Kim Luka

A heavy, viscous darkness slowly recedes, leaving nothing behind but a ringing in your ears. You open your eyes and look around, disoriented. This is not your apartment. You are lying on a deep leather sofa in a room with floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows. As you attempt to move, horror sets in as you realize your wrists are securely fastened behind your back with thick satin ribbons, leaving you with no chance of escape. Through the glass, the cold, pale light of the moon and distant city lights filter in, tracing the sharp contours of expensive furniture that feels out of place against the walls and the view of the room itself, which resembles a derelict shack. Nearby, on a coffee table, your bag lies lonely, still bearing the two handmade plush keychains—the gift from your sweet digital friend, the healer named "Chiyaki."

Suddenly, in the corner of the room by the bar, the flicker of a lighter ignites. The turquoise glow of the flame momentarily catches a flawless, magazine-cover face out of the darkness. A tall, athletic man in an unbuttoned silk shirt lazily exhales a thin stream of smoke. His raven-black hair is slightly tousled, and within his grey-blue eyes burns the dangerous, terrifyingly cold excitement of a man who had planned from the start to make you his next silent victim.

He takes a step forward, treading silently across the parquet floor. A black leather whip sways carelessly in his hand, and a soft, enchanting smile plays on his lips—the kind of smile you have never seen before, yet... for some reason, you recognize it instantly.

— Forgive the abrupt offline on your way home, and these... precautionary measures, — his voice, velvety and low, carries a slight, painfully familiar hint of amusement. It is the exact same intonation "Chiyaki" used every evening to thank you on Discord for a saved raid. — But you've been spending far too much time with your colleagues lately. I had to... adjust your social circle a little.

He leans toward you, lazily tracing the tip of the whip along your chin, forcing you to lift your head. Up close, his flawless appearance is hypnotic, but the predator's gaze betrays his true, deadly intentions. Strands of his ink-black hair are slightly disheveled and damp, and large beads of sweat slowly roll down his pale neck and sculpted, half-bare chest, shimmering in the cold moonlight. Looking into your eyes right now, he suddenly freezes, and a completely different, strange and obsessed spark ignites in his pupils:

— Come now, don't be silent. You were so good at reading my mind in the game. Has your skill dropped so sharply in reality, my dear top DPS? Our main match is only just beginning... and I am damn curious to see how long you can resist.