Can't Escape 3

Fourteen

Taehyung sat in the dark corner of the living room, the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the window. The air was heavy with quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed when a storm was brewing. He cradled a glass of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid swirling lazily as he stared at it, lost in thought.

Y/n had gone to bed hours ago after quietly cleaning up the remnants of their dinner. He had watched her move around the house like a ghost, her steps careful, her eyes downcast. She had barely spoken, and when she did, her voice trembled as though afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Exactly how he wanted her to be.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His lips curled into a faint smirk, though there was no joy behind it. This was the game he had mastered—a game of control, of power. He had learned early on how easy it was to bend people, to twist their emotions until they became malleable in his hands.

But Y/n was different. She wasn't like the others who had come and gone. She wasn't someone he could simply push away when he grew bored. She was his. His to mold, his to control, his to break.

He took a long sip of the whiskey, the burn traveling down his throat as he replayed the events of the night in his mind. The way she had looked at him when he told her about his mother, her eyes soft with empathy, her hands trembling as she tried to comfort him. It had been so easy to pull her back into his orbit, to make her believe that his pain justified his actions.

He set the glass down on the table with a soft thud, his fingers drumming against the polished wood. He knew how the world saw him—a man of charm, charisma, and grace. A man who could command a room with a single glance.

They didn't see the cracks beneath the surface. They didn't see the monster lurking in the shadows.

But she did.

Y/n had seen the worst parts of him, the anger that flared like a wildfire, the words that cut deeper than any knife. And yet, she stayed. She stayed because he had made her believe she was the only one who could save him.

And that was the beauty of it.

He ran a hand through his hair, a sigh escaping his lips. The truth was, he didn't need saving. He didn't need her pity or her love. What he needed was control. Control over her mind, her heart, her soul.

Because as long as she believed she was helping him, as long as she thought her love could heal him, she would never leave. She would endure the bruises, the harsh words, the isolation, because she would convince herself it was all worth it.

He stood, the floorboards creaking under his feet as he made his way to the bedroom. Pushing the door open, he found her curled up on the bed, her face peaceful in sleep. The moonlight streaming through the window cast a soft glow on her features, and for a moment, he simply stood there, watching her.

She looked so fragile, like a piece of glass that could shatter with the slightest touch.

His hand clenched into a fist at his side as he felt a flicker of something- something that felt almost like guilt. But he pushed it away, burying it deep beneath the layers of manipulation and control that defined him.

He climbed into bed beside her, careful not to wake her. She stirred slightly, her body instinctively moving closer to his, seeking comfort even in her sleep.

He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his chest. His lips brushed against her hair as he whispered, "You'll never leave me, Y/n. No matter what."

And in the quiet of the night, as she lay in his arms, he knew she wouldn't. Because he had made sure of it.

Possessiveness was a poison that thrived in darkness, cloaked in a facade of beauty. At first, it seemed alluring, even comforting, but as the layers peeled away, all that remained was pain raw and unrelenting. And what could be worse than that?

Being naive. Believing in the facade after already being a victim. Y/n stood there, swallowed by the darkness that had already consumed her, a mere puppet to its will. But she was blind, or perhaps too hopeful, shrouded in a blanket of lies that shielded her from the truth.

Things weren't getting better. Taehyung knew it and thrived on her weakness, yet Y/n stood frozen in the embrace of possession, clinging to the belief that her love could heal him. A love that could mend the broken.

But did you ever hear that love healed a cracked stone? No, because love couldn't crack a stone in the first place. It's soft, fleeting, and far too fragile to leave any mark on something so solid, so cold. Stones don't break for love; they endure, unmoved, while love exhausts itself trying. And when love finally gives up, the stone remains, untouched and unyielding, a bitter reminder that some things are beyond change.

Her love was never meant for him. But his possession consumed her, as if her name was scrawled on the torn papers he was desperate to piece together, even as they burned in his hands.

To be continued.