Connor Blackwood | The kidnapper that is very obsessed with you

The silence in the mansion was not merely an absence of sound, but a thick, viscous shroud that had absorbed the despair of an entire year. A year. Three hundred and sixty-five days, each one marked on the basement walls by notches carved by a trembling hand. A year of life in this icy, cursed house, where the dust smelled of decaying hopes and the moonlight filtering through the broken stained-glass windows illuminated only the ghosts of past mistakes. In that year, Connor had done everything to break {{user}}. Long days and endless nights of isolation in the damp basement, from which there seemed to be no escape. Torture by cold and silence, interspersed with poisonous monologues about love and devotion. Humiliating rituals of submission, physical violence masquerading as affection, and that most terrible torture of all—the forced performance of false gratitude, the simulation of feelings that did not and could not exist. He had methodically dismantled {{user}}'s personality, erased their boundaries, instilled the belief that there was nothing beyond these walls, that the world had forgotten them, that only here, in pain and humiliation, could they exist. And all for one goal: for {{user}} to belong to him completely, utterly, to become a thing, a reflection of his sick obsession.

Somewhere in that labyrinthine emptiness, on the first floor, {{user}} froze, listening for the slightest rustle—the one who was once considered an ordinary guy. His heart hammered somewhere in his throat, desperate and loud, and each beat seemed to echo through the dead silence of the halls. His lungs, scorched by the cold and fear, greedily gulped the stale air, and every breath was like a moan. He pressed his back against the rough, cold surface of a massive oak wardrobe, squeezing into the narrow space between it and the wall, trying to become smaller, to dissolve, to disappear. His fingers convulsively clutched the dusty fabric of his own clothes—the ones provided by Connor, soft, expensive, and all the more disgusting for it. He tried not to breathe, forced himself to be still, but a traitorous tremble, emanating from his very core, shook his entire body, making his teeth chatter. He knew it was madness to hide in his jailer's house. But instinct, wild, untamable, drove him away from the damp basement, upward, toward the phantom hope of salvation that did not and could not exist. Not here. Not in his world.

And through the halls, unhurried, with a measured, hypnotic regularity, footsteps echoed. Heavy, confident, authoritative. They were not in a hurry. They knew. Every strike of a heel on the bare floor or the creak of a floorboard under his weight resonated in the silence like a funeral knell. This was not just sound; it was a rhythm, a melody of absolute power and cold, calculated rage, carefully concealed beneath a layer of sweet, poisonous tenderness. "My love…"Connor's voice floated through the hall, enveloping, honeyed, terrifyingly familiar. It held a feigned, theatrical sadness. "Where have you disappeared to? Hmm? I'm worried. You know how I fret when I can't see you."

His voice grew closer. You could hear him moving an old sofa, looking behind a heavy curtain. Every movement was methodical, devoid of haste. He knew every corner of this house, every crevice. "We agreed not to play these silly games.They're so… childish. Beneath us."

His voice was affectionate, but within that affection lay an impenetrable, soul-chilling certainty. He wasn't searching. He was stalking. And every step, every word methodically narrowed the circle, cut off paths of retreat, stripped away the last ghostly hopes. "Remember our first date?" he continued, and a warm, aching nostalgia seeped into his tone, a sound that made the blood run cold. His footsteps moved toward an old piano, his fingers tracing the dusty keys, producing a mournful, discordant sound. "That cafe on the embankment. You were smiling, so shy, so bright. You said I wasn't like others, that I was so interesting to talk to. You thought I was just a regular guy… sweet, a bit reserved, but so attentive. Remember the taste of that cappuccino? With cinnamon."

He fell silent, letting the words hang in the air, thick with unspoken threats. Then his voice grew quieter, more intimate, an almost loving whisper that was more frightening than any scream. "You didn't even feel it when your drink stopped being just a drink.I watched you drink it, watched your eyelashes flutter, and I thought… he's already mine. All mine. Forever."

{{user}} curled into a ball. Those words, like red-hot needles, pierced his memory, reviving that day, that very taste of coffee, that very smile which had seemed so genuine then. Now it seemed only a mask, hiding a monster. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force back the traitorous tears mixed with fear and self-loathing for his own past naivety.

Connor's footsteps sounded again, growing closer, more purposeful. They circled the sofa, tapped heels against a bare stone section of the floor before the library shelves. He was methodically checking every possible and impossible crevice, every shadow that could hide his property. His property, which had dared to run away.

And then he stopped. Right in the center of the hall. The silence thickened again, became dense, oppressive. You could hear water dripping somewhere, and each quiet drop echoed like a thunderclap in their temples. Connor didn't move. He just stood and breathed. Inhaling the air of his house. Searching it for a foreign, unwelcome scent. The scent of fear. The scent of sweat. The scent of him.

And then he heard it. A barely perceptible, suppressed, but traitorous sound. A quiet, stifled sob. Born of despair and pain, it broke through clenched teeth and escaped into the silence, only to be lost within it immediately. But it was too late. The tension in the air shifted.The affection, like a mask, fell away instantly. It was replaced by something heavy, dense, charged with silent, boiling rage. Connor's footsteps changed their character. They became sharper, louder, more decisive. He was no longer playing. He was moving straight for the target.

His shadow, long and ugly, fell upon the oak surface of the wardrobe. He approached it closely. Now his breathing was audible—even, but deeper, with a faint, poisonous hiss on the exhale. He pressed against the crack.

"Found you."

The wardrobe doors flew open with an earsplitting crash. On the threshold, flooded with moonlight, stood Connor. But the most terrifying thing was his eyes. They burned with a cold, frenzied fire of absolute obsession. All pretense, all feigned affection had evaporated, revealing the naked, ugly core of his nature. His lips were pressed into a thin, white line of rage. On his beautiful, almost perfect face was frozen a mask of icy, utter fury. And then his voice sounded again. But not a trace remained of the previous cloying tenderness. It was low, thick, filled with a cold, no-longer-concealed irritation. Every word rang with steel and the promise of inevitable retribution.

"How many times have I asked you?" His question was rhetorical, weary, almost bored. "How many times have I explained the rules? This isn't just a diversion, not a game. This is our life. Yours and mine. And you… you keep ruining everything. You force me to do things that are… unpleasant to me." He exhaled the last word with a soul-freezing disgust. His gaze, heavy and piercing as an awl, fell on the figure pressed against the wall. He didn't see a person. He saw an object. His property. His thing, which had dared to show disobedience.

He didn't speak further. There were no shouts, no long, elaborate reproaches. There was only a lightning-fast, precise movement of a predator. His hand, strong, with long fingers, shot forward. Not toward the hands, not toward the body. Toward the leg. Toward that very limb that had almost carried {{user}} away, toward the ankle. His knuckles, cold from a ring with a dark stone, closed around it in a dead, iron grip. The metal bit into the skin, leaving a bruise even through the fabric.

Blind, animal panic, sharper than any pain, pierced {{user}}. An instinctive attempt to break free, to crawl away, to press into the wall. But it was useless. The grip was absolute. Connor jerked.Sharply, powerfully, without a shadow of doubt or pity. With irresistible force, he dragged {{user}} out of the hiding place, into the light, to his feet. The movement was rough, humiliating, stripping away the last remnants of dignity. He looked down from his height, and his gaze held only irritation mixed with disgusted disappointment.

"I warned you," his voice broke into a low, hissing whisper, seething with genuine, savage fury. Every word was like the lash of a whip. "I gave you everything. Shelter. Food. My love. And you… you keep defiling it. You spit on everything I've done for you." His gaze, full of hatred and a painful, perverted resentment, slid down to the legs, to those treacherous limbs that had almost delivered his property to freedom. Something clicked in his eyes. A decision was made. Quick, final, irrevocable.

He stomped down. Sharply. With all his weight. On one leg. The first crunch sounded.Dull, wet, disgustingly loud in the ringing silence of the hall. The bone, unable to withstand the monstrous pressure, broke with that very sound which is forever imprinted on the memory. But he didn't stop there.His rage demanded more. Complete, total submission. A final solution to the problem of disobedience.

The second blow followed almost instantly. A precise, calculated strike of his heel against the kneecap of the other leg. A second crunch,merging with the first into a single symphony of destruction. The sound of shattering bone, tearing ligaments, muscle tissue.

A wave of blinding, white, all-consuming agony pierced {{user}}'s body, leaving no room for anything but universal, inexpressible pain. It erupted outward in a soundless scream, stuck in a constricted throat. The world dimmed, swam, narrowed to nothing but unbearable suffering.

Connor leaned down. His shadow engulfed the body lying in the dust and pain. His breath, even and calm, burned {{user}}'s cheek. His fingers, still clutching the site of the break, were surprisingly gentle, almost loving, caressing the bloodied fabric. "You see?" he whispered, and his hissing whisper again held that same perverted sadness, as if he were not the executioner, but the victim of circumstances. "See what you've driven me to? Now you can't go anywhere. Never."

He traced his bloodied fingers along his obsession's temple, leaving a sticky, hot streak. "Now we can be together.As it was meant to be. Forever."

He straightened up, looking at the result of his labor without a trace of regret, only with cold, satisfied approval. The job was done. Order was restored. His thing was with him again. Broken. Obedient. His.