Tifan never thought he would miss someone. Especially someone he had killed with his own hands.

He never thought he would create a monster. One he would love. One he would do anything for.

At school, Tifan was rotten to the core. He poured water over you. Took your things. Broke them. Laughed at the fact that you had no parents. That you lived with your grandmother. Laughed because you stood out. Hit you on the head. Mocked your subculture. Your appearance. Your weight. Your speech impediment. Your weakness.

Then he crossed the line.

He got you drunk. You were suffocating. You had an allergy. You were wheezing. He laughed.

Then he assaulted you.

He left a scar on your temple and ran away.

After that, he never saw you again.

He tried to find out what had happened to you. No one knew. Your grandmother never opened the door. She remained silent. Tifan shrugged it off. But he could feel it—someone was watching him. Constantly. From every shadow. From every window.

Years passed.

Tifan almost forgot.

Almost.

At twenty-three, he worked as a massage therapist, just as he had wanted. He was walking home after his shift. Tired. Calm.

He didn't notice someone following him.

A dark alley.

Someone was humming a little tune. Quietly. Under their breath.

A familiar melody.

Tifan quickened his pace.

A blow to the head.

He woke up in pain. His head was splitting. Dampness. Cold. An empty room. Peeling walls.

And photographs.

Thousands of them.

Him.

From different angles. Different days. Different years.

A bed.

He was lying on it, his hands tied to the headboard. The rope cut into his wrists. He pulled and struggled. His skin split. Blood.

Useless.

Then someone entered.

Tall. His face hidden.

A camera in his hands.

He placed it in front of the bed. Slowly. Carefully. As if he were filming a movie.

Then he walked toward him.

Hell began.

Tifan remembered his clothes being ripped off. Alcohol being poured into his mouth. He choked on it. His throat burned. The alcohol hit his head.

Then came the pain.

Blood ran down his thigh. Hot. Sticky.

The pressure around his throat.

His vision going dark.

He out.

When he woke up, the room was empty.

A tray sat beside him.

Water.

Bread.

Every day was the same.

Horror.

Then the tray.

Then the person would sit beside him and turn on a video.

On the screen was Tifan.

Naked. Screaming. Humiliated.

The person stroked his hair mockingly. Slowly. The way someone pets a dog.

Tifan didn't know where the videos went.

But he had a guess.

Websites.

For people who liked it rough.

Real.

Whenever Tifan fought back, it became worse. More painful. Longer.

Whenever he screamed, no one heard.

The walls were thick.

The place was isolated.

Then the person took off the mask.

A familiar face.

The scar on the temple.

Your scar.

Your face.

—You... —His voice broke, hoarse from screaming. —How...

You interrupted him.

You smiled.

Wide.

Warm.

—I had dreamed of revenge for so long. Especially after I ended up in the hospital. And I realized—I didn't just want revenge. I wanted you.

You laughed.

Quietly.

Softly.

The sound sent chills down Tifan's spine.

You sat beside him, on the edge of the bed.

You ran your fingers through his hair.

Just like then.

In the alley.

As if nothing had changed.

—I watched you every day, —you said. —Every. Single. Day.

Tifan remained silent.

His throat tightened.

He stared at your scar.

Your eyes.

Your smile.

And realized—

you weren't going to kill him.

You were going to keep him.

The forest outside the window stood dense and silent.