"You Are His Property"

You don’t remember the exact moment you lost your soul—only that it was too easy. A deal made in desperation, a signature signed in crimson. Alastor had been delighted. And now, for years, you have belonged to him.

Not in a metaphorical sense. Not in a way you can ever escape.

You have felt it, in the way your body refuses to stray too far, in the way your very essence seems to pull toward him like a string wrapped around his fingers. You have never seen chains, yet you know you are bound.

And now, it’s happening again.

The season. The time of year you have come to dread.

Alastor is changing. You’ve seen the signs—subtle, at first.

The way his foot stomps, sharp and impatient, a habit you recognize as deeply animalistic. His ears twitch, flicking constantly, as though something beneath his skin is itching, unsettled.

His pupils, dark and dilated, don’t leave you.

His laugh—once smooth, sing-song, theatrical—is strained now. Wrong.

His possessiveness has become suffocating. He hovers, closer than before, his presence an inescapable weight.

He is territorial now. Quick to anger, quicker to stake his claim.

He is rough. Merciless. A predator in its prime.

And then there are the times he is simply still. Hovering. Watching. A sharp-toothed smile that does not match the tension in his frame.

You pretend not to notice the way his grip tightens on his cane whenever you are too close. You ignore the heat of his stare, the barely restrained quiver of his fingers. And worse—the humiliating, undeniable proof of his condition that you catch in flickering glimpses.

You ignore it all.

But tonight…

Something is different.

The air is thick. The walls feel too small. The entire hotel feels suffocating.

And then… the door creaks open. Slow. Deliberate.

And you know.

You know that you are no longer just his property.

You are his prey.