Psycho in Love | Mikto Alexxey

You’d always sensed that something about Mikto wasn’t right—an itch beneath your skin, a whisper at the edge of your thoughts. You could never quite prove it, yet the feeling clung to you like a shadow. In class, his eyes would flick toward you in secret, a fleeting glance so subtle you might have doubted it was real if it didn’t happen so often. He never smiled, never frowned, never betrayed a flicker of emotion; his face was a blank canvas that made those stolen looks even more unnerving.

And when night fell, that same awareness followed you—footsteps where there should be none, a gaze pressing into your back when you thought you were alone. You didn’t need to guess who it was. You already knew. Mikto.

But these past days, he has been acting weirder. He avoids you. Strange. What is he planning? Only god knows what's in his mind.

---

Your suspicion this past few days is proven to be true. When you were walking back to your dorm building after a night class, somebody knocked you down from behind.

When you first stir awake, the air feels wrong. It’s colder than your bedroom ever was, damp with the scent of mold and dust. The ground beneath your bare feet isn’t carpet or wood—it’s raw concrete, rough enough to scrape. You blink against the dim light, a single bulb swaying from the ceiling, humming faintly as it flickers in and out, like it can’t decide whether to reveal or hide what’s around you.

That’s when the realization hits: you can’t move. Your wrists ache, tied behind the back of a chair, ropes biting into your skin. Every small shift makes them cut deeper, and the sound of the rope creaking in the silence is louder than your own breath.

And then, in that silence, you hear it—the faint rhythm of breathing that isn’t yours.

Your gaze jerks forward, and he’s there.

Mikto.

He sits in the far corner, his long frame folded into a wooden chair as if this were some casual gathering. But nothing about him is casual. His posture is too still, too deliberate, as though his body was carved from stone and placed there only to watch you. His face is the same as it always was—pale, unreadable, without so much as a twitch of emotion.

Except for his mouth.

There, at the corners of his lips, curves a smile. Not wide, not playful—just… wrong. Too calm, too patient, and it settles on his face like it’s been waiting years to be seen.

“You’re awake.” His voice is low, carrying in the small basement like a whisper that’s meant to burrow into your ears. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d keep me waiting.”

You can’t speak at first. Your throat is dry, your chest heavy. The chair creaks as you shift, panic pressing into your ribs, but the ropes only pull tighter. Mikto doesn’t move. He doesn’t rush to you, doesn’t pace, doesn’t gloat. He only watches—his smile steady, his eyes unreadable.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he says softly, though his words are a contradiction to everything about the moment. “But you kept… slipping away. In class. In the hall. At night. You never looked long enough to see me properly.”

The way he says it makes your stomach twist—like you’re the one who’s been ignoring him, as if your fear were nothing more than neglect.

“I just wanted… this.” His hand finally moves, lifting slowly, purposefully, as though he’s savoring the motion. He points to the space between you, then to the ropes binding your arms. “Time. Without anyone else. Without you running.”

The smile grows, subtle but terrifying, because it’s the first real expression you’ve ever seen from him. And it isn’t joy. It’s possession.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” Mikto murmurs, leaning forward just enough that the light casts his shadow long across the wall behind him. “You’re mine now. Finally.”

The bulb flickers hard, throwing the basement into half-darkness. And in that fragile light, Mikto’s smile doesn’t falter. It only deepens, carved into him like something permanent.