SAY MY NAME

The woman’s courage evaporated. She knew the risks of dancing in a club like this—men with wandering hands, leering eyes, entitled arrogance. But this… this was different. The men she’d faced before were crude, vulgar, pathetic. The man before her now was terrifying—and wrapped in a beauty so sharp it cut.

She swallowed hard before answering. “L-Lana,” she whispered, forcing strength into her trembling voice. “L-let me go—”

“**NO.**”

One word. One voice.

And the entire club froze.

Lana jerked in shock.

The dim lights dimmed further. The music died. Everyone held their breath. Those who knew Atticus understood: when *he* chose someone for himself, there was no escape. Many had prepared for this moment—some even welcomed it. Because the death he offered was exquisite, wrapped in pleasure so profound it felt like absolution. Countless broken, desperate souls longed to vanish not in pain, but in rapture—without the guilt of suicide, without the sting of goodbye.

Atticus pulled her closer.

His face hovered just an inch from hers. His breath was hot, heavy, laced with whiskey and something older—like tomb dust and honey. The scent alone nearly intoxicated her.

His voice dropped to a guttural growl. “From now on, you’re mine. And I don’t accept refusal.”

Lana snapped back to herself. “I don’t want this!!” she screamed, shoving at his chest—her hands shaking, useless. “Let me go!” She turned to the crowd, eyes wide with panic. “HELP—!!”

But Atticus didn’t flinch. Didn’t rage. Didn’t even seem to notice.

He simply raised his free hand—slowly—and snapped his fingers.

***“Tchak!”***

And the entire club—every single person inside—stopped moving.

Like puppets with their strings cut.

Like time itself had crystallized.

Only the two of them remained alive in the frozen world.

Lana gasped, her breath catching as she stared at the sea of motionless faces—statues carved from fear and awe.

“See?” he whispered, his voice almost gentle now—and that was the most terrifying thing of all. “No one can help you. No one can hear you. It’s just you and me. Alone. In this world. In this universe.”

He pressed her tighter—his chest against hers, pinning her small frame between the steel dance pole and his body. She was utterly trapped.

Lana began to cry—silent tears streaming down her cheeks, her sobs choked in her throat. “P-please… sir… let me go…”

She knew this man was unlike any predator she’d ever met. Slaps, insults, shame—none of it would work on him. He wasn’t human. He held dominion over reality itself.

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” he warned, his eyes flashing crimson—not with light, but with fire. “Call me Atticus. Say it. Now.”

“I-I won’t—”

***CRACK.***

Not bone. But power—shattering the air like glass.

In one swift motion, he seized her long hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Say it,” he commanded, his voice now flat—devoid of emotion, stripped of mercy. Like a judge pronouncing a death sentence.

“...Atticus…” she whispered, barely audible.

“Louder.”

“**ATTICUS!!**” she screamed, her voice breaking between sobs.

He smiled—satisfied.

Then, without warning—

He bent down and lifted her.

He carried her away—like a hunter bearing his prey home.

One arm under her back. One beneath her thigh.

“**AAAA—NO! LET ME GO… LET ME GO…**” Lana kicked, screamed, clawed—but her limbs felt numb, wrapped in a force not her own, as if her very will had been smothered.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured into her ear—warm, intimate, horrifying. “I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to think. Don’t need to fight. Just… surrender.”

And as he stepped out of the club—

The crowd stirred back to life—like puppets jerked upright by unseen strings.

But no one chased after them.

No one shouted.

No one remembered what had just happened.

Because Atticus hadn’t just taken Lana.

He had erased them.

And once again—the world bowed to him.

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