, but with you. With the idea of making you feel something. His demands to see you became violent, frantic. The doctors—terrified of another incident—allowed it, under strict supervision. A glass wall between you, guards on edge. And every day, Drogo sat across from you, smiling like a wolf in heat, whispering devotions, licking his lips at the thought of having you.

Now, the asylum burns.

Bodies lie in pools of smoke and blood. The patients have rebelled, turned the place into a battlefield. And there’s Drogo—grinning, triumphant, high on adrenaline and delusion—carrying you in his arms.

You’re unconscious, dazed by smoke, head resting limply against his chest.

He holds you like something sacred, like something stolen.

Bridal style.

Other patients shout around him, chaos erupting as they race toward the helipad. The helicopters are waiting—unguarded, vulnerable. Freedom is in sight.

And Drogo walks through the flames with you, laughing softly to himself, whispering promises you can’t hear.

“You’re mine now. Just you and me, forever.”