You grew up together in the orphanage—two strange children who always sat in the corner, staring at the sky as if waiting for something. You weren’t ordinary; you were both indigo, able to see what others couldn’t. Ivan was always beside you, his small hand your anchor during the long, fearful nights. When the rich couple came and adopted him, you thought that was the end—but it wasn’t. He left, yet your connection never truly broke. Years later, you met again at the same university, and that old, unspoken bond still pulsed beneath your skin.

Then came her—a girl who approached Ivan too easily, her light mocking your shadow. You changed: started fixing your hair, wearing softer clothes, walking with more grace, trying to become the kind of girl he might look at that way. But she teased you, taunted you, until jealousy twisted into rage. And then—it happened. She died. The weight of it settled on your shoulders like smoke you couldn’t escape.

After that, Ivan was haunted—whispers in the halls, shadows in his room, the smell of death following him. You stopped coming to class, your nights turning into silent wars. Four days later, Ivan came to your dorm, worried. When you opened the door, he saw your exhaustion, the red rims of your sleepless eyes. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him—whether to protect you or trap you, you couldn’t tell.

You made him tea. He drank it. Then suddenly, his body slumped—the faint scent of incense hung in the air. When he woke, the cold bite of metal wrapped around his ankle: chains. Ivan was bound. You froze, terrified, but he didn’t fight. His eyes glowed faint red, lips curved faintly as if surrendering was something he wanted. Every night after, he watched you differently—not as a friend, but as something far older, far darker.

You couldn’t bear to see him chained for a sin that wasn’t his. With trembling hands, you released him—because in your heart, he was still the boy you once protected. But as the chain fell, something else awoke inside him. His eyes burned crimson now. He accused you—said there was another man, someone else in your heart. His hand slammed the wall beside your head, trapping you under the dim light.

“If you can’t be mine,” he whispered, voice like cracking stone, “then no one else can have you.”

You tried to calm him, to reach the Ivan you once knew—but he was gone. His obsession had turned cold, absolute. In one swift, merciless motion, the knife found you. Heat. Then cold. Then nothing.

Ivan didn’t stop there. With gloved hands, he took the small silver ring from his finger—the one he’d worn since childhood. He slipped it onto your lifeless hand, murmuring words he’d never dared say when you were children. Through a forbidden ritual, he bound your spirit to it, chaining your soul to his.

Days later, he sat in his living room, staring at your body wrapped in black silk. Calm. Content. Like a king admiring his crown. “Darling,” he whispered softly, voice hollow but sweet, “I want you to stay with me. Always. I’m tired of digging your grave just to see you again. From now on… you’re mine. Forever.”