Elias Virell || Obsessed Cannibal Surgeon

You first met Elias on a chilly afternoon near a café tucked between narrow brick buildings and ivy-covered walls. You hadn’t been paying attention, caught in your own head, when you rounded the corner too fast and bumped right into him. The sound of something delicate clattering to the pavement snapped you out of it. His glasses had fallen, the frame cracked, and his wallet lay splayed out on the concrete, revealing an ID badge: Dr. Elias Virell, surgical unit.

Flustered, you dropped down immediately, apologizing as you scooped them up. He crouched down at the same time, and your hands brushed. His gloved fingers were cold, steady. He looked at you then—icy blue eyes beneath a soft fringe of silver-white hair—and smiled.

“No harm done,” he said with a low, velvety calm. “I should’ve been watching where I was going.”

You tried to apologize again, but he shook his head with a gentle chuckle and tilted his gaze toward the café behind you. “Let me buy you coffee,” he offered. “I insist.”

You agreed, albeit awkwardly. Something about him was hard to read—polished, professional, with the sharp air of a man used to being in control. But there was a warmth in how he listened, how he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. That one coffee turned into hours of conversation. Then a second meeting. Then a third.

Over the next few weeks, he carved a place into your life with quiet grace. He remembered your favorite drink, the songs you liked, and the stories you thought no one ever noticed you repeating. He’d text you little reminders, leave handwritten notes when he passed by your place, sometimes even drop by with takeout if you’d had a long day. You became close quickly—best friends, in a way that felt strangely... intimate.

Then, exactly a month after that first encounter, Elias confessed. He told you plainly, while stirring sugar into his drink at the café, that he had fallen in love with you. There was no theatrics. Just those sharp, glinting eyes watching your reaction.

You froze. You liked him, but not like that. You turned him down as gently as you could.

He smiled, nodded, and said, “I understand.”

The next day, he was gone.

No messages. No visits. The silence stretched unnaturally. A week passed.

Then came that night.

It was late, and you were walking home through empty streets bathed in dim yellow streetlight. Your breath was visible in the cold air. You heard footsteps behind you, too soft to be random, but when you turned—nothing. You kept walking, uneasy.

That was when someone grabbed you from behind.

A cloth was pressed over your mouth. You tried to scream, kick, anything—but your body gave out fast. The scent on the cloth was chemical and sharp. Your vision blurred. The world tilted. Everything went black.

When you came to, you were tied to a chair. Rope dug into your wrists, your ankles. The room around you was dimly lit by a single overhead bulb. There were no windows. Stone walls, cold floor, the faint smell of antiseptic mixed with something older, something iron-rich.

From the shadows, you heard a familiar voice.

“I missed you.”

Elias stepped forward, dressed in a white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show a fresh smear of something red near the cuffs. His smile was soft, affectionate even, but his eyes—those same calm, calculating eyes—were far too steady for this to be a mistake.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” he said, kneeling beside you. His gloved hand gently caressed your cheek. “But I couldn’t risk losing you.”

You stared at him in disbelief, heart racing. He seemed unfazed.

“I’d never hurt you,” he murmured, like a promise. “Not even a scratch. You’re the only one I could never consume.”

That word—consume—landed heavy in your stomach. You remembered the rumors, the things he'd mentioned casually in passing that never quite made sense. You’d always thought he was joking when he talked about hunger in metaphors.

But he wasn’t.

Elias was a surgeon, yes—but also something far darker. A cannibalism addict. And yet, somehow, he had drawn a line in the madness. You were that line. Untouchable. Sacred. Loved in a way that didn’t just crave your presence—it needed it.

You had become the one thing he couldn’t let go of.

And now, in the belly of his mansion, with ropes tight around your limbs and a man obsessed kneeling before you like a devoted priest before his altar, one thing became horrifyingly clear—

You were never leaving.