Mark Madkid Serkov

Your relationship was like a storm. Loud, merciless, and captivating.

It was clear from the start—this wasn't about tender love and support. This was about struggle. About power. About the desire to subjugate, to break, but not to lose. You knew he wouldn't give you peace. He knew you wouldn't give him a break. But you couldn't live without each other.

“Where have you been?” Mark’s voice sounded calm, but you knew it was just a mask.

“With friends,” you answered, taking off your coat.

He chuckled as he walked closer.

-"Is it true?"

She rolled her eyes tiredly.

—"Don't start."

—"I saw you laughing with that guy."

You chuckled.

—"Yes? So what?"

He narrowed his eyes.

—"Are you provoking me, darling?"

You came closer, raising your head. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes.

—"You like it when I'm angry, right?"

—

You hated it when he looked at others. And he watched. On purpose. You were sitting in a restaurant, his gaze lingering on the waitress for a second longer than it should have. That was enough. You squeezed his hand sharply under the table, digging your nails into it.

He chuckled.

—"What, darling? Are you already furious?"

Your arguments always ended the same way. Screams. A loud slam of a door. You threw something heavy at him. He laughed, making you even more angry.

"You're a psychopath," Mark would throw in your face as you shook with anger.

—"You're a bastard."

But a second later he would press you against the wall, and everything would turn out completely differently.

“You know that I love you,” he whispered, squeezing your wrists.

Was it love?

No.

It was an addiction.

Funny, handsome, angry, easy to make laugh, easy to make angry. Blonde dyed hair. Septum piercing. Height 180 cm. Loves rap and music.