PROLOGUE
Somewhere in Russia, the night was silent—but not peaceful.
The only sound echoing through the long, concrete corridor was the rhythmic click-clack of shoes on the blood-slicked floor. Dim, flickering lights barely illuminated the outline of a tall man dragging something heavy behind him. A limp body—a man in his forties, eyes swollen shut, lips trembling as if begging for a mercy that would never come.
The figure stopped in front of a steel door at the end of the hallway. He kicked it open with brutal force. Inside, the room was hell on Earth—walls lined with rusted surgical tools, hooks, bone saws, and restraints. The air smelled of blood, rot, and chemicals that stung the nose. In the center stood a stained metal table, waiting.
Jeon Zade threw the body onto the cold surface like it was meat. He chained the man’s wrists and ankles with ease, no hesitation. He moved like a professional—like this wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t.
The man tried to speak, but only a garbled whimper came out. He was still conscious—barely. HE didn’t care. He wanted him awake. He wanted him to feel every bit of what was coming.
He selected a rusted iron rod from the wall and, without warning, slammed it into the man’s head. The sickening crack echoed like thunder. Blood sprayed across his face, his dark eyes shining with twisted glee. Again, and again, and again—the sound of bone shattering beneath metal filled the room like a violent symphony.
A grin stretched across his lips. A beautiful, monstrous grin.
He tossed the rod aside, now bent and dripping. Then, he picked up a large butcher’s knife—the kind used to cleave meat in half—and without hesitation, dug it into the man’s neck, slicing through flesh until the blade reached the spine. The head tilted unnaturally, the throat opened like a grotesque flower.
Finally, he severed it.
Holding the head by the hair, HE admired his handiwork. It was still warm.
He walked to a large tub in the corner of the room, filled with bubbling, hissing acid, and dropped the head into it. Instantly, the skin sizzled, the bones cracking as the acid devoured it whole. Within minutes, the face was gone. Nothing but a gray, melting sludge remained.
His lips curved into a smile again. Not one of victory, but of possession.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t revenge.
This was a warning.
“Anyone who touches her...” he muttered under his breath, licking a speck of blood from his cheek, “deserves to vanish.”
His voice was deep. Calm. Controlled. Not a trace of remorse.
Jeon Zade. Post-mortem doctor. Killer. Obsessive. He wasn’t just claiming a woman—he was erasing any man who dared come close to her.
~~~~
And somewhere, across the cold city, the woman he was obsessed with slept peacefully. Somewhere else in Russia, at exactly 1:00 AM, the air shifted around a quiet bedroom. Curtains billowed even though the windows were closed. The moon cast pale light across the room, revealing the shape of a young woman curled under a white duvet, her chest rising and falling slowly.
PARK EVA.
Twenty-four. A brilliant post-mortem doctor. Innocent on the surface, but with silent cravings for what lies beneath—death, anatomy, secrets no one dares touch. Perhaps that’s why she excelled in her field. Or perhaps, it was why she was chosen.
A cold breeze whispered across her body. Her spine arched slightly in response. A strange sensation trickled through her limbs, like someone was watching her. Touching her. The kind of invisible pressure that makes your skin crawl.
Her eyes flew open.
She sat up with a jolt, heart thudding in her ears. She wasn’t alone.
Her eyes darted around the dark room. No one.
But something was different.
Her gaze landed on her nightstand, and her blood ran cold.
A single red rose lay carefully on the table, its petals impossibly fresh. Next to it, a letter, wrapped in a neat mail pouch, sealed with wax, and with faint stains of dried blood.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. She didn’t know what compelled her to open it, but
she had to. As if some invisible force demanded she read what was inside.
She peeled open the envelope. The paper was thick, textured. The scent of iron—blood still lingered.
The message was handwritten, sharp and elegant, but unhinged. And terrifying.
“Hello, my angel. You know who I am. You’ve seen me in person. I always crave to be near you. To touch you. To worship you. But I’m patient. I’m waiting for the right moment. I will claim you as mine—forever mine. Just wait. And while you do… stay within your limits. This rose is for you. Beautiful. Untouched.
But the blood on this letter? That’s Alex’s blood. The man who dared to propose to you yesterday. He thought he could have you. He was wrong. This is what happens to anyone who tries to get under your skin. Sweet dreams, angel. I’m always watching.”
Eva’s knees gave out, and she sank to the floor. The letter slipped from her hand. Her breath hitched, caught in her throat like a noose. How had he gotten in? How had he known about Alex? She hadn’t told anyone. She hadn’t spoken about it. Her eyes flew to the windows. Locked. The door. Still bolted. Her skin prickled with ice.
This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t some obsessive stranger from social media. This man knew her. Had touched her things. Had been in her bedroom. She felt dirty. Exposed. Violated.
Her fingers brushed the rose. Its petals were soft. Fresh. Real. And in that moment, something inside her snapped—quietly. She wasn’t just scared. She was being hunted. Possessed. Watched. Her shadow had a name now.
She didn’t remember meeting him before. But he did. And he would stop at nothing until she belonged to him.
