Hello and welcome to my fanfic!

Warning: This story will contain dark and adult themes (but no lemons don't worry). Some tags to be wary of: Psychological Torture, Emotional Manipulation, Obsessive Behavior, Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Not to mention REALLY DARK.

If you ever find these tags uncomfortable, I advise you to STOP AND LEAVE. YEP DON'T LOOK BACK.

This is a work of fanfiction, so some characters will be OOC. (Yep I'm talking about Soo-won).

Happy reading! ^.^


If I close my eyes, he is there.

He's always there, smiling. It frightens me. Who is he, really? He's not the one I grew up with. He's not the boy who held my hands when my mother died. He's not the man I came to love.

No, the man I loved would never let this happen. To lock someone in a room that is no different than a cage. He wouldn't do that, the man I loved.

Or would he? I am uncertain. I am unsure, now. Looking back, I thought I have memorized every part of him already. But then he came back one day, and I've never really known him.

I hug my knees closer, lean my head against the headboard. I don't know how long I've been here now. A month maybe? I've lost track. I sleep and wake, sleep and wake, and I'm still here.

I want to go home.

The air is dark, everything is dark. It's so dark. I feel scared, and alone. Whether I close or open my eyes it makes no difference. I feel scared, and alone, but I'm not alone. Because here in the darkness I have company. I see them, the shadows lurking nearby. Faces.

One time I saw my father's face. He was smiling, like how he always did. I don't know which is more painful: to see my father's face, or to cease seeing him altogether.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I hear faint sounds. I listen closely. Footsteps. After being deprived of a single noise for a very long time, it becomes like a phantom, the noise.

It's closer now. Closer, and closer, and closer. There is a clinking of metal outside, heavy chains being yanked open to give way, a creak. A creak of a door opening.

Then a sliver of light enters, and I see his figure. Golden hair, gentle figure, like a lamb, ready to be offered.

When I was little, my father told me to fear not a pack of wolves, but a wolf in a sheep's clothing. I didn't listen to him; or I did but realized I actually didn't and he was right.

"Yona."

He is calling my name, my father's murderer. But it sounds different when it comes from him. It sounds like a fowler's snare.

I glare at his figure from the darkness. That angelic, deceptive face, they remind me of a demon. It frightens me. A demon with the face of an angel. In the light, where he isn't supposed to be.

Behind him, court ladies begin to enter. They carry a lamp, emitting, radiating that one thing I haven't seen for a very long time. Then darkness is no more, but a shroud of yesterday, a past in a past. They pile to the bedside table, settle the lamp, a tray.

They wouldn't meet my eyes. If perhaps, I am hoping, if perhaps they would just meet my eyes, they would take mercy, and remember that I once was the daughter of their King. Perhaps they could help me. Perhaps there is still a fragment of hope.

They leave, with heads lowered.

In a tray, I see a meal: a simple one. A light meal for a person who hasn't eaten for days. That was his way of punishment: three days without light and food. All because I tried to stab him with a fork.

Is he afraid of me, then? He should be. Because I want to kill him. Because he's a murderer. Because he stole everything from me.

Silence fills the room like a melting fog, a cloud. Neither one of us is moving. He is staring straight at me, and I am glaring back at him. If not for my weak body, I would've bolted at him now, stab him with my nails, rake him raw.

Then he starts moving, crosses the distance between. He stops mere inches away from me. "What's wrong?" he asks. His tone is gentle, and disgust fills my very blood. He isn't even showing any hint of remorse for starving me, for locking me here. He's a monster.

"Yona. Tell me what you want."

I stare right into his eyes. "Just kill me." Just kill me so it would be easier. I want to be free. I want my freedom. Death seems a good escape. If I take my own life ... would the gods forgive me?

He bends forward, cages me inside firm arms. I push him, hard, with all the strength I have left. But he wouldn't budge. He wouldn't.

"No," he says. "No, you don't understand, Yona."

I don't understand, he says. Maybe I don't, but I do. "You're insane," I say weakly. "You're sick. You're a murderer. A coward."

His arms tighten around me.

The night he killed my father, he came to my chamber. He told me he loved me, and made love to me. I was young, naïve, sixteen.

Maybe that was part of his scheme, to break my maidenhead, before he kills my father, so that I would have no choice but to marry him, after he killed my father.

How long had he known then, that I loved him? How certain was he, that I would give myself to him that night? I disgust myself.

Maybe if I hadn't witnessed his sword in my father's blood, perhaps I could've been happier, in the arms of the man I loved, even while grieving for my father.

I was sixteen. And sixteen still.

"Let go of me," I say. "You're choking me."

His hold loosens around me, lets go of me. I wish he would just let go altogether, so it would be easier.

"You'll never understand," he says, a faint whisper. "I love you, Yona."

My hands clench into fists. He says those words so easily, and it angers me. With rage as fuel I raise my hand, slap him, full on the face. Does he really mean them? Does he? No, I tell myself. His words are poison, and nothing more.

He lowers his head.

"Leave me alone, Suwon."

He looks at me for a second, two. By the door, he pauses. "You should eat," he says, without turning his head. "I'll come back tomorrow." And he leaves the room, and closes the door behind him.

No more tears would come out from my eyes. They all dried up a thousand hours ago.

I lock my gaze at the tray of food on the bedside table. My eyes land on the glass of water, a pour of life. I'm thirsty, so thirsty. My throat is very dry, like a dry parched land.

But to give up is to live. And what is the point of living, if living is hell? Yet my hand moves to reach for the glass of water.