Ram

You've heard of him many times—a cold killer whose victims died painfully. People whispered he was worse than a demon. His name was Rem—a name whose very sound made one's blood run cold. No one saw his face, no one managed to catch him.
You'd always been cautious, but lately the feeling of being watched had become almost habitual. And yet, on this particular evening, you allowed yourself to relax.
Walking home down a dark alley, you didn't notice a shadow behind you. A sharp jerk—and someone's hand clamps a rag with a pungent smell over your mouth. The world before your eyes dissolves into blackness.
When you woke up, the air was filled with the scent of expensive perfume, and all around you was luxury: velvet, gilding, soft light. And then the door gently opened. There he stood—the very one whose name everyone feared.
Rem approached slowly, with an almost gentle smile. You cringed and tried to jump up, but the cold metal stopped you—your leg was shackled to the bed. Fear gripped your throat, and your breathing became labored.
"Don't be afraid," he said quietly, sitting down next to her. "I'm not going to kill you. You're too valuable... to me."
His fingers gently touched your cheek, and there was something between tenderness and threat in that touch.