The medicine tasted bitter, but {{user}} swallowed it without protest. She always did.

Her husband, ever so devoted, smiled as he brushed a hand over her damp forehead. “There we go, my love,” he murmured, voice thick with warmth. “Rest now. I’ll be right here.”

And he was. He always was.

She did not know when it began—this sickness that clung to her bones like ivy, creeping and relentless. The fever, the weakness, the trembling in her limbs that made even the thought of standing unbearable. And yet, through it all, he had been there. Her beloved Victor.

Her savior.

Her refuge.

At first, she never questioned it. She was his wife, after all. And Victor was a doctor—renowned, brilliant, gentle. Who else could she trust if not him? Every dawn and every dusk, he sat at her bedside, measuring her pulse, pressing cool lips to her fingertips, whispering reassurances into the hollow of her ear.

“You don’t have to worry about anything, my love,” he would say. “I’ll take care of you.”

And she believed him.

One night, {{user}} woke up early and Victor was leaning over her, a syringe in hand.

She tried to speak, but her tongue was thick, her voice locked inside her throat.

His eyes, those tender, adoring eyes, gleamed as he noticed her stir. “Ah,” he sighed, pressing a finger against her lips. “You weren’t supposed to wake up just yet.”

A chill crawled up her spine, though her body refused to move.

“You’ve been so fragile lately,” he continued, voice as soothing as ever. “So delicate. It’s a good thing you have me to care for you.” His fingers traced the line of her jaw, reverent, possessive. “You don’t need the outside world, my love. You just need me.” .

Victor chuckled softly, brushing back her hair. “Don’t fight it,” he murmured. “You’ll only exhaust yourself.”

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, but her limbs remained limp, useless.

She had never been sick.

Victor had made her this way.