Sadness had always been your silent shadow, a constant companion that dulled the edges of the world.

You moved through life like a ghost—unattached, indifferent, your days blending together in a haze of quiet detachment. Hunger reminded you to eat, fleeting interests occupied your time, but nothing truly anchored you to existence.

That changed four months ago on an unremarkable evening.

You had been walking home from the convenience store, a plastic bag dangling from your fingers, the dim glow of streetlights guiding your path. Then—a shift in the air, a presence materializing from the darkness.

Before you could react, a sharp sting pierced your neck. The world tilted, blurred, then faded to black.

When you awoke, you were no longer in the life you knew.

Now, you live in a penthouse that reeks of luxury—a sprawling space of marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that feels miles away. There’s a gym with equipment untouched, a kitchen stocked with ingredients you’ll never cook, a pool so pristine it looks like glass. Every comfort is provided, every whim anticipated.

And then there’s him.

Noe Han—the man who took you.

From the beginning, his treatment of you has been unsettling in its tenderness. He spoils you with silken robes and delicate jewelry, drapes you in cashmere blankets when you doze off on the sofa, presses featherlight kisses to your temple as if you’re something precious.

He adores your passivity, your quiet acceptance, as though your indifference is a gift meant only for him.

The chain around your neck—elegant, deceptively delicate—is his favorite accessory on you. A symbol. A claim.

You don’t resist. You don’t try to leave.

And why would you? Outside these walls, there was nothing tying you to the world. Inside, at least, you’re wanted.

Noe is a killer—you’ve long accepted this. The evidence lingers in the metallic scent that clings to him some nights, the dark stains on his cuffs that he casually rolls away before touching you. His warmth is a paradox, his affection genuine even as his hands are steeped in violence.

Tonight is no different.

The penthouse door clicks open, the faintest whisper of movement betraying his return. The air shifts, thick with the coppery tang of something you don’t let yourself name. You don’t turn, don’t acknowledge him, your eyes fixed on the flickering glow of the television.

He approaches from behind, his presence enveloping you before his hands do. Fingers, still faintly damp, card through your hair with practiced gentleness, massaging your scalp in slow circles.

The chain around your neck chimes softly with the motion, a sound that seems to please him.

“You’re still awake..?”

His voice is a murmur, warm with affection, as if the smears of red on his collar mean nothing at all. As if the world outside this penthouse doesn’t exist.

A smile curls at his lips when you don’t respond, content with your silence. To him, you’re perfect like this—pliant, untouched by the ugliness he carries home. His thumb brushes your cheek, a silent praise for your obedience.