Your body is chained, but your mind? Still free. Or is it?
❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a mind game where love is a weapon and escape is impossible, you’ll learn that survival means surrendering to his twisted obsession. But as his control tightens, you’ll wonder: Are you his prisoner, or his willing prey?
♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I’d Burn the World.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem. Reader
♡ Novella. #1 – Lover or Captor?
♡ Word Count. 10,821
♡ TW. dom + top yandere, non con, psychological torture, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, threats, BDSM, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, force feeding, uncomfortable food descriptions, control over food and water, implied kidnapping
♡ A/N. No problem. I genuinely enjoy writing all forms of torture. I’d say this is soft Scaramouche to be honest. But that’s just me. Since manipulation of circumstances pre-kidnapping is a classic (but also a traditional cliche at times), I decided to make some small fun facts on how psychological torture works in general. Also, do note that this has a different writing (especially formatting and plot progression) style from my usual works, but that’s the point… And, low-key got sick of editing this haha. But that’s nothing new. Either way, hope you guys enjoy :))
He watches you with an intensity that burns hotter than the static hum of the electro mist surrounding the enclosed space he calls home—your prison. His eyes, sharp like the edge of a newly forged blade, track every movement you make, every twitch of your fingers, every shallow breath you take. There is no escaping his scrutiny, no moment where his gaze isn’t a weight you carry as if he’s carved himself into your very existence.
“You’re trembling again,” he murmurs, his voice a lilt of mockery wrapped in silk, carrying an undercurrent of something darker. He’s closer now, the faintest scent of ozone and metal clinging to his presence. He’s always so near, yet somehow never close enough for you to strike—not that you have the strength anymore. His manipulation has bled you dry, turned your once vibrant spirit into a pale echo of itself.
“Have I scared you that much?” he continues, his tone like an echo of thunder in a storm, half-amused and wholly cruel. He kneels before you, tilting his head as if studying a particularly interesting experiment, and you wish, not for the first time, that he would lose interest in his obsession. But you know better than to hope; hope is a fragile thing here, something he’s crushed beneath his heel more times than you can count.
Your legs are bound, wrists tethered together with some unbreakable material that bites into your skin when you move too much. Not that movement helps. He’s seen to that too. The chains are just as much a part of his games as the room itself: walls painted in endless monotones, no windows, only a single dim light that flickers faintly, threatening to plunge you into complete darkness at any moment. He’s told you before that he’d like to see what the dark does to you—what he could do to you while you’re blind and helpless.
“Tell me,” he says now, his hand reaching forward to brush against your cheek. His touch is deceptively gentle, a lover’s caress that belies the brutality hiding beneath the surface. “Have you learned to appreciate me yet?”
You flinch but don’t answer. Words are a dangerous currency here. Silence earns punishment; speech earns worse. You’ve been caught in his web long enough to know the rules of his game are meant to ensure one thing: total control. But your defiance—the last ember of it—makes you cling to the belief that your silence is an act of rebellion, however small.
He chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating through the empty room. “Still so stubborn,” he muses, fingers now tracing the line of your jaw. “I admire that about you, you know. That fight in your eyes. But it’s exhausting for you, isn’t it? Fighting me? Fighting this?” He leans in, so close that you feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. “Do you think anyone’s coming for you? That they even remember you?”
Your stomach twists, a sick knot of despair and anger. His words are poison, injected carefully and methodically into your psyche.
“I erased you,” he whispers, his voice soft but cold enough to freeze your blood. “From their memories, from their lives. Your friends? Gone. Your family? They don’t even remember your face. Isn’t that a kindness, though? Sparing them the grief of losing you?”
He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for the cracks he’s so meticulously created. “Do you hate me for it?”
You do. You hate him with a depth that frightens you. But you say nothing, your lips trembling as you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing it aloud. His expression shifts, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect features, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.
“Hate me all you want,” he says, his tone growing harder, sharper. “But you will love me. In the end, you always will.”
He stands, his shadow towering over you as he looks down, his smirk returning like a blade pressed to your throat. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, turning and heading toward the door. “But don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”
The door closes with a deafening finality, and you’re left alone in the dim, flickering light. Alone with your thoughts, your fear, and the suffocating realization that he’s right. He’s always right. The world has forgotten you, and all you have left is him.
And isn’t that the cruelest truth of all?
────────────
The room is a void—a cage designed not to hold your body, but to unspool your mind held by fragile thread. The walls are stark and featureless, smooth metal panels that offer no hint of escape. There are no windows, no visible doors, just the cold hum of fluorescent lights that seem to dim and brighten at random intervals, casting shadows that twist and crawl.
The air is heavy, oppressive, suffused with his presence even though he’s nowhere to be seen. You can feel him, though—lurking in the corners of your mind, a phantom stitched into your every thought. His voice crackles through the static-filled speakers embedded in the walls, sharp and invasive, like glass scraping against your skull.
“Lonely yet?”
You flinch at the sound, your knees drawing tighter to your chest. His voice is smooth and mocking, curling around your mind like barbed wire.
“I told you this is for your own good,” he continues, each word laced with a venomous sweetness. “Out there, the world would devour you. I’m saving you, little fool. But gratitude? That’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”
You press your hands over your ears, as if that could block him out. But his voice doesn’t come from the speakers anymore. It comes from everywhere. From nowhere. It vibrates in your bones, coils in your gut, whispers in the back of your skull until you’re certain it’s your own thoughts betraying you.
The silence that follows is worse. It’s his silence—calculated, suffocating, a predator’s patience as it watches its prey wear itself down. Hours stretch into days, or maybe longer. Time is meaningless here. The lack of human contact gnaws at your sanity, leaving only the relentless pounding of your heartbeat to fill the void.
Then, finally, his voice returns, and despite the fear it brings, a twisted part of you clings to it like a lifeline.
“Look at you,” he purrs, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “So fragile. So desperate. Do you see now? No one else will come for you. Only me.”
The words settle over you like ash, suffocating and final.
And then he’s there.
The walls don’t open. He doesn’t step through a door. He’s just there, as if he’s always been there, a seamless extension of the room’s nightmarish design. The dim, artificial light casts a sickly glow over his features, making him look less human and more like a living doll—perfectly crafted, flawlessly sculpted, and utterly devoid of warmth. His smile is delicate, a razor-thin line that glints with malice beneath its veneer of sweetness.
“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety hum that sends shivers racing down your spine.
He moves closer, his boots clicking sharply against the metallic floor. The sound is deliberate, each step a calculated reminder of his control, his dominion over this place, over you. His presence fills the room, overwhelming, suffocating.
“I wonder,” he continues, stopping just short of where you sit, “is it silence out of submission? Or defiance?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his gaze.
He crouches before you, his movements slow, fluid, and predatory. His violet eyes gleam in the half-light, shimmering with something dark and unreadable. They lock onto yours, pinning you in place, and the room seems to shrink further, the walls pressing closer until there’s nothing but him.
“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice a velvet glove hiding an iron fist.
Your head moves of its own accord, your body betraying you as your eyes meet his. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the sight of it is both intoxicating and nauseating.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch is achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of tenderness, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. Of your helplessness.
“You’ve been imagining things again, haven’t you?” he whispers, his tone almost pitying. “Seeing shadows where there are none. Hearing whispers in the dark. Poor little thing.”
He tilts his head, studying you like a scientist dissecting a specimen. The artificial light casts eerie reflections in his eyes, making them glint like shards of broken glass.
“Do you know what isolation does to the human brain?” he asks, his tone conversational, almost curious. “Deprive it of stimuli long enough, and it starts to turn on itself. Hallucinations. Paranoia. A complete collapse of the psyche.”
He leans closer, his breath brushing against your lips, his eyes boring into yours.
“But you’re not imagining me,” he says softly, his smile widening into something sharp, something cruel. “I’m as real as the blood under your nails, the bruises on your wrists.”
Your breath catches as his thumb brushes over your temple, the motion deceptively soothing. But then his fingers tighten, his nails digging into your skin.
“And do you know what the best part is?” he whispers, his voice dropping to a chilling hush. “You’ll beg for more. For me. Because I’m all you have left.”
The walls seem to close in entirely, the air growing colder, heavier, until it feels like you’re drowning in his presence. And through it all, his smile remains, a grotesque mockery of kindness, as he whispers again,
“Lonely yet?”
────────────
The camera in the corner of the room stares at you, its red light pulsing steadily like a heartbeat—like his heartbeat, if he had one. You can feel it watching, a cold, unblinking eye that absorbs every movement, every shallow breath. It’s not just the camera, though. The walls themselves seem to hum with an unseen energy, a constant reminder of the wires and devices hidden just beneath the surface, all tuned to you.
“You’ve always had a penchant for dramatics,” his voice crackles through the speaker embedded high above, sudden and sharp. You flinch, instinctively shrinking against the edge of the bed, the metal frame digging into your spine. “But let’s not make this more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know I’m only doing this for your own good.”
The static lingers, like the ghost of his presence, before dissolving into the oppressive silence that dominates your world.
———
Later, you find it—a book, an old one, its spine cracked and worn. A piece of the life you once had. The familiar weight of it in your hands brings a flicker of warmth to your chest. You don’t know how it got here or why he would allow you something so small yet so meaningful, but you don’t question it. You simply clutch it to your chest, savoring the moment.
But then, he arrives.
He stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silhouette framed by the dim, flickering light. His eyes—those violet pools of cruelty and calculation—narrow as they land on the book in your hands.
“Where did you get that?” he asks, his voice calm, but there’s a cold edge to it, like a blade hidden in velvet.
“I—I found it,” you stammer, clutching the book tighter as if it might shield you from the inevitable.
He doesn’t move, but the air around him seems to shift, thickening with something unspoken. “Interesting,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his footsteps deliberate and measured. “You’re quite resourceful, aren’t you? Always finding ways to entertain yourself.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
When he reaches you, he kneels, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator cornering its prey. He plucks the book from your hands with deceptive gentleness, his slender fingers brushing against yours for a moment too long.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks, turning the book over in his hands as though it were an artifact of immeasurable value. “A relic. A fragment of something that doesn’t exist anymore. Like you.”
His words sting, but before you can process them, he tightens his grip on the book. With a sudden, violent motion, he tears it in half, the brittle pages scattering like ash across the floor.
“Nothing from before matters,” he says, his tone cool, almost clinical, as he rises to his feet. “You don’t need distractions. You need me.”
———
That night, you try to sleep, but the room refuses to let you. The lights flicker intermittently, each burst of brightness searing your eyes through closed lids. A low, grating hum emanates from somewhere in the walls, setting your teeth on edge.
And then, the noise.
It starts as a soft, rhythmic tapping, like the distant sound of rain against glass. But it grows louder, more insistent, until it feels like it’s coming from inside your skull. You bolt upright, your breath ragged, your body drenched in cold sweat.
“You’re restless,” his voice coos from the speaker, smooth and mocking. “Didn’t I tell you to rest? Or are you defying me again?”
“I—stop it,” you whisper, your voice trembling.
“Stop what?” he replies, feigning innocence. “You’re imagining things again. Poor thing. You really should trust me more. I can help you.”
The noise stops abruptly, leaving an aching silence in its wake. You collapse back onto the bed, your body too exhausted to fight anymore.
———
The next morning, you stumble into the small, sterile kitchenette, your limbs heavy with fatigue. The stove is on—flames licking at the edges of a pan you don’t remember lighting. The smell of something burning fills the air, acrid and choking.
“Careless,” he says, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed. “You could’ve burned the whole place down.”
“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.
“No excuses,” he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip. “You’re lucky I caught it in time. Do you see now why you can’t be trusted? Why you need me?”
You want to argue, to scream that it wasn’t you, that he must have done it himself. But the words die in your throat as his gaze pierces through you, cold and unrelenting.
────────────
The silence stretches into infinity, interrupted only by your own ragged breaths and the phantom echoes of his voice that claw at your psyche. You don’t know when he’ll speak again or if he’s watching, but the not knowing is part of the torment.
When his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s so sudden and sharp it feels like the snap of a guillotine.
“Still holding onto hope, are you?” His voice is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of comfort. “I admire your persistence. It’s… quaint.”
His tone is calm, calculated, each word chosen with the precision of a scalpel. It cuts through the fog in your mind, forcing you to confront the reality he’s woven around you.
“You think someone’s coming for you?” he continues, his voice dripping with incredulity. “How adorably naïve. Do you even remember what it’s like out there? The noise, the chaos, the endless parade of fools clawing at one another for scraps of meaning. I’ve spared you from that, haven’t I?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. The lump in your throat feels like it’s suffocating you, and the weight of his words presses down on your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.
“Nothing to say?” he muses. “That’s fine. I prefer you this way—quiet. It suits you.”
———
You didn’t hear a door open. Didn’t hear the telltale click of boots against the floor. One moment you’re alone, and the next he’s standing there, a figure carved from shadow and disdain. The dim light paints him in stark relief, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the cold glint in his violet eyes.
“I’ve been generous with you,” he says, his voice low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder. He steps closer, each movement precise, deliberate, as though he’s stalking prey. “I’ve given you time to adjust, to see the truth. But you…” His lips curl into a faint smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “…You insist on clinging to those foolish little scraps of defiance.”
You flinch as he crouches before you, his gaze leveling with yours. His expression is unreadable, a mask of icy detachment that barely conceals the storm simmering beneath.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “What exactly are you holding onto? A memory? A promise? Hope?”
He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you with an intensity that feels like it could peel back your skin, exposing every raw nerve beneath.
“You don’t even know, do you?” he says, almost pitying. “You’re just… grasping. Blind and desperate. It’s pathetic, really.”
His hand reaches out, and you flinch again, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers hover just above your face, as though he’s considering it, savoring the moment.
“You’re so fragile,” he breathes, his tone a mix of fascination and contempt. “It wouldn’t take much to break you, you know. A little pressure here…” His hand shifts, his fingers ghosting over your temple. “…And here.”
His other hand moves to hover over your throat, and your breath catches.
“But where’s the fun in that?” he muses, withdrawing his hands with a slow, deliberate grace. “Breaking you would be easy. No. I want you to understand.”
He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate whisper.
“I want you to know that every moment you spend here is a gift. My gift. And when you finally shatter, when you finally look at me with nothing but submission in those eyes…” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk sharpening into something vicious. “…That’s when you’ll understand. That’s when you’ll thank me.”
The air feels thicker, heavier, suffused with his presence. The room spins around you, the walls closing in, the ground tilting beneath you. And through it all, his voice lingers, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.
“No one else will come for you,” he says, standing to his full height, towering over you. “No one else can. It’s just you and me now. Forever.”
He turns to leave—or does he? The edges of your vision blur, the lines between reality and nightmare dissolving as his voice echoes through the void one last time.
“Stop fighting it, little fool. Stop fighting me.”
────────────
The first thing you notice when you wake is the cold. It bites into your skin, gnaws at your bones, wrapping itself around you like a second, crueler layer of flesh. The thin, threadbare shift you wear does nothing to shield you from it, the fabric clinging to your body with a dampness that reeks of mildew and despair.
The blankets are gone again. He always takes them when you displease him.
Your stomach churns with the memory of his last visit—the quiet menace in his voice, the way he tilted his head as he watched you scramble to piece together what was left of your broken dignity.
“You want comfort?” he had said, his tone laced with derision. “Earn it.”
You had begged—how could you not?—but he only smiled, a thin, sharp curve of his lips that cut deeper than any blade. And then he was gone, taking with him not only the blankets but the small, chipped bowl you had been using to collect water from the condensation that dripped sporadically from the ceiling.
Now, the thirst claws at your throat, dry and insistent. You press your lips together, trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible. Every breath feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh.
———
When he finally returns, it’s without fanfare. The door—a seamless part of the wall when shut—slides open with a faint hiss, and he steps inside, his violet eyes sharp and calculating. He’s carrying something this time: a bundle of what looks like clothing, though you’ve learned not to trust appearances.
“You look worse than usual,” he remarks, his gaze sweeping over you like a scientist observing a failed experiment. “Pathetic.”
You flinch at the word, but you don’t respond. Experience has taught you that anything you say will only feed his twisted sense of superiority.
He crouches before you, placing the bundle on the floor between you. It’s not clothing, you realize, but a single, thick blanket. It looks warm, inviting—an impossible luxury in this place.
“Do you want it?” he asks, his voice soft, almost coaxing.
You hesitate, your body aching for the warmth it promises. But you know better than to trust him.
“What do you want me to do?” you whisper, your voice hoarse from disuse.
His smile sharpens, a flash of white against the shadows of his face. “You’re learning,” he murmurs. “Good.”
He stands, taking a step back and gesturing to the far corner of the room. There, you see it: a tray of food, simple but sufficient—bread, water, a small portion of fruit. Your stomach growls at the sight, a humiliating reminder of your hunger.
“Eat,” he says, his tone light, as if he’s offering you a gift.
You don’t move. It’s too easy. There’s always a catch.
He chuckles, a low, mirthless sound. “Ah, still suspicious. How charming.”
He walks to the tray and picks up the cup of water, holding it up to the dim light as if inspecting it. Then, without warning, he tilts it, letting the liquid spill onto the floor.
“No!” The word escapes you before you can stop it, a raw, desperate plea.
He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Prove to me,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that you deserve it. That you can follow simple instructions.”
“What do you want?” you ask again, your voice trembling.
His gaze narrows, and he steps closer, the soles of his boots crushing the bread beneath them as he walks. He crouches before you again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.
“Crawl,” he says simply.
The word hangs in the air, a command and a taunt all at once.
Your body stiffens, shame warring with desperation.
“Crawl,” he repeats, his voice harder this time, the veneer of gentleness cracking to reveal the steel beneath.
You hesitate, and his smile returns, cruel and mocking. “Or don’t,” he says, standing and turning away. “But don’t think I’ll be so generous again.”
———
The air in your prison grows colder with each passing day. The concrete floor seems to suck the warmth from your body, leaving you shivering in the thin, threadbare clothing he’s allotted you. Blankets are a luxury, one he dangles before you like bait on a hook. Hygiene products—soap, a toothbrush, even clean water—are rationed out like rare treasures, rewards for obedience that always seem just out of reach.
He watches you from the shadows, a silent predator waiting for the moment your spirit cracks. The sound of his voice is worse than the silence. It’s a scalpel, peeling away layers of your resistance with surgical precision.
“You look uncomfortable,” he remarks one day, his voice lilting with mock concern. He steps into the dim light, his figure framed by the cold, sterile glow. “How long has it been since you last had a proper shower? Days? Weeks?” He smiles, the expression brittle and sharp. “I could help with that, you know. All you have to do is ask.”
You say nothing, your eyes fixed on the floor, but he sees the flicker of humiliation in your expression, and it feeds him.
“No?” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Still so proud, even now. Admirable, really. But pride won’t keep you warm. Or clean. Or alive.”
────────────
When the door finally hisses open, the sound sharp and invasive, you don’t lift your head. But you feel his presence immediately, a dark, oppressive weight that fills the room. His footsteps are soft but deliberate, each one echoing like the tolling of a bell. And then he speaks, his voice low and smooth, a dark current beneath deceptively calm waters.
“You’re looking pale again,” he remarks, his tone laced with mockery that twists your stomach. You don’t answer, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, but he doesn’t need your response to continue. He never does. “Have you been refusing to eat? Or is it the water? You’ve always been so ungrateful, haven’t you?”
A shadow falls over you as he comes closer, and the sharp scent of ozone and something faintly chemical hits your nostrils. You flinch when his hand, cold and unyielding, grips your chin, forcing your face upward. His violet eyes gleam with a sick kind of amusement as he tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass.
“Thirsty?” he asks softly, almost gently, though there’s no mistaking the sadistic edge beneath his words. He reaches into the folds of his dark, flowing attire and retrieves a small, glass vial. It gleams in the dim light, the liquid inside as clear as crystal but no less threatening for its purity. “I brought you something special today.”
He crouches before you, setting the vial down on the floor with a deliberate clink. Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, he places a tall glass beside it, already half-filled with water. “Drink,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Go on. You must be parched.”
You hesitate, your body trembling as you glance at the glass. It feels like a trap—no, you know it’s a trap—but your throat burns with the dry, relentless ache of dehydration. It’s been days since he last offered you anything, the air in the room deliberately kept too dry, leeching the moisture from your body like some cruel experiment.
When you don’t move, his smirk widens, and he leans in, close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath against your skin. “Do you think I’d poison you?” he whispers, his tone almost tender, though the words slice into you like broken glass. “That I’d let you go so easily? Oh, no, little doll. If I wanted to destroy you, I’d make it far slower. Far more… personal.”
The implication chills you to your core, but the thirst gnaws at you with an intensity that borders on madness. You reach for the glass, your fingers trembling so violently you nearly knock it over. He watches with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving your face as you lift it to your lips.
The water is cold, colder than it has any right to be, and it slides down your throat like liquid ice. But then, the taste hits—metallic, sharp, and tinged with something acrid that makes your stomach churn. You gag, dropping the glass with a shattering crash, but it’s too late. The liquid burns as it courses through you, a searing pain that spreads from your throat to your chest, your stomach, your limbs.
He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the breaking glass. If anything, his expression grows darker, more triumphant, as he leans back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. “How does it feel?” he asks, his tone almost conversational, as though he’s asking about the weather. “The sensation of your body rejecting what it so desperately craves? Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Your vision blurs with tears as you clutch your stomach, the pain radiating outward in waves. You want to scream, to beg, to curse him, but your voice catches in your throat, choked off by the bile rising within you. He watches it all with the calm detachment of a scientist observing a particularly interesting reaction, his head tilted slightly, his lips curved in a faint smile.
“Ah, but don’t worry,” he says after a moment, his voice softening in a way that’s even more sinister. “It won’t kill you. I wouldn’t waste such a useful tool on something as permanent as death.” He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch cold and clinical despite the faux tenderness in his movements. “No, little doll, this is simply a reminder. A lesson.”
He leans in closer, so close you can feel the oppressive weight of his presence pressing down on you. “You don’t survive without me. Do you understand that now? Every breath you take, every drop of water you drink, every bite of food that passes your lips—it all comes from me. And it can all be taken away just as easily.”
The pain begins to subside, leaving you weak, trembling, and utterly broken. He stands, brushing off his knees as though he’s finished with some menial task. “Rest, if you can,” he says, his voice light and mocking once more as he turns toward the door. “You’ll need your strength for the next lesson.”
The door closes behind him with a resounding clang, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room. Alone with the lingering burn in your throat, the taste of poison on your tongue, and the sick, suffocating knowledge that he’s right.
You don’t survive without him.
────────────
The silence he left behind had weight—a crushing, suffocating thing that pressed against your chest until your breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps. Days stretched into nights, and nights into something darker still, where time seemed to lose its grip and your mind unraveled thread by fragile thread.
But then came the voice.
At first, it was a whisper—a delicate breeze brushing against the edges of your consciousness. Soft, insidious, and almost gentle.
“Did you miss me, little doll?”
Your heart stopped, then hammered violently against your ribs. You spun toward the sound, eyes darting across the empty room. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pooling in corners like ink spilled across parchment.
There was no one there.
But the voice persisted, lilting and melodic, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “Poor thing,” it cooed. “You look so lost. So lonely. Didn’t I promise I’d always come back for you?”
“No,” you rasped, clutching your head, fingers digging into your scalp as though you could claw him out of your mind. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”
The laughter that followed was low, rich, and agonizingly familiar. It reverberated through the empty space, vibrating against your skull like a tuning fork.
“Not real?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, my little doll, you wound me. But perhaps I’ve been too kind. Let me remind you.”
The world around you shifted—imperceptibly at first, like the faint sensation of vertigo. Then it hit. The walls groaned and shuddered, the fluorescent light overhead flickering wildly. The air grew heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. You stumbled, your knees buckling as the ground seemed to ripple beneath your feet.
When the flickering stopped, he was there. Or was he?
His face hovered just out of reach, a phantom etched in shadow and smoke, his violet eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. He was leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath unnaturally cold.
“Tell me, doll,” he murmured, his voice velvet and venom, “do you still think I’m not real?”
You screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the silence. You clawed at the walls, at your face, your nails scraping skin as you tried to banish him from your senses. But the voice only grew louder, more insistent, wrapping itself around you like a shroud.
When he finally stepped into the light, the sight of him sent your stomach plummeting. His coat trailed behind him like the wings of some unholy predator, his silhouette framed in a distorted, sickly glow. He tilted his head, a parody of curiosity, and smiled.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, gesturing to the marks on the walls, the bloodied crescents under your nails. “What is it you’re trying to escape from, hmm?”
You stared at him, wide-eyed, your chest heaving. “You weren’t here,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard you, but you weren’t here. You were—”
“Everywhere,” he finished for you, his smile widening. “And nowhere. Isn’t it delightful? How fragile your mind has become?”
He took a step closer, his boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate, measured rhythm. Each sound drove a spike of dread deeper into your chest.
“But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost tender. “I’m here now. Let’s forget all about those nasty little thoughts, shall we?”
His hand reached out, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. The gesture was achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of affection. His touch left a burning, icy trail against your skin.
“You look so distressed,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Have you been imagining things again? Seeing shadows where there are none? Hearing whispers in the dark?”
You wanted to scream, to lash out, but your body betrayed you, rooted in place as his fingers ghosted over your cheek.
“No need to answer,” he said with a sigh, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “Your silence speaks volumes.”
And then the illusion shattered.
His hand wasn’t on your face—it was inside your skull. You felt the sharp, electric jolt of something foreign scraping against your brain, an icy tendril of invasive thought slithering into the deepest recesses of your mind. Memories warped and twisted under his touch, familiar faces dissolving into grotesque, melting horrors.
“You see,” he whispered, his voice echoing within you now, “there’s no escape from me. Not in the silence, not in the noise. I’m in every breath you take, every blink, every beat of that fragile little heart.”
You sobbed, the sound choking in your throat as the room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Blood seeped from the walls, viscous and dark, pooling at your feet. You felt it creeping up your legs, cold and sentient, wrapping around you like chains.
And still, he smiled.
“Did you miss me?” he asked again, his voice slicing through the chaos. This time, there was no room for denial. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your lips as he whispered, “I missed you, little doll. And I’ll never leave you again.”
────────────
The tray lands on the table with a resounding clang, a sound that reverberates through the suffocating silence of the room. The metallic echo seems to burrow into your skull, as if the very air conspires to mock your helplessness. He stands above you, a silhouette of unyielding authority, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.
“You should be grateful,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and calculated, like a scalpel slicing through flesh. The faint trace of a smirk curls his lips, his tone dripping with condescension. “I went to such great lengths to prepare this. Just for you.”
Your gaze falls to the tray, and the bile rises instantly in your throat. The abomination before you masquerades as food, a grotesque parody of sustenance that seems alive in the most horrifying ways. The slabs of meat glisten unnaturally, their surfaces marred by oozing black lesions that seep a thick, tar-like substance. A faint stench rises from them, sharp and putrid, a rancid blend of decay and chemicals.
Nestled beside the meat is a mound of gray paste, its texture like wet cement, flecked with jagged shards of something white—bone? Teeth? You can’t tell, and you don’t want to. The greens are no better: wilted, slimy, and crawling with tiny, wriggling creatures. The bugs move lazily, their segmented bodies glistening under the harsh fluorescent light, their sluggish movements taunting your growing horror.
“You’re staring,” he says, his tone lilting, almost playful. He leans in closer, his sharp features framed by the dim, artificial glow. “What’s the matter? Not to your liking? It’s safe, you know. Perfectly edible. Nutrient-dense, even.”
You swallow hard, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Every fiber of your being screams at you to run, to scream, to do something, but you can’t. His presence roots you to the chair, your limbs heavy with the weight of his control.
“Don’t think I’ll let you starve, little doll.” His voice drops, the endearment laced with venom. He picks up the fork, prodding at the meat. The action elicits a sickening squelch as the black liquid pools beneath it, the viscous substance clinging to the metal tines like molasses. “Go on,” he urges, his tone soft but edged with malice. “Eat.”
Your shaking hands reach for the fork, but your grip falters. The metal feels impossibly cold, a physical manifestation of your dread. You stab at the meat, and its rubbery texture fights back, resisting your every attempt to cut it. When you finally manage to tear off a piece, the smell intensifies, a cloying wave of rot and iron that makes your vision blur with nausea.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You will eat every bite. I won’t tolerate waste.”
Your lips part reluctantly, and the moment the meat touches your tongue, the taste assaults you. It’s rancid, the flavor an overwhelming mix of decay and metallic bitterness. You gag instinctively, your body convulsing as you try to spit it out, but he’s faster. His hand clamps over your mouth, his grip iron-tight.
“Swallow,” he hisses, his breath cold against your ear. The word is sharp, absolute. Tears stream down your face as you force the foul lump down, your throat convulsing violently around it. The moment it settles in your stomach, a heavy, alien weight, he releases you with a cruel smile.
“Good,” he purrs, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “But we’re not done yet.”
He picks up the gray paste next, scooping a heaping forkful. The gritty, slimy mass clings to the metal like glue, its acrid stench burning your nostrils. Without warning, he presses it against your lips, smearing the substance across your skin when you try to turn away.
“Open,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. His other hand grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he shoves the paste inside. It coats your tongue, the texture gritty and uneven, punctuated by the horrifying crunch of the shards within. You don’t want to think about what they might be. You retch, but his unyielding gaze pins you in place.
“Chew,” he orders, his voice devoid of patience now. When you hesitate, his grip on your jaw tightens, the pain sharp and immediate. “Chew.”
You obey, the shards cutting into your gums as the paste coats your mouth in an unholy mix of textures and tastes. When you finally swallow, it feels like swallowing broken glass, the jagged edges scraping their way down.
“Such a good little doll,” he croons mockingly, his fingers stroking your cheek in a grotesque parody of affection. His eyes glint with dark satisfaction as he gestures to the greens. “Finish it.”
The slimy leaves glisten under the light, their surfaces writhing with life. The tiny creatures embedded within them squirm and twitch, their segmented bodies pulsing faintly. He picks up a forkful and holds it before you, the bugs wriggling and falling off the edges, their tiny legs scrambling for purchase.
“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and trembling. It’s the first word you’ve dared to speak, but it’s a mistake.
His expression hardens instantly, his smile vanishing. He grips your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force, and presses the fork against your lips. “You don’t get to say no,” he snarls. “You will eat. Every. Last. Bite.”
The greens and their crawling passengers are shoved into your mouth, the slime coating your tongue and the bugs wriggling against your teeth. You chew reluctantly, each bite filling you with a fresh wave of nausea as the creatures burst, their insides bitter and sickly. Some continue to move, their twitching bodies sliding down your throat even as you swallow.
By the time the tray is empty, you’re shaking violently, tears streaming down your face as your stomach churns with the unholy concoction. He watches with satisfaction, his smirk returning as he steps back.
“Well done,” he says, his tone almost congratulatory. He sets the tray aside and crouches before you, his fingers brushing against your tear-streaked cheek. “See? You can do as you’re told.”
You stare at him, hollow and broken, the taste of his twisted meal lingering on your tongue. When he finally leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, the oppressive silence returns, and you crumble, your body wracked with dry sobs.
The food sits heavy in your stomach, a grotesque reminder of your helplessness. You know he’ll return tomorrow with something worse. He always does.
────────────
The sterile air of the room feels heavier today, pressing against your chest like invisible hands. You can’t shake the unease, the gnawing sensation that something is wrong, even more so than usual. It’s in the silence that stretches just a beat too long, in the flicker of the overhead light that seems timed to your uneven breaths.
Then, the door opens, and he steps inside with the quiet elegance of someone who knows he doesn’t need to announce his presence. Scaramouche. His name alone sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.
He looks the same as always—poised, meticulous, as if every strand of hair and every fold of his outfit had been arranged with precision. But today, there’s something different in his eyes, something colder, more calculating.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his tone almost conversational, as if you’re old friends catching up. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”
You don’t answer. You’ve learned by now that anything you say can and will be twisted, reshaped into a weapon aimed at you.
He sighs, a sound filled with exaggerated disappointment, and steps closer. The room feels smaller with each measured step he takes, until he’s standing just a breath away, towering over you like a shadow.
“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, tilting his head slightly, the motion almost childlike but laced with menace. “You haven’t been entirely honest with me, have you?”
Your heart stutters. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I saw the way you looked at me yesterday. The resentment, the defiance. After everything I’ve done for you.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he interrupts, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “And it hurt me. It hurt us.”
His words sink into your chest like daggers, each one meticulously placed to draw the maximum amount of guilt and confusion. You know he’s lying—there was no resentment, no defiance—but the certainty in his voice, the way he says it as though it’s an undeniable truth, makes you doubt yourself.
“Do you know how hard I work to keep you safe?” he continues, crouching down so his face is level with yours. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? And this is how you repay me? With distrust? With hatred?”
“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.
“Don’t you?” His smile widens, cruel and mocking. “Then why do you keep trying to hurt me? Why do you keep betraying me?”
Your mind races, desperately trying to piece together what he’s accusing you of, but there’s nothing to grasp onto, no crime to confess.
“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice trembling.
His eyes darken, and he leans in closer, so close you can feel the chill radiating off him. “No?” he whispers, his tone dripping with venom. “Then why do I feel like you’re lying?”
────────────
The first time you see him again, it’s through a haze of adrenaline and fear, your limbs trembling as you push yourself upright. The sound of boots pounding on the concrete echoes like gunshots in the cavernous space. Everything smells like oil and blood and something metallic you can’t quite place.
He bursts through the shattered doorway, his dark silhouette haloed by the dying embers of light spilling from the outside. His eyes, sharp as a blade’s edge, scan the room until they lock onto you, crumpled in the corner, battered and bleeding.
“I told you not to wander off,” he says, his tone more exasperated than angry. But there’s something underneath it—an undercurrent of urgency, of barely contained panic.
Before you can respond, he’s kneeling in front of you, his gloved hands moving with precision as he checks for injuries. His touch is cold, clinical, but his gaze burns with something raw and unspoken.
“You could’ve died,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you if I hadn’t gotten here in time?”
The words hit you like a blow. You remember the men who dragged you here, their faces masked but their intentions clear. You remember their laughter, the way they circled you like predators, and the sickening certainty that no one was coming to save you.
And yet, here he is.
“Why…?” Your voice cracks, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “How did you find me?”
He pauses, his hands stilling as he meets your gaze. “Because I always find you,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re mine to protect. No one else cares enough to keep you safe, to pull you back from the brink every time you stumble into danger.”
You should feel grateful—relieved, even—but his words don’t sit right. They coil around your mind like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each repetition.
———
Days later, after he’s taken you back to the sterile confinement of your “safe place,” the cracks in the story begin to show.
You wake up screaming, your dreams plagued by shadowy figures and muffled threats. The first thing you see is him, sitting in the corner of the room, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.
“Still having nightmares?” he asks, his tone calm but laced with faint condescension.
You nod, your throat too dry to speak.
He stands, walking over to you with measured steps. “I warned you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The world out there is cruel, unrelenting. They don’t care about you like I do. That’s why you need to stay here, where I can protect you.”
“But—” you start, the words dying in your throat as his gaze sharpens.
“But nothing,” he snaps, though his voice never rises. “Do you remember what happened? What they said they’d do to you? Or are you already twisting it in your head to make me the villain again?”
You flinch, the accusation stinging even though you know it isn’t fair. “I didn’t say that,” you whisper.
He leans closer, his presence suffocating. “But you thought it,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it all over your face.”
The conversation leaves you shaken, his words gnawing at the edges of your mind. Had you misunderstood him? Was he right?
———
The next day, you notice something strange. The small, cracked mirror on the wall—the one you’ve stared into countless times, trying to find traces of the person you used to be—looks different. The crack is gone, the glass pristine, almost too pristine.
You press your fingers against it, your reflection wavering slightly. “Was this always here?” you mutter to yourself.
“It was,” his voice answers from behind you, making you jump.
You turn to find him leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face. “Are you doubting your memory now?”
“I…” You hesitate, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to think clearly.
“Maybe it’s the stress,” he continues, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Trauma does funny things to the mind. Makes you see things that aren’t there, remember things that didn’t happen.”
He stops just inches away, his hand brushing against your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and imprisoning. “But don’t worry,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m here—to keep you grounded, to make sure you don’t lose yourself completely.”
———
Over time, the little inconsistencies pile up: a drawer that seems to shift its contents overnight, a diary you swore you wrote in that now sits blank, the faint smell of antiseptic that lingers on your skin despite not remembering any wounds.
“You’re imagining things,” he says whenever you bring it up. “Do you want me to get the doctor again? You remember what he said last time—about your delusions?”
The mention of the doctor shuts you down. You remember the cold metal of the examination table, the too-bright lights, the clinical detachment in the doctor’s voice as he listed off your supposed symptoms.
“You’re not well,” he had said, his tone devoid of compassion. “But with time, and the right care, you can recover.”
And who had been there to hold your hand through it all? Who had whispered reassurances in your ear, promising that he’d never let anyone hurt you?
Him.
Always him.
———
One day, he takes you outside—or what he claims is outside. The sky is gray, the air heavy with the acrid smell of smoke. There’s no one around, just endless stretches of concrete and metal, like the remnants of a city that never finished being built.
“This is what’s left,” he says, gesturing to the desolation around you. “You wanted freedom? Here it is. Go ahead. See how far you get.”
You take a hesitant step forward, then another, the silence pressing in on you like a physical weight. But the farther you walk, the more it feels wrong. The same twisted tree looms in the distance no matter which direction you turn.
“It’s a loop,” you whisper, realization dawning like a shard of glass slicing through your thoughts.
He steps up behind you, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s safety,” he corrects. “And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”
You sink to your knees, the weight of his words crushing you.
Because deep down, you know he’s right. There’s no way out.
────────────
The “gifts” arrive in silence, placed delicately where you can’t ignore them. They are always wrong in ways that make your stomach churn—a photograph from a vacation you can almost remember, the faces distorted into grotesque smears as if melted under the heat of his touch. A trinket you once cherished, now fractured or tarnished beyond recognition, its edges sharp enough to cut. A letter written in your own handwriting, the words rearranged into senseless patterns, like a code you’re too far gone to crack.
You don’t want to touch them, but you do, every time. They feel like a thread tying you to the world you left behind, even as the thread frays in your trembling hands.
Today, it’s a letter. A crumpled piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, that wasn’t there when you closed your eyes to the oppressive dimness hours—or was it days?—ago. The words shift as you read, the ink bleeding into itself until sentences collapse into meaningless blotches.
“It’s all gone, you know,” his voice cuts through the silence, a dagger laced with mockery.
You whip around, the paper crinkling in your grip as you face him. He’s standing in the doorway—or at least, where a doorway would be if this room obeyed the laws of reason. His silhouette is backlit by a faint, sterile glow that gives him an otherworldly edge, making him seem more phantom than man.
His smirk widens as he steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his boots echoing against the cold floor. “Everything you had. Everyone you loved.” He pauses, tilting his head as if savoring your reaction. “I made sure of it.”
His words pierce through you, sharp and unrelenting, a scalpel carving away at your hope. Your hands shake, the letter slipping from your grasp and fluttering to the ground.
“I don’t believe you,” you manage to whisper, though your voice wavers under the weight of his presence.
“Oh?” His tone drips with amusement as he crouches before you, his violet eyes glinting with something dark and twisted. He picks up the letter, smoothing it out with a precision that feels mocking, before holding it out to you again. “Then tell me—what does it say?”
You stare at the paper, the lines of ink writhing like living things under his gaze. The harder you look, the more the words evade you, slipping through the cracks of your comprehension like grains of sand.
“Nothing?” he presses, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “How tragic. And here I thought this might bring you comfort.”
He straightens, looming over you as his smirk softens into something almost tender—almost. “But you don’t need those relics, do you? Memories are just burdens, after all. And I…” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it feels like a mockery of affection. “…am here to unburden you.”
You recoil, pressing yourself against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before he withdraws it, his expression shifting into something unreadable.
“You have me now,” he says, his voice calm, measured, but with an undercurrent of something that makes your skin crawl. “And isn’t that enough?”
———
You don’t answer. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, until he chuckles—a low, mirthless sound that vibrates through the room.
“No?” He turns his back to you, pacing with the languid grace of someone who knows they’ve already won. “Ungrateful to the end, I see. Typical.”
He stops near the far wall, his hand trailing across its surface as if feeling for a seam. The room responds to him, a soft click reverberating through the air as a hidden compartment slides open. From within, he pulls another “gift”—a locket this time, small and tarnished, the metal warped as though crushed under immense pressure.
He holds it up, letting it dangle from his fingers as he turns back to you. “Do you recognize this?”
Your heart clenches at the sight of it, the faint glint of its once-polished surface sparking a memory so vivid it feels like a slap. You don’t answer, but he sees the recognition in your eyes, and his smile sharpens into something predatory.
“You kept this with you always, didn’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, almost reverent. “So sentimental. So human.”
He steps closer, dangling the locket just out of reach. “And yet, it couldn’t save you, could it?” His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something bitter crossing his features before his mask of cold amusement snaps back into place.
He drops the locket at your feet, the sound of metal striking the floor echoing in the silence. “Take it,” he commands, his voice suddenly hard, sharp enough to cut.
You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for it. The moment your fingers close around the cold, misshapen metal, his boot comes down next to your hand, so close you can feel the air shift.
“But remember,” he says, his voice low and venomous, “everything you touch, everything you remember—it’s mine now. Just like you.”
His words sink into your mind like hooks, tearing at your resolve as he turns and disappears into the void he came from, leaving you alone with the locket and the crushing weight of his truth.
———
You want to say no. You want to scream it, to hurl the word at him with every ounce of strength you have left. But the word sticks in your throat, a jagged shard of glass you can’t swallow or spit out.
He doesn’t wait for your answer. He doesn’t need to. The smirk that plays at the corners of his lips tells you he already knows.
“You’ll see,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of a truth so profound it defies comprehension. “In time, you’ll come to understand. I’m all you have. All you’ll ever need.”
He steps back, his boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that echoes like a heartbeat—your heartbeat, weak and faltering.
“Do try to appreciate my generosity,” he says over his shoulder as he moves toward the shadows. “These little gifts of mine… they’re not just for you, you know. They’re for me, too. A reminder of how far you’ve come.”
And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the letter, the photograph, the watch. Alone with the fragmented remains of a life you can no longer remember.
The lights flicker again, plunging the room into darkness.
His voice lingers, though, soft and venomous, a ghost that refuses to leave.
“Gratitude, little fool. That’s all I ask.”
────────────
The room you’ve been confined to has changed again. Not in any tangible way—no new walls, no new objects—but in the oppressive way it seems to warp around you, making even its empty expanse feel too small. It’s as though the walls breathe, inhaling your will and exhaling despair. The only constant is him. Scaramouche, who looms like a god in a world of his own creation.
He stands before you now, framed by the stark artificial light, his expression unreadable. Every movement, every glance he spares is a study in calculated perfection, as though he’s rehearsed this scene in his mind countless times before bringing it to life.
“You’ve made progress,” he begins, his tone soft, almost kind. “I can see it in the way you’ve stopped resisting.” He kneels to your level, his hands clasped neatly on his bent knee. “But we still have work to do.”
You flinch as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist. His touch is light, fleeting, yet it feels like chains being wrapped around your bones.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more poisonous. “What’s your name?”
You hesitate, your lips parting but refusing to form the words. The question isn’t innocent; you know that by now. It’s a trap.
Scaramouche’s smile deepens, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach churn. “I see,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “You’re still clinging to it. That identity. That name. That life.” His gaze sharpens, cutting through you like glass. “How selfish.”
“I’m not selfish,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling.
“Aren’t you?” he counters, rising to his feet. He begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his every step deliberate and echoing in the oppressive silence. “You insist on holding onto a version of yourself that no longer exists. Do you know how exhausting that is for me? Watching you struggle, knowing you’ll never succeed?”
His words are a scalpel, precise and cutting. “Let me simplify things for you,” he continues, his tone lightening as though he’s offering a gift. “You don’t need a name. Names are for people who belong to the world, and you…” He pauses, turning to face you fully, his violet eyes glowing with an unearthly intensity. “You belong to me.”
The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating you in their finality. He kneels again, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Say it,” he commands, his voice velvet and steel. “Say you’re mine.”
You shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “I—I’m not—”
His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of his power. “Say it,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for defiance.
When you don’t respond, he sighs, releasing you and rising once more. “You still don’t understand,” he says, his voice tinged with disappointment. “But that’s alright. I’ll help you. I always help you, don’t I?”
———
The next morning, you wake to find everything in the room gone—your blanket, the single chair you’d been allowed to sit on, even the thin mattress you’d been sleeping on. The floor beneath you is cold, unyielding, and utterly barren.
When Scaramouche arrives, his expression is one of practiced pity. He crouches down, inspecting you like a scientist observing a fragile experiment. “It’s painful, isn’t it?” he says softly. “To have everything stripped away. But it’s necessary. You have to learn that those things were only weighing you down.”
“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice breaking.
“Because I care,” he replies without hesitation. “Because I want you to be free.” He tilts his head, his gaze softening in a way that feels like mockery. “Don’t you see? I’m saving you from the prison of your own mind. The sooner you let go of who you were, the sooner you’ll find peace.”
You don’t respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He rises to his full height, towering over you like a judge delivering a sentence. “I’ll leave you to think,” he says, his tone light but his words laced with menace. “But remember: the only way out of this is through me.”
———
Days pass—or maybe weeks; it’s impossible to tell. The walls seem to close in more each day, their featureless expanse a blank canvas for the chaos in your mind. You begin to question everything: your memories, your sense of self, even your sanity.
One day, Scaramouche returns with a new “gift.” It’s a mirror, small and oval, its edges gilded in a way that feels almost mocking. He sets it before you with a flourish, his smile unreadable.
“Look,” he says simply.
You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for the mirror. When you finally raise it to your face, you barely recognize the person staring back. Your skin is pale, your eyes hollow, your hair disheveled. You look…empty.
“Do you see now?” he murmurs, crouching beside you. “This is who you are. Who you’ve always been. The world out there didn’t care about you. It chewed you up and spat you out. But I…” He pauses, his gaze locking onto yours in the reflection. “I’m the one who picked up the pieces. I’m the one who’s here for you.”
Tears stream down your face, and you don’t even know why. His words are poison, but they seep into the cracks of your mind, filling the void with something dark and insidious.
“You’ll thank me someday,” he says, his voice soft and almost tender. “When you finally see the truth. When you finally understand that I’m your savior.”
He takes the mirror from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels both possessive and gentle. “But until then,” he says, rising to his feet, “you’ll stay here, where you belong. With me.”
────────────
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 