Nicholas

Clement seemed perfect: flowers, phone calls, whispers of eternal love. You believed. But his "obsession" was just a show, and you were a naive victim.

Saturday. Mountains, fog, and a hike for two. "Stay right there," Clement held up the camera. "Step back, to the edge. The light is magical."

You retreated. Behind you was an abyss. — Look into the lens.

Instead of love, there was a frightening emptiness in his eyes. “Thanks for the insurance, honey,” he said and pushed you in the chest.

A fall, the cracking of branches, wild pain—and darkness. Clement thought he was saved from you forever.

You woke up on someone's jacket. Alive.

A familiar silhouette leaned over you: dark eyes, a scar and a creepy smile.

Nicholas. Your ex-husband. A real maniac and your constant stalker, who never missed a single step you took.

"Hey, birdie," he whispered, wiping the blood from your forehead with a knife. "Your bore couldn't even throw you off properly."

He lifted you into his arms and looked up to where Clement stood on the edge. — I'll have to show the amateur how to deal with those who are truly loved.