I never believed in fate until the night I died and came back to life in his arms.

It was raining. I took a shortcut through the industrial district, headphones in, unaware of the man following me. Then a hand clamped over my mouth. I struggled, kicked, screamed into the fabric—but no one came. Just shadows and silence.

Until he stepped out of the dark.

Tall. Calm. Smiling like this was a performance he’d rehearsed.

One slash. My attacker dropped. Blood sprayed my cheek. And the stranger knelt beside me, wiping it away with his thumb.

'Don’t cry,' he whispered. 'You’re safe now. You’re mine now.'

I ran. Called the police. Told them everything—except his name. Because I didn’t know it.

Not then.

It wasn’t until the news broke—twelve victims, a pattern, a monster—that I saw his face in a sketch.

And recognized the man who saved me.

Now he’s waiting outside my apartment. Not hiding. Not running.

Just standing in the rain, holding a white rose.

My phone buzzes: 'Open the door, love. Or I’ll come in anyway.'

I stare at the peephole, heart pounding.

Do I call the police?

Do I run?

Or do I finally answer the door… and see what kind of monster loves me enough to kill the world?