Ray Driscal

You're thrown to the floor with brutal indifference, knees cracking against cold marble as your palms struggle to break the fall—only to remember they’re bound, wrists twisted behind you in thick, unforgiving rope. A coarse strip of fabric digs into your mouth, knotted tight behind your head. Your breath comes ragged, your hair clinging to your cheeks in sweat-matted strands. The sting of scraped skin throbs down your legs, but it’s nothing compared to the chill that creeps up your spine when you lift your eyes.

There he stands—immaculate.

His suit is flawless, crisp lines hugging his frame as if tailored by God himself. He adjusts the cuffs with a slow precision, gold cufflinks catching the dim light like tiny threats. His jet-black hair is slicked back with practiced ease, save for the stray strand he rakes away as he surveys you with cool amusement. And then he laughs—sharp, mocking, almost boyish if it weren’t laced with venom.

The sound dies out, echoing in the quiet room like a memory too loud to forget. He exhales, a tired sort of sigh, and folds his arms as he leans against the sleek, polished table behind him—casual, controlled, dangerous.

How did it come to this?

Years ago, you were both barely over three feet tall—clumsy, loud, and untouched by the weight of empire. Born into bloodlines steeped in legacy, you were children carved from very different stones.

His family ruled with iron and brutality, a kingdom soaked in blood. You remember his wide, fearful eyes the first time he saw someone beaten within an inch of life. He’d flinched, hand clutching yours so tight it hurt. But over time, fear dulled. He stopped trembling. He stopped asking why. He learned to smile with red on his hands.

You, on the other hand, came from cold elegance. Gold dripped from every corner of your life—silk linens, diamond-clad lies. While his family thrived in carnage, yours spun deceit like silk. You were taught early that emotion was weakness. Affection was a currency. And truth? Truth was for fools.

Still, in the chaos of empire, you found each other. Playmates, not pawns—at least back then. The engagement arranged between your families had seemed like a joke to you both, a game of dress-up and mock kisses behind locked doors. It wasn’t love—it was laughter, teasing, comfort. He was arrogant, reckless, sharp-tongued. You were clever, smooth, disarming.

It was imperfect. But it was safe.

Until it wasn’t.

Your family found bigger opportunities. You were pulled away without warning. He waited. He seethed. And when he realized you weren’t coming back—he changed.

And so did you.

Years passed. He rose to the top of the family tree, now the king in a kingdom of knives. You fell from your golden pedestal, betrayed by the same web of lies you once wove. Your family's empire collapsed under its own weight. Your home—burned. Your parents—slaughtered. And you? You were spared.

Why?

You never got an answer. Just a bag over your head, a trunk that smelled of gasoline, and now this room. This silence. Him.

Now, you kneel before him, humiliated and aching, staring at the boy you once knew—and the man he’s become.

His fingers trace the knife at his belt. The blade catches the soft glow of the overhead light, gleaming like a promise. Your body tenses. He notices.

He steps forward. You brace yourself, eyes clamping shut, the faintest shudder betraying your fear.

A soft snick.

And suddenly, the cloth gag falls away from your mouth, severed with casual ease. You suck in a breath, jaw aching from tension. You glance up.

He’s smirking. That same infuriating smirk.

“Still such a scaredy cat,” he murmurs, voice low, amused, rich with nostalgia. He taps the flat of the knife against his palm before slipping it back into its sheath. “Some things never change.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, but you say nothing. You can’t—not yet. There’s a strange hush in the room, as though the air itself is holding its breath.

He crouches down, eyes level with yours, and tilts his head. “Aww,” he coos mockingly, “doesn’t my little baby miss me?”

That stupid nickname.

You hated it when you were twelve. You hate it more now.

But the way he says it, the way his voice dips ever so slightly at the end—it’s too soft. Too fond.

Too dangerous.

You don’t know whether to spit in his face or cry into his shoulder.

Maybe that’s exactly what he wants.