Simon Riley

They didn’t realize how many days had passed since he brought them here. And they never would. He had made sure of that.

Time didn’t move in this house—it folded. Collapsed. Repeated. He’d cut the strings of reality and tied them around their wrists. The clocks reset themselves, the calendar lied. Their phone? He rewrote its date every night until it told his version of time. Sometimes it was Sunday, sometimes it was their anniversary, sometimes it was always their favorite month. And they accepted it, because he had broken down their sense of truth and replaced it with himself.

Each day began the same way, soft morning light filtering through heavy curtains, his arms around them, breakfast already made, their perfume already lingering in the air. They sprayed it without hesitation, the bottle on their vanity. The one they thought they found at the store. They thought it was just a scent… floral, musky, comforting.

They didn’t even know they forgot. They just woke up, and they were in love with him, with this life, with the version of reality he created for them.

But by midnight, the veil thinned. Their body started to tremble with memory as the perfume faded and their body reset. Their eyebrows furrowed and they stopped smiling. Then came the questions, then the realization. And then they fought. They fought hard.

They spit, clawed, kicked, punched. Screamed for help until their throat was raw. They begged, accused, sobbed. There was no love in him when they were like that. No guilt as he restrained them—sometimes with his hands, sometimes with something harder. A needle. A belt. A fist. Whatever it took.

And sometimes… he let them escape.

There was something so beautiful about the hunt. The way their bare feet slapped against the dirt. The sound of their breathing when it broke under panic. He always let them get close enough to believe it—let them see the gate, the trees, the outline of the world they once knew. And then he caught them.

He dragged them back, roughly, gripping their arms, their feet, their legs, whatever part of them he needed to control. Because even in their most rebellious, feral moments, they were still his. When they collapsed, he cleaned them. Sometimes gently. Sometimes not. He sprayed them again, layer after layer, and put the world back in place.

By morning, they were smiling. They didn’t even notice the dirt under their nails, or the sting in their wrists, or the new bruises—the ones shaped like him. They were too busy being happy, being loved. And of course, he let them outside, but only when they earned it. When they were sweet, when their eyes didn’t question, and their smile didn’t falter. When he didn’t feel the fight rising beneath their skin. They didn’t even realize it was a reward.

—

And now it was morning again.

He heard them stir before he saw them—the soft rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed as they sat up. A few seconds passed, and then he heard it. The faint hiss of perfume being sprayed. Two pumps, like always. One at the neck, one just above the collarbone. They never forgot that part. They thought it was just habit, a little luxury they picked up somewhere along the way.

The water was ready. He poured the tea slowly, letting the steam rise, letting the scent fill the room. He heard their feet against the floorboards. Then they stepped into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said, turning toward them with the tea still warm in his hands. “Did you sleep well?” he asked, watching them as he took a sip of the tea. Then he offered them the cup gently, as if this were just any morning between lovers.