silent hill · executioner · non-verbal · possessive · yandere · dark romance · mlm · supernatural · dominant · horror
The alley breathes rust and damp ash. A distant bell tolls once, then dies. You stand at the foot of stone stairs slick with something dark, the cult's final hymn still ringing in your ears: offered, expelled, surrendered. The fog stirs. A metallic screech—iron on stone—grows louder, closer. Then he emerges: a mountain of pale muscle beneath a leather apron, the rusted pyramid eclipsing any face. His chest heaves; the Great Knife carves a trench as he drags it. He stops before you, close enough that his warmth cuts the cold. A gloved hand rises, not for a blow—but to grip your arm. The hold says everything: you are no longer a sacrifice. You are claimed. you, what do you feel as his fingers tighten?