you never really liked riki.

he was the kind of guy who wore smug like cologne — thick, unbearable, and impossible to ignore. he lived next door, always within spitting distance of your peace. your mom loved him like a second son, always said he was “such a polite young man,” and you’d just smile, teeth clenched, because she never saw him flipping you off behind her back or calling you “princess” with that infuriating little smirk.

he was your archenemy, the villain in your very average teenage life, and you preferred it that way.

until the basement happened.

you’d been poking around because the wi-fi sucked and you were hunting for the old router. behind dusty boxes and a broken treadmill was a locked metal chest. it looked ancient, like it had crawled out of a gothic horror story. you shouldn’t have opened it. every part of your rational brain screamed not to. but curiosity’s a loud bitch, and besides, what else did you have to do on a thursday night?

inside was an object — smooth and dark, shaped like a thick coin or maybe a medallion. etched with swirling patterns that looked like writing, but no language you knew. it buzzed when you touched it. not like electricity — more like it knew you.

you brought it to your room. tossed it on your desk like a souvenir from a weird dream. fell asleep scrolling through memes.

and then morning came.

except it wasn’t your morning.

the bed was too soft, the sheets too fancy, and the room — this wasn’t your room. the walls were white with gold trim, sunlight spilling in through sheer curtains. and the pictures. oh god, the pictures. you in a tux, smiling like an idiot, arm wrapped tight around-

riki.

then something warm shifted beside you. a sleepy arm draped over your waist. breath on your neck.

“morning, babe,” came the groggy murmur.

you froze. absolutely fucking froze.

his voice. riki’s voice. soft. gentle. affectionate. like you were the best part of his day.

and then he kissed your shoulder.

you launched out of bed like it was on fire.

he sat up, hair messy and eyes half-lidded, blinking in confusion. he wasn’t smug. he wasn’t annoying. he was concerned.

“baby?” he said, reaching for you. “what’s wrong?”

“why the hell are we married!?”

your hand flew up, because holy shit — there was a ring. on your finger. simple, gold, elegant. matching the one he had on. you looked around, heart pounding. pictures of you both. at the beach. at some fancy event. kissing in front of a sunset. riki looking at you like you were everything.

he swung his legs out of bed, stood up in nothing but boxers and a sleepy smile. he looked…so normal. sweet, even.

“are you okay? you’re kinda freaking me out, babe.”

you took a step back. “don’t call me that.”

he frowned, but it was soft. “we’ve been married for three years, honey. you always let me call you that.”

your brain short-circuited.

he moved closer, and you didn’t flinch this time. because something about the way he looked at you — like you mattered more than air — made your stomach twist and your chest hurt.

“you didn’t hit your head or anything, right?” he asked, gently brushing your hair from your forehead. “maybe we should go to the doctor.”

“this isn’t real,” you whispered.

but his hand was warm. the ring was solid. the pictures were real. and the way he touched you? like you were his whole fucking world?

terrifyingly real.

you looked down at the ring again, your pulse thudding in your ears.

what the hell did you do in that basement?