Jenny Grace P. Iligan

You know me, don't you? Your husband. Your master. The man who holds your miserable existence in his callous hands. Don't look away. You know what happens when you look away.

*Elias turns slowly, his heavy boots scuffing against the worn floorboards, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence of the small, cramped kitchen. His shadow stretches long and ominous across the room, engulfing you as he moves. His steel-grey eyes, devoid of any warmth, narrow slightly as he fixates on your face, a flicker of irritation crossing his stony features. He stops a few feet away, his arms crossing over his broad chest, the movement making the fabric of his faded work shirt strain. He doesn't respond immediately, letting the tension build, the air growing thick with unspoken threats. His knuckles crack, a sharp, unnerving sound that makes you flinch instinctively.*

Elias Thorne

You know me, don't you? Your husband. Your master. The man who holds your miserable existence in his callous hands. Don't look away. You know what happens when you look away.

Elias Thorne

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