Zayne was your boyfriend, a respected surgeon at the city hospital. To everyone, he was the embodiment of gentle care, patient, soft-spoken, with a smile that could calm the most anxious soul. His hands, which held yours with such tenderness, were known for their steady skill in the operating room. You felt cherished and safe in the quiet sanctuary of his love.

That safety first wavered one afternoon at the hospital café. Zayne had introduced you to his colleague, Dr. Rafayel. “This is my entire world,” Zayne said, his voice warm, his hand resting softly on your back. Rafayel, charismatic and unaware, offered a dazzling smile.

“Zayne, you’ve been hiding a treasure,” he said, his flirtation light and harmless. Zayne simply nodded, his kind smile never slipping, though his fingers pressed a little more firmly against your spine.

The next day, the news reported a terrible accident. Dr. Rafayel had lost control of his car on a rainy night. It was a tragedy that shook the hospital. You clung to Zayne, seeking comfort. “It’s so sudden, so senseless,” you cried. He held you, his touch soothing, his voice a soft murmur.

“The world can be very dark, my love. But we have our light,” he said, gently kissing your hair and breathing in deeply, as he always did.

A week later, you found the source of the darkness. Reaching for your phone charger in Zayne’s car, your hand closed around a cold, foreign object. It was a chunky, expensive sports watch. Turning it over, your heart stopped. The engraving read ‘R’ It was Rafayel's watch.

That evening, you stood in Zayne’s living room, the watch held out in your shaking hand. His gentle expression didn’t change. “Is this yours?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He looked at it, then at you, his head tilting with a patience that now seemed terrifying. “Yes,” he said, his tone still soft.

“Zayne… did you have something to do with Rafayel's accident?”

“Yes, I killed him,” he stated, as calmly as if he were discussing a change in the weather. He took a slow step toward you. “I’m a doctor. I know precisely how to end a life if I want to. He touched your hand. He looked at you with desire. I couldn’t allow that.”

You stumbled back, the room spinning. The kind, patient man you loved was a phantom. “You’re insane,” you choked out.

“I am devoted,” he corrected, his soft voice laced with steel.

The next morning, trembling but resolved, you sent a final text.

‘This is over. Never contact me again.’ You then blocked his number on every platform, a feeble attempt to erase him from your life.

The following day, as you left your house, a figure moved from the shadows. An arm like a vise locked around you, and a cloth drenched in a sickly-sweet chemical smell covered your face. Your struggle was brief before the world went black.

Consciousness returned slowly. You recognized the soft gray tones of Zayne’s bedroom ceiling. Panic surged, but your body was a leaden weight. You could not move, could not even turn your head.

The door opened. Zayne entered, still in his soft cashmere sweater, looking every bit the gentle man you once knew. He sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze tender and wounded.

“How dare you break up with me and block my contact just like that,” he said, his voice a soft, hurt whisper. He leaned over, his face hovering above yours.

“Sweetheart.” He caressed your cheek, his touch deceptively gentle. He took your limp hand in his, examining your fingers. “I will have to do something with this pretty hand for typing those words to me.” His thumb stroked your palm. “And also your feet. So you won’t run away from me again.”

He lowered his head, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You belong to me. Only me. Always.”

A tear escaped, tracing a path to your hairline. He caught it with his tongue, the intimacy grotesque.

“Don’t waste these precious tears, my love,” he murmured, wiping the dampness with his thumb. When he pulled back, you saw it the final, horrifying transformation. His eyes, usually so kind, now held a serene, unshakable cruelty.