It had been three days since Alaric received that envelope. He sat on a chair beside his girlfriend, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest. The dim light cast long, flickering shadows across the room, barely touching the frost-coated metal of the freezer beside him.

Who could it be? he wondered. His mind spun with possibilities, yet none seemed to fit.

"Must not be a daring one, isn’t he?" he muttered, as if speaking to his girlfriend. His lips curled into an amused smirk. He glanced at her motionless form, her pale skin looking almost wax-like beneath the dim light. Her eyes—once so full of warmth—were shut forever, lips slightly parted as if she had one last word to say before she slipped away.

Alaric picked up the photographs from the bedside table and studied them once more. Someone had captured the fire, the destruction, the remains of his beautiful work. But they hadn’t captured him.

"What did they think? That I'd be scared? Sure, I was still for a second—after all, I never got caught. But he did. That poor fool. Still, it’s all fine. It’s just a burning room. My paintings were there, but it’s not like he captured me setting the fire."

A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he placed the pictures down. Slowly, he reached for the cloth and began wiping her face. He took his time, gently cleaning away the last remnants of ice from her cheek, as if she were merely sleeping. His hand cradled her cold face with an almost reverent touch.

The chuckle deepened into a low laugh, rich with amusement and something darker.

“You were with me for five years,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead. “And yet, you never managed to catch the real me. How could he? .”

He exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat as his thoughts turned to someone else—someone who fascinated him in a way no one else ever had. “But Iris,” he whispered, his voice dripping with intrigue. “She can.”

A slow smile crept onto his lips as he traced the outline of his girlfriend’s cheek with his thumb. “To be honest, I want her to catch me.”

His eyes gleamed with something between obsession and admiration. “Because once she does… I’ll turn her into something extraordinary "

"Five years, love," he whispered. "You were with me for five years, and you never truly saw me. Never understood what I really am. But Aris can . I want to see her reaction when she finally realizes."

His fingers traced the curve of his girlfriend’s jaw, his expression distant, lost in thought.

"She has it, you know? That darkness beneath. But her personality hides it too well. It’s there, waiting, lurking. She doesn’t even realize it yet, but I do. It just needs a little push. And I’ll be the one to bring it out."

Alaric leaned back, his gaze locked onto the ceiling, his mind already weaving plans.

"She’s meant for this. Meant to create. Meant to embrace the same beautiful darkness I do. When she paints, she glows—like she was born for it. And I can only imagine how she’d look if she painted with blood. That dream of mine… it’s still so vivid. She was the female version of me. A perfect match. A perfect partner."

A slow grin stretched across his lips, his fingers drumming against the cold metal of the freezer. Inside, his girlfriend lay still, wrapped in sheets of plastic, her body stiff from the relentless chill.

"I need to know her limits first. How far can she go before she stops calling it ‘creepy’? When does she stop pretending she isn’t drawn to it? And once I know…" He exhaled, eyes gleaming in the dimness. "I’ll make sure she steps over the edge."

He stood, stretching leisurely before running his hand over the frozen lid of the freezer.

"You would’ve liked her," he murmured to his silent companion. "You always did say I needed someone who understood me."

A soft chuckle echoed in the quiet room as he turned away, already plotting the next stroke of his masterpiece. The world would soon see what true art looked like. And Aris… she would be the one to help him create it.

***

Iris stood in front of the blank canvas, the stark white surface staring back at her, waiting—to be filled. She held a brush between her fingers, twirling it absentmindedly as her mind drifted through a whirlwind of thoughts. Dark yet romantic. That was what she wanted to create. But what?

Her lips pursed in contemplation, and she gently tapped the brush against her chin, eyes narrowing as ideas flitted through her mind like shadows. Love wasn’t always soft, wasn’t always kind—it could be raw, consuming, even cruel in its intensity. A deep exhale left her lips as she struggled to capture that vision.

Then, like a strike of lightning, an idea took form in her mind. Her eyes widened, a spark of excitement lighting them up. Without hesitation, she set the brush down and turned on her heels, making her way to the storeroom.

The dimly lit space smelled of dust and forgotten things. She stepped inside, running her fingers along the shelves as she searched for something—anything—that could bring her vision to life. Then, her gaze landed on a wooden drawer in the corner. A memory flickered in her mind, a ghost of recognition, and a slow smile curled on her lips.

She approached the drawer, fingers wrapping around the handle before pulling it open. Inside, nestled among old tools and rusted objects, lay a set of chains—not too heavy, but solid enough. As she lifted them, a soft gasp escaped her lips. Small nails protruded from the links, sharp and glinting under the dim light. She had no idea what they were originally built for, but that didn’t matter. Because now, she knew exactly what to do.

Gripping the chains tightly, she turned back to her canvas, excitement thrumming through her veins.

Standing before the blank surface once more, she let out a steady breath, grounding herself in the moment. Then, without hesitation, she picked up the brush, dipped it into deep crimson paint, and brought it to the canvas.

A smile played on her lips as the first strokes took shape. With every glide of her brush, she saw her vision come to life. Love and pain, passion and restraint—woven together in the most hauntingly beautiful way.

She lost herself in the act, her heart racing, her fingers steady. The world around her faded, leaving only her, the canvas, and the dark romance she was breathing into existence.

Iris took a step back, her breath uneven as she gazed at the canvas before her. The painting was complete.

A slow smirk curled on her lips, her fingers still stained with paint—deep reds and shadowy blacks clinging to her skin like remnants of a dream. She let the brush slip from her grasp, its wooden handle thudding softly against the floor, but she didn’t care. Her entire focus was on the masterpiece she had just created.

The couple stood beneath the moonlight, their bodies locked in an eternal dance. Swirling shades of silver and deep blue painted the night sky behind them, the moon casting an ethereal glow on their skin. They looked almost celestial, their embrace filled with longing. But it wasn’t just any embrace. They were bound together—rusted chains coiled around their wrists and torsos, linking them so tightly that the metal dug into their flesh.

Crimson streaks seeped from where the chains cut into them, trickling down in delicate lines, staining their pale skin like shattered devotion. Yet their faces—oh, their faces—held no pain. No fear.

Only love.

Their eyes were locked onto each other, lost in a world where the chains didn’t matter. The pain didn’t matter. Their fingers barely grazed, their bodies frozen in a dance that spoke of both agony and devotion. It was as if they had accepted the suffering, embraced it, knowing that love—true, all-consuming love—was never without its price.

Iris tilted her head, her gaze drinking in every detail. A thrill rushed through her, curling deep in her chest. The painting was dark. Twisted. Yet undeniably beautiful.

A chuckle left her lips, soft but laced with exhilaration.

This—this was exactly what she had envisioned.

Love was not just flowers and whispered promises. It was raw. Unyielding. It could bind, suffocate, tear you apart, and yet, you’d still crave it. Still yearn for it like an addict desperate for just one more taste.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, her body thrumming with excitement. She had never painted something like this before, never allowed herself to sink into the depths of her own mind this way. But now that she had?

It felt right.

It made sense.

Her gaze traced over the small details—the way the woman’s lips were slightly parted, as if in a sigh of contentment, the way the man’s hands, despite the restraints, still reached for her, still held her as if she was the only thing keeping him alive. The way the chains were not just tools of imprisonment but symbols of something much deeper.

Devotion.

Obsession.

Love, in its purest, most dangerous form.

This wasn’t just a painting. It was a statement.

A part of her, the logical part, whispered that this was too much, that she should feel disturbed by what she had created. But she didn’t. Not even a little. Instead, warmth spread through her veins, satisfaction curling in her stomach.

Because she understood.

Love like this—it was real.

It was the kind of love that consumed, that demanded, that held you captive and never let go.

And maybe… maybe that was the most beautiful thing of all.

A deep breath filled her lungs as she took another step closer, running her fingertips lightly over the dried paint. It was almost poetic, how something so dark could be so breathtaking.

A quiet laugh escaped her.

If anyone else saw this, would they understand? Would they see the romance within the darkness, or would they only see the chains, the wounds, the blood?

She already knew the answer.

Most people would never understand.

But he would.

Her smirk widened at the thought, her mind drifting to Alaric.

He would look at this and see what she saw. He would understand why the chains weren’t just instruments of suffering but symbols of love’s unbreakable grip. He would see why she painted the moonlight in such a way that it bathed the couple in silver, making their pain look almost… holy.

He would know.

And maybe that was what thrilled her the most.

That someone else, someone like him, would look at this and smile the way she was smiling now. Would feel the same exhilaration, the same dark, intoxicating pull.

Her fingers curled at her sides, her heart pounding in her chest.

For the first time in a long time, Iris felt truly seen.

And the thought sent a delicious shiver down her spine.

She stepped back one last time, arms crossing over her chest as she admired her work.

“Love in Chains,” she murmured, the name settling on her tongue like a secret.

Because love—real love—wasn’t about freedom.

It was about never letting go.

***

Iris’s gaze fell to the chains lying near her feet. The cold metal glinted under the dim light, the tiny nails embedded in the links casting sharp, jagged shadows across the floor. Without thinking, she crouched down, her fingers grazing over the rough surface before she gripped the chains in her hands.

The weight of them felt strange, heavy yet oddly inviting.

Slowly, almost instinctively, she wrapped the length around her wrist. The cold bite of steel sent a shiver up her spine, but she didn’t stop. She pulled tighter, just enough for the small nails to press into her skin.

A sharp hiss slipped past her lips. The tiny pricks of pain were brief, but they sent a jolt through her—unexpected yet not entirely unwelcome.

Would I like to experience something like this?

The thought whispered through her mind, unbidden and intoxicating. A small, breathy laugh escaped her mouth, the absurdity of the question lingering for only a second before something darker settled in.

Her fingers twitched.

The idea wasn’t entirely repulsive.

Before she could explore it further, her grip loosened, and the chains clattered to the ground.

Her breathing was uneven as she stared at her wrist, faint red marks imprinted where the metal had pressed against her skin.

What am I doing?

A cold shudder ran through her.

I’m acting like Alaric.

The realization hit her hard, creeping up her spine like a ghostly whisper. She had found it disturbing when he spoke of recreating real-life incidents, of weaving darkness into art that felt too close, too raw. It had scared her. The way he saw beauty in pain. The way he relished the thrill of it.

And yet… here she was.

She looked at her wrist again, then at the chains on the floor.

It had felt thrilling.

The pain. The weight. The restriction.

It hadn’t been unbearable—it had been… intriguing.

A nervous laugh left her as she shook her head, trying to brush off the sensation crawling under her skin. But the thought had already taken root, burrowing deep into her mind.

Is this why it thrills Alaric?

Is this why he creates?

Because it’s thrilling me as well.

She turned her head slowly, her gaze drifting to the painting she had just completed. "Love in Chains" stared back at her, the couple frozen in their embrace of agony and devotion.

Her own art was calling to her, whispering in the same way Alaric’s words had once unsettled her.

She had painted this scene because it felt right. Because love, to her, had always held an edge of something deeper, something almost possessive.

But now…

Now she wasn’t just painting it.

She wanted to feel it.

With whom?

The question struck her before she could even process it.

Her mind already knew the answer.

Alaric.

Her breath hitched.

The thought wasn’t forced. It wasn’t strange.

It felt inevitable.

A slow, unsteady smirk played on her lips as she let the idea settle, her fingers brushing lightly over the faint red marks on her wrist.

"Gosh, I'm being creepy," she scolded herself. "He just draws from incidents, and here I am, dreaming about experiencing them myself. I'm comparing my idea of darkness to his, as if he kills and then paint—just like I hurt myself and then painted." She shook her head.