I stepped out of the house with my mother, the warmth of the Sunday sun hitting my face. My mother held my hand firmly, guiding me toward the bus stop like she used to do when I was a child. Behind us, I could hear my father’s voice; he was on the phone, talking to someone about work, his tone calm and professional.

We reached the bus stop and sat on the wooden bench. On the surface, everything looked normal. The sun was rising high in the sky, promising a bright, shining day. I tried to smile, and tried to breathe in the fresh morning air, but my eyes were drawn—almost magnetically—toward the parking lot across the street.

There were many cars, but one stood out like a dark stain on a white canvas.

A black Mercedes.

My breath hitched in my throat. It was big, sleek, and polished to a mirror-like shine that gleamed dangerously in the sunlight. The windows were pitch black, completely tinted. I couldn't see a single thing inside, yet the hair on my arms stood up. My skin began to crawl with that familiar, suffocating sensation.

Someone is in there. I knew it. I could feel the weight of a gaze coming from behind that dark glass, heavy and possessive. I quickly looked away, staring at my feet, trying to ignore the trembling in my hands.

"Are you okay, Ishi?" my mother asked, noticing my sudden stillness.

I swallowed hard and gave a small, stiff nod. She went back to her phone, but my heart was now drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My breath felt short, as if the air around the bus stop was thinning out. Against my better judgment, I looked back at the car.

This time, I saw it. Just a faint shadow behind the windshield—the silhouette of a man.

My mind went blank. My thoughts spiraled into a dark panic. Everything is okay, Ishani. It’s just an illusion. You’re making it up, I whispered to myself, desperate to calm my racing heart. But deep down, I knew it was a lie. Someone was watching me from that car. Someone was following me.

"Come here, Ishi!"

My mother’s voice snapped me back to reality. The bus had arrived. She was already standing by the door, waiting for me. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and hurried toward her. She took my hand and guided me into the bus. We walked all the way to the back and sat in the very last seat.

As the bus pulled away, I saw the black car through the rear window, but my mother’s worried voice distracted me. "Are you really okay, Ishi? You look pale."

"I'm fine, Maa," I lied, leaning my head against the cool glass of the bus window. Even as we moved further away, the feeling of those eyes on me didn't fade. It stayed, pinned to me like a target.

After a while, we reached our destination—the home of my mother’s best friend, Reha Masi. They had been best friends since high school, and Reha Masi was like a second mother to me. She loved me dearly, and usually, being with her made me feel safe.

As we entered the house, Reha Masi rushed over and pulled my mother into a tight hug. "Siya!" she cried out happily. "It’s been so long since I last saw you!"

Then, she turned her bright smile toward me. "Ohhh... Ishani!"

She wrapped me in a hug so tight it nearly squeezed the air out of my lungs.

"Ahh, Masi... slowly!" I gasped out with a small laugh.

"Okay, little one," she giggled, finally letting go but keeping her hands on my shoulders. "Masi missed you so much, that's why I hugged you like this!"

I smiled, feeling a tiny bit of the morning’s tension melt away in her warm home. We sat on the sofa, and soon, Masi and my mother were lost in deep conversation, catching up on months of gossip. I sighed, taking a long sip of cold water from a glass on the table.

I looked around the room, but someone was missing. "Masi..." I said, my doe eyes searching the corners. "Where is Little Pie?"

Masi giggled, taking a sip of her own water. "He is in the garden, baby. He’s playing out there."

I nodded and stood up from the sofa. "I’m going to go find my Little Pie," I announced, heading toward the back door that led to the hall.

"Don't make him cry, little one!" Masi called out behind me, but I was already stepping out into the garden, looking for the small, playful boy who always made me forget my fears.

I didn't know that even here, behind the walls of a private garden, the shadow of the black Mercedes was never far behind.

Little Pie. The name suited him perfectly. He was Reha Masi’s five-year-old son, a bundle of mischief with puffy cheeks and a round, angelic face. He was the kind of naughty that made you want to scold him, but the moment you tried, he would look up at you with those big, soulful brown eyes, and your heart would just melt. I couldn't help but hug him every time. To me, he was as sweet and delightful as a little pie.

I found him in the middle of the garden, his small frame crouching as he tried to sneak up on the birds that had gathered to peck at grains. Every time he got close, the flap of wings would fill the air as they flew away, leaving him pouting before he dashed off toward another group.

"Little Pie!" I called out, my voice softening.

He spun around, his face lighting up with a brilliant smile. "Di!" he squealed, running toward me and nearly knocking me over as he hugged my legs.

"Oh, Little Pie," I laughed, picking him up and holding him close. I pinched his tiny nose gently. "Did you miss me?"

"Yes, Di! I missed you so much!" he chirped. My heart warmed as he pressed a wet, innocent kiss to my cheek. "You are always my best Di."

"And you are my best Little Pie," I whispered, ruffling his hair before setting him back down.

He immediately went back to his mission, chasing the birds with renewed energy. I walked over to him, watching as the birds took flight once again. I knelt down to his height, gently rubbing his shoulder.

"Catching birds is a bad habit, Little Pie," I said with a small, teaching smile. "Let them fly."

Before he could respond, a voice sliced through the air—a voice so deep, so heavy, and so disturbingly husky that it made the blood in my veins turn to ice.

"Who said that catching a bird is a bad habit?"

My breath hitched. My heart stopped for a beat before hammering violently against my ribs. That voice... it was the same one from my nightmares. The same one that had whispered in my ear.

"Butterfly."

I stood up slowly, my legs trembling as I turned toward the garden wall. Standing just outside the low fence was a man. He was tall—impossibly tall—his shadow stretching across the grass and hovering over Little Pie and me. He was dressed entirely in black; a dark hoodie hugged his broad chest, and his long, muscular arms were crossed casually over the top of the garden wall.

His face was partially framed by messy, dark curls that fell over his forehead, nearly touching his eyes. And those eyes... they were piercing, black, and fixed entirely on me with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. His face was neutral, but his pink lips were pulled into a faint, predatory smirk that made my soul shiver. His fair skin seemed to glow in the sunlight, making him look dangerously handsome, but his beauty was terrifying.

I took a sharp step back, trying to move out of the reach of his shadow. My face went pale, and the air felt too thick to breathe. Every instinct I had was screaming at me. The feeling of being watched, the camera shutter at the bus stop, the black Mercedes—it all came rushing back, focusing on the man standing right in front of me.

I knew it. I just knew. He was the one.

It felt wrong to judge a stranger so harshly, but the negative thoughts swirled in my mind like a storm. The way he looked at me wasn't normal; it was the gaze of a hunter who had finally cornered his prize. The sunlight was bright all around us, but as I looked into his dark eyes, I felt like I was standing in the middle of a cold, endless night.

I was trapped in his stare, unable to move, while Little Pie stood beside me, completely unaware of the monster leaning over our garden wall.

I watched from the shadows of my Mercedes as they entered the house. Reha’s home—a place they visited often, a place I had already mapped out in my mind. I stepped out of the car, the cool morning air doing nothing to smooth the fire in my blood. I looked at the door where she had vanished, a dark smirk pulling at my lips.

"It’s time to meet me... Butterfly," I whispered.

I walked toward the perimeter of the property. My gaze fell on the small garden where a little boy was frantically trying to catch birds. I knew who he was—Reha’s son. And I knew my Butterfly loved him. I leaned against the low garden wall, watching him fail again and again as the birds took flight.

Then, she appeared.

"Little Pie," she called out, her voice like a melody that made my heart skip a beat. But the skip was followed by a sharp, bitter pang of jealousy. She was smiling, but she wasn't smiling for me. Her affection, her hugs, her warmth—it was all for that boy. My jaw tightened. Everything she gave to others was something stolen from me.

I watched her kneel down, her hand stroking the boy’s hair. "Little Pie... catching birds is a bad habit," she said softly.

I couldn't stay silent any longer. I moved toward the wall, my shadow falling over her like a shroud.

"Who said that catching a bird is a bad habit?" I asked, my voice dropping into that deep, husky register that I knew would haunt her.

She froze. The shock in her eyes was delicious. I leaned my arms over the wall, crossing them casually as I loomed over her.

"Butterfly," I said again.

She stood up, her face draining of all colors. She looked at me as if she were seeing a ghost, her lips trembling uncontrollably. She took a frantic step back, trying to escape my shadow, but she was so incredibly naive. She didn't realize that my shadow would never leave her—not for a single second of her life.

I glanced at the boy, who stood there in stunned silence, before fixing my piercing black eyes back on her.

"Who said that catching a bird is a bad habit, Butterfly?" I repeated, my smirk widening.

"W...who are you?" she stammered, her voice barely a thread.

I tilted my head, my eyes tracing the curve of her trembling lips. "That’s not my answer, Butterfly. Is catching birds a bad habit? Who told you that?"

I leaned further over the wall, invading her space, forcing her to breathe in the scent of sandalwood and rain that clung to me. She looked like she was about to collapse.

"M...my mother said that catching birds is a bad habit," she whispered.

A dark, cruel smirk played on my lips. "Is that what she told you?"

She nodded, looking so small and helpless. I looked at her, my mind screaming at how beautiful she was in her fear. She didn't know that she was the bird, and I was the one who had already built the cage.

"But I love catching birds, Butterfly," I said, my voice was smooth and dangerous.

Her body began to shiver violently.

"I love to catch the ones I love... and put them in a cage. I love to look at them every single day," I said, straightening up and towering over her.

Her blue eyes widened with a mix of horror and confusion. "I... I don't know how you can love to catch a bird and put it in a cage... when they love freedom. They love to fly in the sky,"

she argued, her voice cracking.

I chuckled, a sound devoid of any real warmth. "But I love to see them in a cage. To touch them... to remind them that I am their owner. Their God. There is no freedom for a butterfly."

I watched her hands begin to shake. My words were a promise, a declaration of the fate I had written for her. She looked at the little boy, her maternal instincts kicking in through the fog of her fear.

"Little Pie... come here. Let's go back," she said, her eyes fixed on me with a sudden spark of defiance. "Someone is trying to scare us."

I didn't move. I just stood there, watching her retreat, my smirk never fading. Let her run for now. The bird can flutter its wings all it wants, but it’s already inside the cage. She just hasn't heard the door lock yet.

I watched the panic rise in her, a beautiful, frantic energy that made her blue eyes shimmer with tears of fear. She reached for the boy, her fingers trembling as she tried to pull him away from my presence.

"Little Pie... let’s go," she urged, her voice cracking as she tried to tug him toward the safety of the house.

But the boy stayed rooted to the spot. He looked up at me, his innocent brown eyes full of curiosity, oblivious to the monster standing before him. "Is catching birds not a bad habit, Uncle?" he asked, his high-pitched voice cutting through the heavy tension.

I let out a soft, dark chuckle that didn't reach my eyes. I looked down at him, then slowly shifted my gaze back to her, pinning her in place with my stare.

"No," I said, my voice was smooth as silk but sharp as a blade. "Catching birds is not a bad habit at all."

I stepped closer to the wall, my shadow completely swallowing her small frame. I looked directly into her doe eyes, watching the way her pupils dilated in terror. "And I love to catch birds," I paused, letting the silence stretch between us until it was suffocating. "I would love to catch you."

A jagged, predatory smile spread across my face. "Butterfly."

She gasped, her eyes widening until they looked like cracked glass. The sheer horror in her expression was the most beautiful thing I had ever painted in my mind. Without a word, she scooped the boy up into her arms, her movements frantic and desperate. She didn't look back. She ran toward the house, her chocolate-brown braids flying behind her as she disappeared through the door.

I stayed there, leaning against the garden wall, perfectly still. I closed my eyes and leaned forward, inhaling deeply. The air still carried the faint, sweet scent of her—baby lotion, warmth, and the sharp tang of fear. It was intoxicating.

"Run as far as you can, Butterfly," I whispered to the empty garden, a smirk dancing on my lips.

My eyes darkened, turning into bottomless pits of obsidian as I licked my bottom lip, still feeling the phantom warmth of her skin from my midnight visit.

"But when I catch you, you won’t be able to run anymore," I said, my voice dropping to a guttural, dangerous growl. "Because I’m going to fuck you so hard that you won’t be able to take a single step away from my bed."

The image of her broken and breathless beneath me filled my mind, a masterpiece of submission. I gripped the edge of the stone wall, my knuckles white.

"You will live with me forever," I vowed, my voice a dark, unbreakable oath. "You are always mine, Butterfly."

I rubbed my lips slowly with my thumb, tasting the cold air and the lingering scent of my prize. The game of hide-and-seek was nearing its end. And when the sun went down on her birthday, the Butterfly would finally learn that some cages are made of iron, and some are made of skin and obsession.