Pain.
That's the first thing Sam registers.
A dull, throbbing ache at the back of his head, the sticky warmth of blood trailing down his neck. His fingers tremble as he presses them against the wound, as if trying to convince himself that this is real—that this just happened.
He lifts his eyes.
Ivanov is still standing there, the broken vase gripped tightly in one hand, his posture relaxed—too relaxed, as if he didn't just smash it over Sam's skull.
Sam's heart pounds, a mix of confusion and something new, something sharp twisting in his stomach.
"What…" His voice is weak, breathless. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Ivanov doesn't respond immediately. He tilts his head, his eyes scanning Sam's expression like he's searching for something.
Then, finally—
"Oh?" A soft chuckle. "That's a strong reaction. I didn't even hit you that hard, sweets."
Sam's breath catches.
That same voice, the one that used to tease, that used to whisper playful taunts in his ear—except now, it feels different.
Darker.
Colder.
Sam forces himself to move, to push himself up from the floor. His limbs feel unsteady, but the sharp sting at the back of his head keeps him focused. "You… you psycho!" His voice shakes, frustration rising with his panic. "Are you crazy?! Why the hell would you—"
"Shh."
Ivanov moves before Sam can finish, crouching down in front of him.
Sam freezes.
His body is screaming at him to run, but Ivanov is too close. His presence is suffocating, his scent familiar yet overwhelming in a way it never was before.
And then—
Ivanov reaches out, fingers brushing against Sam's forehead, lightly tracing the edge of the wound he caused.
Sam flinches.
"That wasn't supposed to bleed that much," Ivanov muses, almost like he's talking to himself. "Your skin is softer than I thought."
Sam swats his hand away, his breathing ragged. "Don't f*ing touch me!"
Ivanov blinks at him.
Then he laughs.
"Oh, little bird…" His voice drops, something sickeningly sweet in the way he says it. "You're so dramatic. You're acting like I tried to kill you."
"You just bashed my head in with a vase, you lunatic!"
"And yet," Ivanov sighs, tilting his head, "you're still here."
Sam's blood runs cold.
Because he's right.
His body is still pressed against the floor, his hands shaking, his breath uneven—but he hasn't moved.
He hasn't run.
Something about that realization makes his skin crawl.
Ivanov notices.
A slow smirk spreads across his lips. "See? You don't actually want to leave. Not really."
Sam clenches his fists. "Screw you."
"I'm serious, sweets." Ivanov leans in closer, voice low and dangerous. "You could've run the moment you saw me in the car. You could've ignored me, called someone, left with your friend. But you didn't."
Sam glares at him. "That doesn't mean I wanted to be attacked, you lunatic!"
"Didn't you?"
The question makes Sam's stomach lurch.
Ivanov reaches out again, this time gripping Sam's chin between his fingers. His touch is firm—not gentle, not rough, but controlled. He forces Sam to meet his gaze, those dark eyes shining with something unreadable.
"You love it, don't you?" he whispers. "The chase. The attention. The way I look at you like you're the only thing that matters."
Sam's breath stutters. "Shut up."
Ivanov's grip tightens, his thumb pressing lightly against Sam's lower lip. "You could've been with someone else, little bird. Someone safer. But you keep coming back to me."
Sam's mind races. He wants to argue, to say something, anything to deny it—but a part of him knows Ivanov is right.
This isn't normal.
This isn't healthy.
And yet—
And yet, his body doesn't pull away.
His heartbeat isn't just fear—it's something else, something deeper, something that terrifies him more than Ivanov's words.
He swallows hard. "Let me go."
Ivanov watches him for a moment longer before sighing. "Fine."
He releases Sam's chin, standing up effortlessly. "Go, then."
Sam hesitates.
Ivanov raises a brow. "See? You're still thinking about it."
Sam grits his teeth, shoving himself off the floor. "You're insane," he mutters, grabbing his coat with shaking hands.
He moves toward the door, his mind screaming at him to leave, to get out, to call someone—but just as he reaches for the doorknob—
A sudden, unbearable dizziness washes over him.
The room tilts.
His vision blurs, the edges darkening as a sharp, pulsating pain crashes against his skull.
His breath hitches.
"Shit…" Sam mutters, stumbling forward.
His body sways, legs giving out from underneath him before he can process what's happening.
He barely registers the sound of his own body hitting the floor.
Darkness swallows him whole.
And Ivanov?
He watches.
He doesn't move. Doesn't rush to help. Doesn't even speak.
He simply stands there, tilting his head slightly as if observing something fascinating.
Then, finally—
A small, amused hum escapes his lips.
"Ah… poor thing."