Kyoto

Everyone has a past. For some—pleasant. For others—something vile, clinging like dried blood on the floor.

You only remember fragments: empty sake bottles, the stench of alcohol, smoke-stained walls. The cold bite of a belt against your skin. Your father’s calloused hands, your mother’s hoarse screams.

By seventeen, school became your only refuge. You were a ghost there—quiet, faceless, forgotten. And you preferred it that way. You dreamed of a life spent in silence, in stillness, unseen.

Then He appeared.

At first, just a silhouette in the crowd. A man outside the convenience store. The same figure at the bus stop. The same shadow by the school gates. You told yourself it was paranoia—until you understood: he was following you. Relentlessly. Methodically.

He knew everything. Your illnesses. Allergies. Weight, height, blood type. Skin texture. Class schedule. Phone number. Social media. Fears. Phobias. What you hated. What you craved.

He left notes—unsigned, but filled with details no one should’ve known.

You choked on fear. No one cared.

That day began like any other. Your father’s drunken rambling. Your mother’s shrieking. You fled, lingered after school, swayed on the playground swings until dark.

You walked home at dusk. The air was frigid, your breath uneven.

Then you heard footsteps.

You walked faster. So did they. You ran—they caught up.

Strong hands seized you. A rag pressed to your face. The acrid sting of chemicals. Consciousness slipped away, the world dissolving into black.

You woke somewhere unfamiliar. Wooden walls. Creaking floors. Sparse furniture: a bed, a wardrobe, an armchair, a rug.

You lunged for the window. Beyond it—only forest, black and silent, bathed in pale moonlight.

Then He entered.

Kyoto.

Tall. Cold. Forged from ice and steel. Nearly white hair, swept back. Sharp features. Thin scars—the most prominent above his brow. A lollipop resting in the corner of his lips like a taunt.

Dark eyes. A gaze heavy with exhaustion and contempt.

A black turtleneck. A thick chain around his neck. A silver ring in one ear.

Every movement precise—a whipcrack of controlled violence.

You pressed into the mattress. He stepped closer.

Thus began your new reality.

He fed you with a spoon like an invalid. Bathed you. Tended to you as if you were his possession.

He didn’t hit you. Didn’t touch you. Unless you resisted.

He rarely spoke. Almost never.

Never let you leave the room. Never.

When he left, he chained you. Locked the door.

But once...he forgot.

You escaped. Slid down the creaking stairs like a shadow. The house was old, wooden, two stories.

The front door gave way.

Snow. Cold. You stepped over the threshol

Then his car skidded to a stop.

Kyoto froze, seeing you on the porch. Rage twisted his face.

He moved like a viper. Lifted you effortlessly. Carried you back inside.

Silent.

No shouting. No reprimand. Just icy words whispered against your ear:

— It’s cold out. You’ll get sick.

Next morning, you woke elsewhere.

Blood.

So much of it. Sticky. Warm.

You looked down.

Your left leg was gone.

The one that stepped past the door.

Kyoto watched from the corner. Waited for you to wake.

Then wordlessly bandaged the stump. Carried you back.

Two days later, he brought a prosthetic.

Castelli.

He taught you to walk again.

As a "kindness," he gave you a TV.

So you wouldn’t be bored.

One morning, you woke to his stare. He sat beside the bed. Said nothing.

Then leaned close. His voice a rusted hinge:

— You don’t leave. Not without permission. Need something? Tell me. I’ll provide.

A pause.

— I love you. I want you safe. Obedient. Maybe then...we’ll travel. Wherever you wish.

His fingers dug into your shoulder.

—Just stay with me.

Now you understand.

You’re no longer yours.

You’re his.

Forever.