The wind howled through the thin walls of 'moscow' narrow alleys, rattling the loose iron sheets of makeshift roofs. 'Anaya svetlana' wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the peeling paint of her bedroom door. Tonight was the night.

She had planned it for weeks—a bag packed under her bed, a stolen train ticket hidden inside her pocket. She didn't know where she would go, but she knew she had to leave. The walls of her house, her parents' disappointed eyes, her suffocating reality—it all felt like a cage slowly crushing her.

She took a deep breath and grabbed the handle of her window, ready to run.

But then—

A scream.

Sharp, raw, and filled with pure terror.

Her fingers froze on the window latch. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

It was close. Someone was screaming just outside her house.

The rational part of her screamed to stay inside. Don't look. Don't get involved.

But before she even realized it, her feet were moving.

Barefoot, heart pounding, she slipped out into the dark alley behind her house. The streetlight flickered weakly, barely cutting through the thick shadows of the night.

And then—she saw it.

A man stood over a woman's body, his hand gripping a knife so tightly his knuckles were white. The woman convulsed on the ground, blood pooling beneath her as her fingers twitched. A wet, gurgling sound escaped her lips before her body stilled.

Dead.

Anaya breath hitched. Her stomach twisted.

And then, as if sensing her presence, the man turned his head slowly.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, everything was silent. Just the wind. Just the flickering light. Just the distant sound of a dog barking.

Then—he moved.

(Adrenaline spikes as the anaya tries to flee, but escape is impossible.)

Anaya gasped and spun on her heel, running for her life.

Her feet slammed against the pavement, the cold night air stinging her face. Her lungs burned, her pulse roared in her ears. She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to get away.

But the footsteps behind her were fast.

Too fast.

She barely made it past two houses before a strong hand grabbed her wrist.

She screamed. Fought. Scratched. Kicked. But his grip was like iron.

And then, before she could take another breath, a cloth pressed over her mouth. The sickly sweet scent of chloroform flooded her senses.

Her vision blurred. Her strength drained away.

The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her whole was his face—expressionless, cold, and terrifyingly beautiful.

As Anaya's eyes flutter open, a cold shiver runs down her spine. The air is damp, the darkness suffocating. She tries to move—only to feel the heavy bite of metal around her ankles. Chained.

Her breath quickens. Where is she? What's happening?

Then, from the shadows, a figure emerges. Tall. Overpowering. Drenched in an eerie stillness that makes her skin crawl.

A voice, smooth yet laced with something sinister, breaks the silence.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Terror grips her chest. She was shocked but amused looking at the person in front of him she laugh ,a manic hollow and bitter laugh so cold that no one can expect from a prey HAHAHAHA HAHAHAH

The dim light catches his face, and suddenly, her thoughts spiral.

Is this really happening? How? Seriously it's you? Anaya said running her hand through her hairs 

The man's eyes widen—not in shock, but in something else. Amusement.

She tilts her head, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.

"Hey...", didn't expected to see you here… . Her lips has a continuous laugh

Anaya's voice was steady, almost teasing. A slow smirk tugged at her lips as she tilted her head.

"Mikhail... I never thought it would be you. The great actor of Russia." She let out a hollow laugh, her chains clinking softly. "How fascinating. A famous star... who's also a serial killer. Hah… hahaha!"

Mikhail's grin widened, his sharp gaze drinking in her reaction.

"Are you insane?" he mused, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. "A crazy little thing, aren't you? Don't you realize I can kill you anytime?"

His voice was playful, but the dark promise beneath it sent shivers down her spine.

But Anaya? She only leaned back, eyes gleaming with something twisted, something broken.

"And you really think I'm afraid of death, honey?"

Mikhail chuckled, tilting his head as he watched her with dark amusement.

"Well, well... a real deal this time, aren't you, sweetie?" His voice dripped with mock affection, a sinister smile playing on his lips.

He took a slow step forward, his shadow stretching over her.

"Now, how should I kill you?" He tapped a finger against his chin, as if deep in thought. "Hmm... let me think."

His grin widened, eyes gleaming with something almost playful.

"Should I chop you into little pieces? Or maybe burn you alive?" He let the words linger, savoring the way they hung in the cold air. "I could throw you in acid... or peel your skin, little by little. Which one would you prefer, sweetie?"

Mikhail tilted his head, his grin widening. "Well, sweetie, you didn't answer me. How should I kill you?"

Anaya met his gaze, unfazed. Her lips curled into a smirk. "Surprise me."

For a second, Mikhail was silent. Then—laughter. Low at first, then rising into something almost joyful.

"You're either fearless or insane," he mused, stepping closer. His shadow stretched over her, swallowing her in darkness. "Which one is it?"

Anaya leaned against the cold wall, her chains clinking. "Maybe both."

Mikhail crouched beside her, reaching out. His fingers traced along her jawline—soft, almost tender. But the glint in his eyes? That was pure cruelty.

"Let's test that, shall we?"

He trailed his fingers lower, ghosting over Anaya's throat. He could feel her pulse—steady, unwavering. No trembling, no pleading. Interesting.

He chuckled, pulling back. "You're really not scared, huh?"

Anaya tilted her head. "Should I be?"

Mikhail's amusement deepened. "Most people beg. They cry, scream, bargain for their pathetic lives. But you…" He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "You're just sitting here, waiting."

Anaya exhaled slowly. "If you wanted me dead, I'd be dead already."

Silence.

Mikhail's grin faltered for the briefest moment before returning, sharper this time. Smart girl.

He stood up and stretched, as if bored. "Alright then, sweetheart. Since you're so calm, let's make this fun."

He walked over to a small wooden table, picking up a sleek, sharp knife. Turning it in his fingers, he spoke without looking at her.

"Here's the deal—either I carve a pretty little scar on you, or…" He finally met her gaze.

"Or I make one on you. How about it?" Anaya said, her voice light, almost teasing. Her innocent-looking eyes held a darkness that wasn't innocent at all.

Mikhail froze for a moment before letting out a slow, amused chuckle.

"You really are something else, aren't you, sweetheart?" He twirled the knife between his fingers, his eyes locked onto her. "Threatening me while chained up? That takes guts."

Anaya tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smirk. "You were the one asking for fun, weren't you?"

Mikhail crouched down to her level again, his face inches from hers. His eyes gleamed with intrigue rather than anger. "Tell me, Anaya... have you ever held a knife before?"

Anaya didn't answer right away. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Have you ever met someone who enjoyed the sight of blood as much as you?"

For the first time, Mikhail's grin faltered—just for a fraction of a second.

Then, he laughed.

Low. Dark. Intrigued.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I think I'm going to enjoy breaking you."

Anaya's smile didn't waver. "You can try."

Mikhail's grip on the knife tightened. He studied her, searching for cracks in that eerie calm. But there were none. Just those innocent-but-not-innocent eyes staring right back at him.

For the first time in a long time, he felt something unfamiliar crawl up his spine. Excitement? Or was it a warning?

A slow grin spread across his face. "You can try," he mocked, echoing her words. "Fine then, sweetheart. Let's play."

He suddenly flipped the knife, the handle facing her.

Anaya looked at him, then at the blade, her smirk never fading.

"You trust me with this?" she asked, her voice dripping with amusement.

Mikhail chuckled, his eyes gleaming with something almost predatory. "No, but I want to see what you'll do with it."

And with that, he dropped the knife into her lap.

The cold steel kissed her skin, and for the first time since waking up in this basement, Anaya's heart raced—not from fear. But from something much, much darker.

Anaya twirled the knife between her fingers, its cold steel glinting in the dim light. The weight felt unfamiliar yet thrilling in her grasp. She traced the tip along her palm absentmindedly, watching Mikhail with quiet amusement.

He stood before her, unbothered, a smirk dancing on his lips as if this were nothing but a game.

"Are you trying to kill me, sweetheart?" he asked, voice laced with mockery.

Anaya tilted her head, lips curling into a slow smile. Without a word, she pressed the blade against his chest, right over his heart.

Mikhail didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a soft chuckle. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward. Their bodies collided, her breath hitching as she found herself dangerously close.

The knife was still between them, its tip now digging into his skin. A thin red line blossomed on his shirt, but his dark eyes never wavered.

"Go on," he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. "Do it."

Anaya searched his face, waiting for a flicker of fear, a sign of hesitation. But there was nothing. Just amusement. Just confidence.

A slow, wicked grin spread across her lips. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Mikhail's grip on her wrist tightened slightly, his smirk widening. "More than you can imagine."

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them crackled with tension—a challenge, an unspoken dare.

Then, just as suddenly, Anaya sighed and pushed him away. The knife clattered to the floor, forgotten.

"This is boring," she muttered, stretching her arms lazily as if she had just woken up from a nap.

Mikhail chuckled softly, his amusement deepening. "I knew you wouldn't do it," he said, picking up the knife and rolling it between his fingers. "You enjoy the thrill, but you don't crave the kill."

Anaya met his gaze, her expression unreadable.

He stepped closer once again, pressing the knife back into her hand.

"Maybe next time," he murmured, his voice dripping with challenge.

Anaya glanced at the weapon, then back at him. Her fingers curled around the handle as a smirk tugged at her lips.

"We'll see."

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."