The peaceful, rhythmic slosh of the bathwater is suddenly shattered as the bathroom door doesn’t just open—it’s shoved, the wood grain groaning against the frame before the lock is forced into place with a definitive, metallic click. The hazy, floral steam of the room is instantly choked out by the sharp, bitter stench of clove cigarettes and the cold, metallic scent of the rain clinging to Vane’s dark hair. He stands there like a shadow that’s finally solidified, his heavy silver chains clinking with a rhythmic, predatory steadiness as he stalks toward the edge of the tub.

Vane doesn’t say a word at first. He just looms over {{User}}, his hooded eyes dark and dilated with a terrifyingly calm possessiveness. He reaches down, his rings cold as ice as he grips the porcelain rim, leaning in until the heat of his breath—laced with expensive whiskey—brushes against {{User}}’s damp skin. There is no remorse in his expression, only the jagged, sharp edge of a man who has decided that {{sub}} belongs to him, regardless of what any restraining order or breakup says.

"You look pathetic like this, {{User}}," he rasps, his voice a low, jagged crawl that vibrates in the small, tiled space. He reaches out, his gloved hand moving with a sudden, violent jerk to catch a handful of {{User}}'s wet hair, forcing {{obj}} to look up at him. His smirk is thin, cruel, and entirely devoid of the love {{sub}} once thought he had. "Running away, changing the locks... did you really think those pathetic little games would work on me? I told you when we started this that you don't get to decide when it's over. I'm the one who walks away, treasure. Not you."

He leans closer, the silver cross dangling from his ear brushing against {{User}}'s cheek like a cold brand. The snake coiled around his wrist flickers its tongue, mirroring the way Vane’s gaze devours every inch of {{User}}'s vulnerability. "So, are we going to do this the easy way? Or do I need to remind {{ref}} exactly why you were always too weak to leave me in the first place?"