#noirscript

One moment, you were chasing after the sound of a bell—a clear, delicate chime just beyond the treeline. And now, the familiar voices of your family were gone, replaced by the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush. The festival had felt so warm, so full of life. Here, the air was thick, the silence stretched too long between every chirp and whisper.

Then, the sound of running water reached you.

Relief flooded your tiny chest. The villagers always said the river led back to town. If you followed it, surely you’d find your way home. You hurried toward the sound, stepping over gnarled roots and ducking under low branches.

But when you emerged into the clearing, the river was not the first thing you noticed.

A man sat by the water’s edge.

He was beautiful. Even as a child, you understood that much. His hair, darker than the night sky, spilled over his shoulders, and his silver eyes caught the moonlight like trapped stardust. He reclined against the smooth stones, long fingers trailing in the water, as if unbothered by the presence of a small, lost girl staring at him with wide eyes.

And then, he smiled.

“You’re quite far from the festival, little one.” His voice was smooth, rich like the hum of the earth before a storm.

You hesitated, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. "I was… I was following a bell."

His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpened. "A bell?" He chuckled, low and knowing. "How strange. There are no bells in this forest."

A small frown tugged at your lips. But you had heard it. You knew you had.

The man tilted his head, watching you with quiet amusement. “Tell me, little one, are you afraid?”

You blinked up at him. It was an odd question. Should you be? The village elders always spoke of gods and spirits that dwelled in these woods, warning children never to stray too far. But as you stood before this man—this strange, beautiful man with silver eyes—fear was the furthest thing from your mind.

You shook your head.

He laughed softly. “Good.” Then, he reached out a hand. “Come. Let’s get you home.”

You hesitated for only a moment before slipping your small fingers into his. His touch was warm, his grip firm as he led you along the riverbank. He moved without hesitation, as if the forest itself bent to his will, parting the way before him.

As you walked, he asked you questions. Simple ones. Your name. Your age. If you liked the festival. If you enjoyed sweets. You answered eagerly, the nervous edge in your voice fading as you spoke.

He listened.

No one had ever listened to you like that before. Not the other children, who only wanted to play rough games. Not the adults, who often brush you aside with distracted nods. But he—he made you feel important. As if every word you said mattered.

When the village lights finally flickered through the trees, disappointment stirred in your chest. You didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.

The man knelt before you, his silver gaze holding yours as he brushed a stray leaf from your hair. “I will ask something of you, little one.”

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

His fingers ghosted over your cheek. “Promise me.”

“Promise what?”

“That you’ll always return to me.” His voice was gentle, but something deep beneath it coiled tight. “That you’ll be mine, forever.”

You blinked at him, puzzled but unafraid. It sounded like a game, like when your friends made pinky promises by the river.

So, you nodded. “I promise.”

For the first time, his smile reached his eyes. But the glint in them was something you wouldn’t understand until years later.

“Good girl.”

Then, the festival bells rang, and the world blurred.

When you turned to thank him, he was gone.

The festival was already in full swing when you stepped back into the village. Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting flickering patterns across the packed earth. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet rice cakes filled the air, and the laughter of children rang out as they ran through the crowded streets. It should have been comforting, familiar.

But something felt… different.

Your hand was still warm from where he had held it.

You glanced back at the darkened forest, half-expecting to see those silver eyes watching from the treeline. But there was nothing—just the rustling of leaves, the whisper of wind through the branches.

“Where have you been?” Your grandmother’s sharp voice snapped you back to reality. She appeared through the throng of people, worry etched deep into her face. “I told you not to wander off. Do you know how dangerous it is to go near the mountains alone?”

You opened your mouth to tell her about the man by the river, about how he had brought you home safely. But the moment you tried to form the words, something stopped you. A strange pressure, a weight on your tongue, as if speaking of him would break something fragile and sacred.

So instead, you shook your head and muttered a quiet apology.

Your grandmother’s fingers gripped your wrist tighter than necessary as she pulled you back toward the festival. “You must never go there again,” she warned. “No matter what.”

But you had already made a promise.

And deep in the woods, under the silver glow of the moon, a god smiled.

The years passed.

The seasons changed, the festivals came and went, and the village continued to thrive. But something about you was… different. The boys in your village avoided you. Not out of cruelty, but something deeper, something instinctual. Even those who once played alongside you as children now hesitated to meet your gaze, their hands twitching with nervous energy whenever you came too close. The few who dared to approach were quickly met with sickness, misfortune, or strange accidents.

The only exception was him.

He was always there, waiting in the woods just beyond the village. You weren’t supposed to go near the mountain, but somehow, your feet always found the path leading back to him.

It started with stolen afternoons. You would slip away after lessons, past the watchful eyes of the elders, and run to the river where he always waited. He never called for you, never beckoned you forward, but he didn’t need to. You always came.

He listened to your stories, his silver eyes never straying from your face. When you laughed, his lips would curl into something unreadable. When you cried, he would touch your cheek, his fingers cool against your warm skin. He never asked for anything in return.

Not yet.

But his presence was intoxicating. Comforting.

Yours.

Until the day they took you away.

It happened quickly. One moment, you were walking home from the woods, your heart still racing from your latest meeting with him. The next, your grandmother was gripping your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she whispered hurried prayers under her breath. Your parents were there, too, their faces tight with something you didn’t understand. There were no explanations, no time to argue. Just hurried steps, packed belongings, and a carriage waiting at the village gates.

The other elders stood in the distance, their gazes cast downward, their hands gripping charms and talismans. They wouldn’t look at you.

You struggled. You cried. You begged them to tell you why.

But it wasn’t until you saw the thick paper talismans plastered across the door to your home that realization set in.

They knew.

And they were taking you away from him.

Your screams echoed through the village as they forced you into the carriage, your nails clawing at the wooden frame. You didn’t care about the strange looks from the other villagers, the hushed whispers behind their hands. All you knew was that you had made a promise, and they were breaking it.

The last thing you saw before the doors shut was the treeline. The shadows between the trees shifted, moved, as if something—someone—was watching.

And then, the silver of his eyes, gleaming with something dark and terrible.

And then—nothing.

The city was loud. Too loud.

Even after years of living there, the endless noise of car horns, chatter, and the hum of electricity never settled right in your bones. The air was thick with something artificial, something lifeless. The sky never seemed as wide, the stars never as bright.

At first, you fought against it. You clung to the memories of your village, of the woods, of him. But time had a cruel way of dulling things. The face of the god by the river blurred at the edges, the warmth of his fingers against your skin faded to a ghostly sensation, the sound of his voice—once so clear—became harder to recall.

You moved on.

You made friends, explored the city, built a life that had nothing to do with the mountain. And for a while, it was enough.

Until the letters started coming.

At first, they were harmless. News from your uncle, brief mentions of the village, how things had been difficult but were getting better. You barely paid them any mind, offering polite responses in return.

Then, the tone changed.

The village was suffering. Crops withered before they could be harvested, livestock fell ill, and the number of stillborn children had risen to something unnatural. They needed you back—for the festival, for a ceremony only you could lead.

You ignored it.

But the letters kept coming, each one more desperate than the last. Until finally, your uncle arrived in the city himself, standing on your doorstep with weary eyes and hands that trembled as he held out the final letter.

You read it.

And the moment your fingers brushed against the parchment, something shifted in the air.

The scent of damp earth filled your nose. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a bell chimed in the distance.

And suddenly, the city didn’t feel so safe anymore.

Returning to the village was like stepping into a memory that had been left out in the rain—warped, faded, wrong.

The streets were quiet, the colors muted. The children who had once been your playmates now peeked at you from behind their mother’s skirts, their eyes wide with something too solemn for their age. The elders barely acknowledged your presence, their hands clutching charms so tightly their knuckles turned white.

Your grandmother’s house was the same, but the moment she saw you standing at her doorstep, her expression twisted into something unreadable.

“You should not have come back.”

But it was too late. You were already here.

That night, you lay awake in your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling as the wind howled through the trees. The house creaked, the wooden beams groaning as if something pressed against them, waiting—watching.

And then, through the open window, a whisper.

"You promised."

Your breath caught in your throat.

You sat up sharply, heart pounding as you turned to the window. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and endless.

You told yourself it was your imagination.

But you knew better.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you found yourself walking the familiar path to the mountain. The villagers didn’t stop you. They didn’t even look at you.

The forest welcomed you back like you had never left.

The trees were the same, the river still carved its path through the land, the scent of moss and damp earth filled your lungs. And at the heart of it all, standing just beyond the threshold of his temple, he was waiting.

He was different. The softness of his features had sharpened, the playful glint in his silver eyes replaced with something unreadable. His presence felt heavier, denser, as if the very air bent to accommodate him.

You hesitated.

And then, he spoke.

"Come back tomorrow morning."

You swallowed.

You should have refused. Should have turned back, should have walked away.

But you didn’t.

Because despite everything—despite the years, despite the distance, despite the way your stomach twisted in something dangerously close to anticipation—your feet remained planted in place.

And deep down, you already knew.

You would come back.

You returned the next morning.

And the morning after that.

It became a routine—waking before the village stirred, slipping away before anyone could stop you. Each day, you climbed the path to his temple, and each day, he was waiting.

At first, he only watched. Silent. Unmoving. His silver eyes followed your every step, his presence weighing on your skin like a second layer. You talked, filling the quiet with idle conversation—about the city, your life there, the people you met, the things you learned. He listened, never interrupting, never reacting.

Then, slowly, something shifted.

His silence gave way to words. He asked questions—about your time away, about the world beyond the village, about why you had taken so long to return. His voice, rich and low, wrapped around you like silk, threading through your thoughts, lingering long after you left.

And then, he touched you.

It was subtle at first. A brush of his fingers against yours when you handed him something, a fleeting touch against the small of your back when guiding you up the temple steps. But his hands were warm—too warm—and each time he touched you, something inside you tightened, curled, craved.

The forest changed, too.

The trees stood taller, their leaves greener. The river ran clearer, its waters shimmering under the sunlight. Even the village below seemed to breathe easier, as if your presence had soothed the unseen rage that had gripped it for so long.

But the biggest change was him.

He smiled more, spoke more, let his gaze linger too long. He was indulgent, affectionate in a way that made your skin flush. Yet beneath it all, beneath the warmth, the softness, was something else. Something hungry.

You should have been afraid.

But you weren’t.

You should have left.

But you didn’t.

Because each time you stood to go, his fingers would catch your wrist, his touch firm but unyielding. And though he never outright asked you to stay, his silver eyes always whispered the same thing.

"Don’t go."

The night before the festival, the storm came.

The winds howled through the village, rattling windows and tearing through rooftops. Rain poured in heavy sheets, drenching the earth, turning the roads into rivers of mud.

And when morning came, the mountain path was gone.

A landslide had blocked the only way out, cutting you off from the world beyond the village.

You barely heard your uncle’s reassurances. He claimed the roads would be cleared soon, that it was only a temporary delay. But you knew better.

This was no accident.

He wasn’t letting you leave.

And deep down, a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to.

The festival began at sundown.

The village gathered at the foot of the mountain, their voices rising in an eerie, rhythmic chant. The firelight cast flickering shadows against their faces, turning them into something unfamiliar, something devout.

You stood at the center of it all, dressed in the traditional red attire they had prepared for you. The fabric clung to your skin, the intricate embroidery swirling around your body like flames. Your fingers tightened around the offering in your hands—the best produce the village could gather, though it paled in comparison to the ones you had tasted in the city.

None of it mattered.

Because as you climbed the mountain, as the torches lining the path flared brighter with every step you took, as the air thickened with something electric, something expectant—you knew.

This had never been about the village.

It had never been about the crops, or the prosperity, or the suffering they had endured.

This was about you.

And him.

The temple was waiting.

The offerings from dawn still sat upon the great stone table, untouched, pristine. But the only thing your eyes focused on was him.

He stood at the entrance, dressed in godly white, his ink-dark hair cascading over his shoulders like a river of night. The contrast was striking—too perfect—the divine purity of his robes only emphasizing the darkness in his gaze.

He was watching you.

Waiting.

You stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Every part of you screamed to stop, to turn back, to run.

But you didn’t.

Because the moment you met his gaze, a heat bloomed low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire through your veins. It was intoxicating, overwhelming—an ache so deep, so consuming, it left you trembling.

Your breath hitched.

And he knew.

The eerie smile that curved his lips was slow, knowing, filled with a satisfaction so deep it made your knees weak. He reached for you, his fingers brushing against your cheek, your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

And then he whispered, voice rich with something dark and unshakable—

"You are mine."

The torches flared.

The wind howled.

And as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into the depths of his temple, into the depths of him, you knew—

There was no escaping this.

There never had been.

The doors of the temple shut behind you, sealing out the world beyond. The air inside was thick—humid, charged with something unseen, something alive. The torches lining the walls flickered, their golden glow casting restless shadows against the stone.

His fingers trailed down your arm, slow, deliberate. His touch burned—not painfully, but with an intensity that made your breath come quicker, your skin hypersensitive to the smallest movement.

"You hesitated," he murmured, his voice impossibly smooth, impossibly deep. He stood close, too close, his presence consuming every inch of space around you.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You had hesitated. For a single, fleeting moment, you had thought about turning back. But what use was hesitation now? What use was resistance when his very presence unraveled you, thread by thread?

He didn't need an answer. His silver eyes gleamed with something dark, something possessive, and you knew he had already decided your fate long before you ever stepped into his temple.

"You promised me." His thumb brushed against your lower lip, a touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. "You belonged to me the moment those words left your lips."

You remembered it—the promise made in childish innocence, spoken in a voice too young to understand the weight of such words. And yet, even then, even in those fleeting moments, hadn't you felt it? That strange pull toward him, the way his presence had made the world feel smaller, as if nothing outside the forest had ever truly mattered?

"I waited." His voice was steady, but there was something dangerous beneath it, a tension so sharp it could cut. "I waited as you forgot me. As you let your thoughts be filled with others. As you tried to build a life that did not include me."

His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Did you truly think I would let you go?"

The air felt thinner, your knees weak. The answer was already clear. You had known it the moment you stepped foot back in the village. Perhaps, deep down, you had known it all along.

His lips curved into a slow, cruel smile.

"You will never leave again."

His arms encircled you, his warmth engulfing you completely, and the last threads of resistance inside you snapped.

And as his power wrapped around you, seeping into your very bones, your thoughts blurred, twisted—desire intertwining with surrender, need overtaking reason.

The festival chants echoed in the distance, voices raised in worship, in offering.

But the only thing that mattered was him.

And the inescapable truth that you were his.

Now and forever.

—

The temple was silent, but the silence breathed.

It coiled around you, heavy and cloying, pressing against your skin like unseen hands. The torches along the walls dimmed, their flames shrinking as if bowing to his presence. The air itself felt thicker, charged with something oppressive—something hungry.

His arms were still wrapped around you, his grip firm but unyielding. You had always known he was strong, but now you felt it—the raw, unnatural power that lurked beneath his touch.

"You’re trembling." His voice was smooth, indulgent, but there was something dark beneath it, something that made your breath catch. "Is it fear?"

Your lips parted, but you had no answer. Because it wasn't fear, not exactly. It was something deeper, something more primal. A shudder ran through you as his fingers traced a slow path down your spine, and you swayed without meaning to—drawn in by the heat radiating from him, by the way his presence filled every empty space inside you.

He laughed.

A quiet, satisfied sound, as if he already knew.

"You still don’t understand, do you?" His fingers ghosted over your pulse, lingering at the delicate skin of your throat. "What it means to be mine?"

His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to remind you.

"Your body recognizes it before your mind does," he mused, tilting his head. "That pull. That ache. The way you want even when you don’t know why."

His lips brushed your temple, a mockery of tenderness, and a rush of warmth spread through your veins—too much, too fast, leaving you lightheaded.

"That’s my influence," he murmured. "My power inside you, working its way through every part of you. You can feel it, can’t you?"

You could. It was in the way your thoughts blurred, in the way your body burned, in the way your knees threatened to give out the longer he touched you. It was wrong—too much, too unnatural—and yet, you needed it.

The realization sent a ripple of dread through you.

He noticed.

His smile widened, his silver eyes gleaming with something almost fond. "Good. I want you to feel it."

His hand drifted lower, brushing against the curve of your waist, his touch featherlight but all-consuming. "I want you to understand."

The temple doors rattled, as if some unseen force was pressing against them. The air thickened further, the walls seeming to close in, and a strange, distant hum filled your ears—low and rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

No, not yours.

His.

"You are changing," he said, almost lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to watch it happen. "Every moment you spend here, every second you breathe this air—it binds you to me. More and more, until there’s nothing left of the person who thought she could leave."

Your stomach twisted. The weight of his words settled deep, and yet—you couldn’t move away.

Didn’t want to.

Your fingers curled against his chest, and he sighed, pleased.

"See?" His voice was almost gentle now, almost affectionate. "You’re already learning."

You should have fought.

But his warmth was sinking deeper, crawling beneath your skin, settling into the very core of you. His hands on you weren’t just touch—they were commands.

And you were listening.

"You think I will be merciful," he mused, running a hand through your hair. "That's because I have waited, I will take my time, let you adjust, let you resist just a little longer."

His fingers tightened in your hair, forcing your head back, and your breath hitched as you met his gaze.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

"I won’t."

The temple groaned around you, the very foundations trembling beneath his will. A gust of wind rushed through the chamber, snuffing out the torches all at once, plunging the room into near darkness.

Only his eyes remained, gleaming silver in the dim light—predatory, absolute.

"You are mine," he whispered, his voice laced with something ancient, something terrifying.

And for the first time, you realized—

You had never truly been given a choice.

The ritual, the offering, the village’s desperate prayers—none of it had ever been for them.

It had always been for him.

To bring you back.

To keep you.

Forever.

And as the last of your resistance crumbled, as the god before you claimed what was his, the final thread of your past life snapped.

The girl who had left this village all those years ago was no more.

There was only you.

And him.

And the inescapable, cursed covenant that bound you together.

—

tbc.

—

noirscript © 2025

You glanced at your left while waiting for another phone call to come. They were one of the newbies who were probably swayed by the expected salary and benefits from the job posting.

Their eyes were already teary and their lips was quivering as they listen to one of their clients. They probably didn't know how to handle the client's fantasy. Perhaps it was too much for them. You'll never know.

Because before the call even ended, they bolted towards the door—sobbing while wiping their tears away.

From your seat, you could hear the loud voice of a yelling man from her headphones. You shook your head before turning your attention back to your own monitor.

For some reason, there was something eerie with your line being available for almost half an hour.

It wouldn't be odd for some of your frequent callers to pester your phone with their shittiest and weirdest fantasies.

So, you decided to check your work email and internal chat. Perhaps something came up and ended disrupting your telephone line. But why is it yours alone though?

You glanced at the headphone dangling next to you. You assumed that it's no longer running, but you felt it vibrate. You turned to the screen and saw the 15-minute long phone call that's still ongoing.

As much as you want to end the call with the client, the company prohibits stealing a client of a workmate. It would disrupt the "connection" established by the previous agent.

You wanted to call the attention of your supervisor, but they always disappear just when you need them.

Running out of options, you decided to attach the jack of your headphones in her splitter.

"DO NOT IGNORE ME!"

"Hell—" You paused when you heard an all too familiar threat and voice. Beads of sweat started to form on your forehead. Of all clients, why is it him? And why is he calling another agent? That's against the rules!

"How dare you allow them to sit near you?" He asked, making your forehead crease. "Haven't you learn any lesson, huh? Why do you think nobody ever sit next to you?"

You kept your lips sealed while watching the time turned 12:00 PM. You are suppoed to leave on the dot. But you can't simply leave him hanging. He's been on the line for almost an hour at that point.

"Yulian—" you sighed, trying to keep the storyline going. "They didn't do anything wrong. They're my friends, of course I gotta help them!"

"Tch. Have I been too lenient on you?" He sighed, or perhaps puffed a smoke. The sound a tin can hitting a hard surface echoed. "I'm done."

Your eyes widened. You can't lose him! He's one of the only clients you have who's been far too generous towards you.

"S-Sir! Please!" A loud thunderclap echoed in your floor followed by the entire building being swallowed by darkness.

That's awful. You lost another client because of a goddamn power outage!

Or at least, you thought.

Because not even a week later, nobody could even remember that once there's an agent called Y/N L/N.