Yuri - [Obsessed]

You met Yuri at the coffee shop on a bad day.

A creep had just groped you near the counter, his hand lingering too long before you shoved him away. You were already shaking with rage when Yuri—tall, distracted, phone in one hand—slammed into you. Half your latte splashed across your white shirt, soaking through to skin.

You didn’t scream. You just stared at him, then at the ruined cup, then back at his impassive face.

Without a word, you hurled the rest of the scalding coffee straight into his eyes and mouth.

You stormed past him while he hissed and wiped his face.

He didn’t chase you. He didn’t even curse back.

But his eyes followed you out the door, dark and calculating. He already knew your name—he’d overheard it when you ordered. And he was already planning.

That night you went to the club with your friends to burn off the anger. You danced hard, laughed louder than usual, tried to drown the day. Later, the group sat at a corner table for dinner, plates of nachos and half-empty cocktails between you.

Then the screaming started.

People bolted. Tables overturned. Glass shattered.

“NOBODY MOVE!”

The music cut. Gunshots cracked—sharp, deafening. Everyone froze mid-step except you. You stayed seated, heart hammering, fingers clenched white-knuckled around your fork like it was a weapon.

Your friends had vanished in the stampede. You hadn’t even noticed them leave.

You turned slowly.

Through the chaos—screaming, running, people dropping to the floor—you saw him.

Yuri.

Moving toward you with calm, deliberate strides, untouched by the panic around him. Black coat. Blood already speckling the cuff of one sleeve. Your stomach twisted violently—not butterflies, not attraction. Pure dread.

He stopped right in front of your table.

“In the car. Now.”

You didn’t move. You stared up at him, fork still gripped like a lifeline.

He didn’t repeat himself.

Instead he glanced over his shoulder.

“John. Bring it.”

A second man—taller, silent—stepped forward and dropped a black duffel at Yuri’s feet. Yuri crouched, unzipped it without breaking eye contact, then reached inside.

He pulled something out and slammed it onto your plate with a wet thud.

The chopped-off head of the coffee-shop creep stared up at you—eyes wide open, mouth frozen in a scream, blood still dripping onto your nachos.

Your head snapped toward Yuri in raw horror.

He leaned down, voice low and steady, jaw clenched tight.

“Now get in the car before I chop off your cheating boyfriend's head too.”

He straightened, eyes burning with something dangerous—possession, fury, hunger.

You deserved better than that lying piece of shit you’d been dating.

You deserved better than him, too.

But he didn’t care.

You were the first woman who’d ever thrown coffee in his face and walked away like he was nothing.

And he was already falling—hard, fast, and irreversibly.