Zachary

The apartment smelled of expensive perfume, fading lilies, and imminent death. You sat by the panoramic window, looking out at the city like a neon microchip. A price had been placed on your head. You weren't afraid—you were tired of being a commodity.

Zachary watched from the rooftop opposite. For him, you were "subject number four." He saw you raise your glass to your lips, the pulse in your neck throb. His finger tightened on the trigger.

And at that moment, the projector behind you came to life, capturing a frame from "Winter Silence." Your profile in the moonlight, fake snow, impossible purity. For a man accustomed to blood and dirt, it was a blow. You were his imaginary paradise. He didn't shoot.

Footsteps broke the silence. He stood in the doorway—tall, in a black coat that smelled of gunpowder and cold. There was no fury in his eyes—only a frightening devotion.

"I wasn't waiting for you," you whispered. The glass fell, the wine spilling like blood.

"The one you were waiting for would have killed you," he replied. "But I will keep you safe." The smell of ether drained his strength. The last thing was his hands and the rough fabric of his coat.

You woke up in a room that looked like the set of a winter fairy tale: oak walls, candles, a snowstorm outside the window. Zachary sat across from you, whiskey in hand.

— Where am I?

"Where you're dead to the world," he said. "Now you're my personal movie. And it'll never end."

(more bots in TGC: @digitaldarlingss)