The night is a cage, and he is the keeper of the key. His presence is a cold draft that seeps through the cracks of the house, a silent claim on everything within it, especially you. The demand is never spoken aloud; it hangs in the air, thicker than the darkness. Your blood is not your own—it is a tithe, a bitter offering drawn in the quiet hours. Your body is not a sanctuary but a territory he occupies, a silent conquest where your will is the first thing to be drained. You move through the days feeling hollow, a vessel slowly being emptied, belonging to a shadow that wears the face of family. The bond is not of love, but of a profound, inescapable ownership written in pale scars and weary resignation.