Page 72 of Porcelain Grave

"Ophelia... my sweet, terrified little doll..."

I push myself harder, my lungs burning, the air tasting of sulfur and old death. I turn left, then right, then left again, desperate to find a break in the symmetry of this hellhole. I’m sobbing now, the tears streaming down my face, blurring the rows of skulls that line the walls like a macabre audience. I run until my legs feel like they’re going to snap, until my throat is raw from sobbing.

And then, I stop.

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. I look around. The same carved saint. The same cluster of three cracked skulls. The same flickering candle.

I’ve come back. I’ve run in a fucking circle.

I spin around, and the breath is ripped from my lungs. The fire is closer. A wall of roaring, orange-gold flame is consuming the tunnel behind me, turning the catacombs into a furnace. And there, stepping through the curtain of smoke and heat, is Rhys.

He looks absolutely fucking mental. His eyes are wide, shimmering with a psychotic intensity, his lips curled into a smile that doesn't reach his gaze. He isn't running; he's gliding toward me, the fire framing him like a dark god of some forgotten, violent religion.

"Did you think you could hide from me, love?" he purrs, his voice dripping with an obsessive, suffocating hunger. "In my house? In my heart? There is no corner of this earth where I won't find you. I could hunt you through a thousand lifetimes, and I would still find the scent of your fear."

"Please!" I shriek, the word breaking into a sob. "Rhys, please, stop this! You're fucking scaring me!"

"That's it," he whispers, and the sheer delight in his voice makes my skin crawl. "Give it to me. Give me every ounce of your terror. I want to feel your heart trying to burst out of your chest. I want to taste the salt of your tears. Look at me, Ophelia! Look at what you've done to me! You've turned me into a fucking animal, and now I'm going to devour you."

I turn and scream, sprinting again, blindly throwing myself into another tunnel. I’m not even thinking anymore; I’m just a reflex, a panicked animal fleeing the flame. The heat is licking at my heels, the smell of burning wax and ancient dust filling my nostrils. I pass through corridors of bone, the skulls seeming to lean in, their empty sockets watching my descent into madness.

"Run, Ophelia! Run for me!" he sings, his voice echoing from every direction, bouncing off the walls until it sounds like a choir of demons. "I love the way you shake. I love the way you cry. It makes you so fucking mine."

I can hear him behind me—the steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of his boots. He’s playing with me. He’s savoring the hunt, stretching out the agony, feeding on my desperation. I’m hyperventilating, my vision tunneling, the world shrinking down to the flickering candlelight and the sound of his voice.

Then, I see it.

A door. A heavy, iron-bound wooden door at the end of a long, narrowing corridor.

Hope hits me like a physical blow. I scramble toward it, my hands clawing at the air, my breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. I reach the door and throw my entire weight against it.

It doesn't budge.

I grab the handle and yank. It’s locked. I scream, hammering my fists against the wood, the sound echoing hollowly. "Open! Open you fucking piece of shit, open!"

I throw my shoulder into it again and again, sobbing, pleading with the wood, the metal, the universe. I’m trapped. I’m fucking trapped in the dark with a madman.

The footsteps stop.

The silence that follows is worse than the screaming. It’s heavy, suffocating, pregnant with a terrifying certainty. I slowly turn around, my back pressed against the cold iron of the door, my chest heaving, tears dripping off my chin.

Rhys is standing a few feet away.

But he isn't smiling anymore. He’s leaning against the stone wall, his head tilted, and as I look at him, he sees it. I'm crying. Tears are streaming down my face, but his expression is one of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. He looks at me—really looks at me—seeing my trembling limbs, my blown-out pupils, the raw terror etched into every line of my face.

He lets out a shaky, broken laugh, a sound of complete psychological collapse.

"God... look at you," he whispers, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and obsession. "You're absolutely terrified of me. You're shaking, you're broken, you're fucking ruined... and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He steps closer, the heat of the fire still radiating off his clothes, and reaches out a hand to brush a tear from my cheek. His touch is electric, possessive, and utterly insane.

"Do you feel it now, Ophelia? That absolute, crushing certainty that you belong to me? That no matter how far you run, no matter how loud you scream, you will always end up right here... in my arms, trembling in the dark.”

"Stop it! Just fucking stop it, Rhys!" I shriek, my voice cracking, a raw sound of genuine desperation. I’m not playing along anymore. I’m not teasing. I am absolutely fucking terrified, and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m a piece of meat he’s finally cornered—makes my stomach churn with a cocktail of horror and adrenaline. "You're scaring me! I'm not joking, you mental prick, stop it!"

Rhys doesn't flinch. He doesn't soften. If anything, the fear in my voice acts like an aphrodisiac for him. He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a low, vibrating hum that sends a shiver of pure dread down my spine.

"That’s the point, my darling," he whispers, his tone almost tender, which makes it a thousand times worse. "I want you scared. I want you so fucking terrified that I’m the only thing in the world that matters. I want your entire universe to shrink down until there is nothing left but me and the sound of your heart trying to hammer its way out of your ribs."