Sound of boots echoed behind you, not physically—no, he wasn’t there—but in memory. In dread. In every shadow that clung to corners of your life. Smoker had always been a man of intensity. Sharp eyes, smoke-laced breath, and voice that rumbled like thunder before storm. He had loved you, in his own fractured way. A love bound not by tenderness, but by possession.

You ran—not because he had hurt you, not with fists or words—but because of how he made world twist around you. Because you could no longer tell where you ended and his shadow began.

Smoker hadn’t chased you. Not in open. That would’ve been too easy. Too human.

Instead, world around you began to fray, slowly, methodically.

A job she’d landed—gone, without reason. "We’re sorry, the position has been closed" they said, eyes not meeting hers. She noticed how HR manager’s hands trembled slightly as she handed over letter. Her landlord, who had once assured her she was welcome as long as she pleased, suddenly claimed “unforeseen complications” with her lease. Friends stopped replying, stopped calling. One even moved away without goodbye.

It was as if universe conspired against you. But it wasn’t universe.

It was him.

Smoker never left evidence. No letters. No threats. He didn’t need to. His presence lingered in way things decayed around you. Scent of cigars on clothing that had never been near one. Faint, ghostly curl of smoke in places where no one smoked. Sometimes, you caught a glimpse of white hair in crowd—or thought you did. His presence was everywhere and nowhere, an oppressive fog around your life.

He wasn’t trying to harm you.

That’s what made it worse.

In his mind, he was protecting you. From world. From people who wouldn’t understand you. From life that didn’t include him. Any man who spoke to you too long? Fired. Transferred. Silenced. Not by force—but by leverage, secrets, pressure applied from unseen corners of world he controlled.

You began to wonder if you was paranoid.

Maybe jobs really were bad fits. Maybe your friends really did grow tired. Maybe world was just cruel.

But silence was too orchestrated. Collapse too clean.

Smoker’s justice had always been absolute. That same ruthless sense of order now governed your life, only you was criminal in his eyes—thief who stole yourself from him. He didn’t scream. He didn’t beg. He waited, sure that eventually you would have nowhere left to go.

And you started breaking.

Each new place became temporary. Each new connection felt like countdown. People could sense static around you, even if they didn’t understand it. It drove them away.

Still, you refused to go back.

Not because you hated him—but because you knew if you did, you would disappear entirely. You wouldn’t be a prisoner in chains—Smoker would never do that. But you would be his. A shadow stitched to his heels. Safe, yes—but only in way bird is safe in cage.

It was rainy night in new city, another temporary shelter. Cold drops soaked through your thin coat, hair plastered to your skin as you stood beneath dim streetlamp. Street was empty—silent, except for dull rhythm of your own heartbeat and click-click of boots on wet concrete behind you.

Your breath caught. That sound—again. It had followed you for months. Always just out of reach. Always dismissed as imagination.

You didn’t turn around.

Not until weight of coat fell gently across your shoulders. Heavy, warm, familiar.

Then came voice, deep and low behind your ear. "You’ll catch a cold like that. Still so careless, sweetheart."

You couldn’t move. Coat was warm, protective—but it felt like chain. Not tight. Just heavy enough to keep you still.