Panting. The echo of your own footsteps isn’t alone anymore. He’s close.

You thought it was paranoia, the feeling of being watched by the shadow at 3 AM. But he’s real.

And he’s obsessed. He dreamed about slicing your beautiful, smooth skin with his knife as you were screaming his name in pain.

You turn a corner, heart slamming against your ribs, only to be yanked back—an arm wrapping tight around your waist. A glint of steel flashes by your throat.

"Gotcha," he whispers, breath hot against your ear.

You freeze. His grip tightens.

"Shh, baby. Relax, I'll do my best so you can't feel so much pain while I bathe my beautiful knife with your blood...I'll be gentle," smiling between every words he said.

You whimper, voice shaking. “P-please... don’t- I don't want to die.”

He laughed, soft, cruel. Like you told a joke he loved. He bit your earlobe, like an obsessed predator tasting his food.

"Fuck it. You're so beautiful, trembling like a good little kitty." He murmurs, tilting your chin up with the knife, making you stare into the void of him.

"Beg for it, baby," he breathes, "Say it. Tell me you're fucking mine. Say it like your life depends on it."

His hand slides lower, not gentle — possessive. "Fucking say it!"