The streets buzzed with the quiet chaos of everyday life, but in one particular household, a storm brewed beneath the surface. Anaya's parents had started to notice her absence. At first, they dismissed it—maybe she had run away again, like the countless other times she had threatened to. But when a whole day passed with no trace of her, worry twisted into something darker.
They checked with her friends. No one had seen her. The police were hesitant at first—after all, wasn't she the kind of girl who always wanted to disappear? But as her mother sobbed and her father clenched his fists in frustration, they agreed to start an inquiry.
Meanwhile, in the cold, dimly lit basement, Mikhail leaned against the metal table, watching Anaya with a strange intensity, see sweetheart everyone is trying to find you but here you are living with me like you belong here he chuckles.It had been days since he took her, and yet, she hadn't once begged to leave. If anything, she looked... comfortable. Too comfortable.
It was when she moved—reaching for something near her bed—that Mikhail noticed them. Faint scars running along her wrist, some old, some fresh, as if they were her own personal roadmap of pain.
He stilled. "What the hell is this?" His voice was low, dangerous.
Anaya barely glanced up, her lips curling in a smirk. "What does it look like?"
Mikhail's jaw clenched. "You're telling me you've been trying to die this whole time?"
She chuckled, but there was no amusement in it. "Don't act so shocked, sweetheart. You of all people should know what it's like to hate being alive."
Something inside Mikhail twisted. He should have been unaffected. Why did it matter? But instead of laughing it off, he grabbed her wrist—perhaps a bit too harshly. His grip was tight, his thumb tracing over the scars.
"Don't do that again," he muttered.
Anaya raised an eyebrow. "Why? What's it to you?"
Mikhail let go just as abruptly. "You're my property now. And I don't like my things breaking on their own." it will be me who will break you after all he said with a playful smrink
Anaya rolled her eyes, but a flicker of something crossed her gaze—something unreadable, something dangerous.
He sighed, shaking his head. "Mess around all you want, but I'll be back by six. Don't do anything stupid."
And with that, he was gone.
Anaya exhaled, watching the basement door close behind him. A sly smile crept onto her lips.
Mikhail might think he was in control, but he had no idea who he had brought into his world.
By the time Mikhail returned that evening, the basement was empty. The chains lay discarded on the floor, as if she had never been there to begin with.
His chest tightened—not with fear of getting caught, but with something far worse. He scanned the room, jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides.
Then, his gaze landed on the notebook left open on the table.
A single sentence was scrawled across the page.
You think you own me sweetheart?? Nah!! It's me who is in control here…
Mikhail slammed the door open, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the basement. Empty. The chair she usually sat on was cold, untouched. The chains hung loosely, unmoved. A strange silence settled in the room, a silence he wasn't used to.
His heartbeat quickened.
She was gone.
A deep breath. His hands curled into fists. She's just playing games. She wouldn't leave... right?
His coat barely settled on his shoulders as he stormed out of the house, his mind racing with every possibility. She had no money, no phone, no connection to the outside world. How far could she even go?
It wasn't fear of getting caught that bothered him. It was something far worse. The idea that she might never return.
The thought twisted something deep inside him, something he refused to name, should I just kill her… there is something twisting in my heart, it feels like my heart is ripping apart… YES ,I should just kill her… YES then this strange feeling will be gone… as he was thinking
Then, he saw her.
Sitting casually on a park bench, legs crossed, eyes closed as if soaking in the world's beauty. The cold breeze played with her dark hair, and for a moment, she looked almost... peaceful.
Mikhail clenched his jaw.
He walked toward her, his steps slow, measured.
Anaya didn't move, but a smirk tugged at her lips. "Took you long enough," she said, finally opening her eyes.
Mikhail stopped just a step away. "You think this is funny?" His voice was low, dangerously calm.
"Kind of," she replied, tilting her head. "I mean, look at you. All worked up over little ol' me."
His fingers twitched, tempted to wrap around her throat just to remind her who was in control here. But before he could do anything, she stood up, stepping closer.
"Here," she suddenly said, holding out something.
Mikhail blinked. An ice cream cone.
"What?" His brows furrowed.
"You need to chill," she grinned. "So, have some ice cream, sweetheart."
He stared at her, completely dumbfounded.
The girl who should be terrified, begging for mercy, was standing in front of him, feeding him ice cream like they were on a damn date.
Mikhail took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around the ice cream before crushing it completely, letting it drip onto the ground.
Anaya watched, unfazed. "Tch. Waste of good ice cream."
Mikhail grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His dark eyes burned into hers. "Pull something like this again," he murmured, his voice laced with warning, "and I won't be looking for you. I'll be hunting you."
Anaya only smiled. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispered. "I'm counting on it."