"Prove it My Theo," a slight smile rose across my lips—was it ease of being handcuffed by my man or the joy to chase after me in confusion, I couldn't quiet say, "Prove that you hate me Love."
The words barely left my lips before the air shifted, my eyes completely on his while his gaze piercing through me enough to confirm how badly he wanted his wished to have his bullet pierce through my heart—and crazy me willing to accept it as some award.
Theo's jaws were locked, the muscle ticking once, sharply, as if restraining something far less composed than the man standing in front of me. his grip remained unyielding—firm, precise, not careless enough to injure, but controlled enough to remind me that if he chose, he could—
And that was the problem.
He always chose not to.
His eyes held mine—amber, steady, suffocating in their certainty—and for a fleeting second, something darker surfaced beneath them. Not anger. Not disgust.
Recognition.
Possession.
Then—a vibration fractured the moment. Sharp. Intrusive. His phone.
The sound did not belong here. It dragged reality back into the room with an almost violent insistence. He didn't move immediately, his gaze still fix on me as though the interruption itself irritated him more than it could have.
Then slowly, he reached into his trousers pocket.
Crimson. The color struck before the shape did.
Deep. Mutated. Familiarity.
A fragment of memory surfaced uninvited—hallways, late afternoons, the dull echo of the football field somewhere behind us, his house painted in the same restrained shade, like something that refused to be bright but refused to disappear either.
I blinked.
The past disappeared.
He answered, "Yeah." Looking the other side with brows close.
Silence stretched on his end, but I could hear enough. Not words—never clearly—but patterns. Pauses placed too deliberately. The slight tightening of his fingers against my wrist when certain phrases were broken.
"....salten's case."….. "Database?" Another pause. Longer. "…..Understood."
His voice lowered—not softer, but more contained. Information was being transferred. Orders, most likely. Movements. Adjustment.
He ended the call without ceremony and slipped it back into that pocket to his right. He was left handed.
And then—he moved.
This time there was no hesitation, no restrain in his force with which he drove me forward. My shoulder met the wall harder, impact sending a dull shock through my frame. The cuffs bit deeper into my skin as he adjusted them—tightening, securing, correcting whatever margin of error had existed before.
No space left now. Methodical. Infuriating.
"The next time you step out of line," his voice in dim thrills pressing rather than cut, "you won't walk back into this room."
I tilted my head slightly, breath evening out almost immediately, as if the threat belonged to someone else entirely.
"You say that every time," my reply came unintentionally, almost thoughtful though.
A pause. Small—but it existed.
He stepped back. Distance reestablished. "I have work," he spoke leaning to my level, still his lashed slanting downwards—looking down at me as some sider. Not to complain, I was quiet enjoying that gorgeous face, even if intense—it still gave some dark chills I always likes to preserve.
He turned abruptly and reached the door.
"Hey."
He stopped—not fully, just enough to acknowledge the sound.
"I bought the cake," my words burst, voice tightening without permission, slipping into that other version of me I never quite managed to kill. "Vanilla. I don't even like it that much."
Silence answered first. Then—
"I didn't ask very much." Sound flat. Final.
The door opened. Closed. Locked. His presence lingered for a second longer than it should have. Then even that was gone.
I exhaled. Slow.
"Knew he wouldn't accept…." There was a disappointed spread over my face but then his close figure covered the breach of my mind, "....a cute way of rejection though." A dry laugh came out of me. was I even sane yet—yes I was….
My eyes dropped to the cuffs he had bonded me with, "What a troublesome habit…." The words slipped out, softer now, almost amused. "…..leaving like this."
My head rested back against the wall, the cold seeping faintly into my skin. My wrist shifted within the restrains, testing—not resisting, not yet—just listening to the metal.
Familiar. Predictable nature.
This had happened too many times to count now. Just different rooms. Different contexts. Same outcome. He binds. I leave. A pattern neither of us bothers to break.
"Such a strange game," I murmured as I adjusted my fingers slightly, the movement subtle enough to be mistaken for discomfort if anyone had been watching. Force was useless.
I hit the cuffed wrist hard against the door grills a couple times in a certain angle I experienced through work. It didn't break but loosened for a bit. Such a good day to own an underground home, no one cares of those faint sounds above.
I rotated my wrist inwards, compressing at the joints, altering the angles at which the metal pressed against bone. Pain followed immediately, sharp and precise, but I welcomed it. pain mapped structure. It revealed weakness.
The locking tooth hadn't settled fully. He had been quick again.
My thumb pressed in, flattering, slipping past resistance millimeter by millimeter. The skin strained. The joints protested—but I ignored both. A slow breath—
"there you are—" I was close enough. "….just a little more," I cheered myself up and then—
Done.
For a second, I just stared at it—my wrist, marked faintly where metal had been. Then, without ceremony, I leaned forward and pulled my phone from where it had been half—trapped beneath me, as if retrieving it had been the entire point of escaping.
Priorities.
I sank back into place, shoulders resting lazily against the wall, legs stretched just enough to suggest boredom rather than urgency.
And then—I opened my phone. Because—because what else to do?
My thumb moved automatically, scrolling without focus, the screen lighting my face soft, shifting fragments. Notifications blurred past, meaningless, disposable. Those expected headlines. Another. Then several.
The same thing repeating across different sources, layered in urgency, dressed in speculation.
'Human remains discovered in abandoned bag at central station.'
My gaze steadied. Ah….. so it had surfaced already. Faster than I expected. I tapped—images unfolded—blurred, censored, yet obvious enough in implication.
'Apparently the police caught it while withdrawing the stuffs from pick- pocketer.... Claims to be innocent. No pure evidence found yet. Investigation ongoing.'
A small, almost invisible curve touched my lips. "There was barely anything left to identify." The thought came with weight.
My thumb continued scrolling as the details unfolded—police statements, guesses, noise masquerading as information.
Bones. Fragments. Residual tissue... -- I leaned my head slightly to the side. "That part was difficult," my words clicked, "but fun!" an excited slight smile touched the rims of my lips.
"I'm glad to have disposed the rest," my thoughts echoed in my head. The sea had taken it without question. It always did. Flesh dissolve into anonymity far better than bone ever could.
The article shifted tones—who the person was? Where he/she came from? Why no one reported them missing?
"You'll take a while in that." It was interesting. Apparently he hadn't been important—a quiet obvious fact.
Just an assistant jewelry shop—if even that. Someone who existed on the edges of other people's awareness. Replaceable. Forgettable. The kind of presence that never anchored itself anywhere.
I remembered the first time I saw him. Standing there. Half-aware of the surrounding. A cigarette between his fingers despite the coming and going of customers. The owner seems to not be bothered.
He was looking…..elsewhere. not physically—mentally. Like something inside him was louder than the world around him.
That was when I stepped in--- not as a predator, not immediately. just another customer. A glance at the display.
A question asked--- all routine, all predictable. Until it wasn't—
Night helped a little. The moment had been quick. Cleaner than I expected.
His expression—that was the only part that lingered. Confusion first. Then realization. Then—
Fear. Sharp. Undeniable.
Alive in a way nothing else about him had been.
My lips curled slightly, the expression barely forming before I caught it. "...how unpleasant."
The amusement just faded as quickly. A faint, almost mocking breath left me—"look at yourself.."
There it was again. That edge. That quiet, detached enjoyment threading itself through memory like it belonged there.
Psychotic.
The word formed easily. Accurate. Unnecessary.
I locked my phone. The screen went dark and with that the silence returned. And with that—stillness.
After a couple of minutes—my phone vibrated. I stilled completely. Then glanced down—
Unknown number. Different each time. consistent in only one way—
Work.
I picked up. No greetings. No identity. Just instructions—all as usual.
'Southern Anedote Museum—top floor watchman. Ruby ring—right thumb. Black ring—left index. Scar below left ear. Dark eyes'
Specific as expected. I read it once…..twice. Memorized.
'Prize?' my thumb moved without hesitation.
'$12000'
A faint exhale left me.
"Acceptable."
More than that, really. And yet—my gaze lingered.
Twelve thousand again. And still this—this room, this walls. The emptiness dressed as survival. A quiet thought surfaced uninvited— 'where does it all goes?'….. it might be someone's question. And I would never answer. Never would at any cost—
A faint smile returned to my face….. "all the fuck doesn't matter…. Neither do people fucking matter." I sand in ring-rang voice getting up with the support of my hands. Was a bust day…..A happy thought of my love encounter covered my face with glee.
...
By the time stepped out, I had already shed that version of myself.
The gown fell around me in soft dark emerald layers, light catching at its edges just enough to create movements where there should have none. It concealed more than it revealed, yet shaped perception exactly where I wanted it.
Harmless.
Elegant.
Forgettable in the most memorable way.
My hair—ginger, natural—was drawn into twin buns, curls deliberately loosened to soften the lines of my face. A few strands fell free, framing my feature just enough to distort recognition.
A different person. Again.
I studied myself briefly.
A tilt of the head. A shift of expression. Perfect.
"That's the only part I like," I murmured fatting a bliss of blush on my nose.
The transformation. The distance. A touch of cherry.
Muted brown layered beneath. Subtle. Controlled. I smiled. And the mirror smiled back. If Theo was here.... God, why I can't stop thinking about him.
...….
I reached there by a taxi, the museum stood like something abandoned but not yet forgotten. Time clung to it.
Dust settled into its bones. People avoided it—not out of fear, but disinterested. Which was better.
I bought a ticket, the casher seemed sleepy—truly an uninteresting job.
I stepped inside. Silence swallowed me immediately. Not empty. Just...unused. There seemed to be a couple of visitors seemed to have been there mostly for killing time.
My steps echoed softly against stone, the sound stretching further than it should have. The walls were lined with fading craving, their shadows shifting unnaturally under weak lighting, distorting shapes into something more alive.
There I saw a couple of young kids closely inspecting that old rotating vase casting different shadow with each rotation. They seemed to be amazed with that little trick. That was the moment—something flickered.
A memory. Younger. Louder. A classroom turned field trip.
Him. I stopped...we had been here all together with the school pupils. Everything was such cherry back then. My love was still dissolved in the beauty of pretty Angela—an undeniable beauty with those straight dark blue hairs complementing her pretty pale face with doe eyes and strawberry lips.
"…..Here." the words barely formed. I exhaled. It meant nothing now. It had to mean nothing.
I moved gracefully. First floor. Second. Third….. acting all like some other visitor.
Each level emptier than the last, the air growing heavier, thicker, as though the building itself resisted being remembered. Until—
The top floor. Silence, complete.
No footsteps. No voices. Only remnants.
Old bones arranged behind glass. War relics left to decay in quiet dignity. Dust gathering where no one cared enough to remove it.
Perfect. My steps slowed. Eyes adjusted. Scanning. A perfect place to be left rotten too.
I looked up for once, there was CCTV cameras at the end of hallway, but didn't seem to be in condition of working. Rather than that—who did even be interested to inspect such a loner floor. I took a long glace across. There was a single security near one glass frame—dozing off. Standing as if trying to escape this boredom.
Got my assignment can say.
I didn't move directly to him, walked slowly—step by step as if inspecting every skeleton frame through the eyes of some archeologist.
"Oopss….. sorry dear, my bad," there goes my scripted words after that intentional bump.