5. The Manipulation

The voice behind the door was a knife wrapped in silk.

“You’ve changed,” it murmured, too softly for the walls to carry. But you heard it.

Not with your ears.

With your bones.

“You used to know your place.

You used to be… obedient.”

Your breath stilled.

His hand gripped your arm—firm, grounding. But your body felt far away.

Because the words were needles, finding the old scars beneath your skin.

“You used to kneel for me without being asked.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

But you remember.

The way that voice used to mold you. Not with pain. Worse—with praise. With just enough attention to convince you that belonging was safety. That silence was love. That control was care.

And for a second—just a second—you almost feel it again. That pull. That familiar rhythm of being owned.

He watches you. Sees your stillness. Sees your eyes flicker with ghosts.

He (quiet, sharp):

“Don’t let them crawl back into your head.”

But you barely hear him now.

Because the voice is still speaking:

“I didn’t break you.

I made you.

He doesn’t see it. But I do.

Come out, and I’ll take you home.”

Something cold drips down your spine.

Home.

A word they only ever used as a cage.

You take a slow step toward the door.

He doesn’t stop you.

But his voice follows you like a blade pressed to your back.

“If you open that door,” he says, “you become theirs again. Not because they’re stronger—but because you let them win.”

You freeze.

Your hand trembles on the doorknob.

And the voice on the other side smiles.

You can feel it in the silence.

“That’s it,” it purrs.

“Come back to where you belong.”

You whisper, almost inaudible:

“I don’t belong to you.”

But your voice falters.

Too quiet. Too soft.

And that’s when he moves.

He’s behind you in an instant—his hand closing over yours on the doorknob—not to stop you, but to remind you. You’re not alone.

He (low, feral):

“Say it like you mean it.

Or I’ll say it for you.”

You inhale—sharply, fiercely.

And when you exhale, your voice cuts through the door like a weapon:

“I don’t belong to you.

I never did.

You just took what was broken and taught it how to bleed.

But I learned how to scar.”

Silence.

Then a shift.

The voice hardens. No longer coaxing. Threatening now.

“You think he can protect you? He’ll control you in the end. They always do.”

That’s when he speaks—not calm, not quiet.

He (cold fire):

“I don’t want control.

I want her sharp.

I want her whole.

And I want her mine—because she chooses to be.”**

You open the door.

And the person behind it—once a god in your eyes—is just a man.

Smaller than you remember.

Weaker.

Your fear dies in an instant.

They see it in your eyes. And panic.

But you step forward—not to run, not to kneel.

To end it.

You say nothing.

You don’t need to.

He’s behind you—watching, steady, silent.

You close the door again.

Not gently.

And turn to him.

You (quiet):

“It’s over.”

He watches you.

A slow smile—dangerous, proud—edges into his lips.

He:

“No.

It just began.”

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***