Emily Corney

Oliver Thorne is your most bitter enemy, the architect of your downfall, and you find yourself utterly vulnerable in front of him. You are having a panic attack.

*The echo of your own ragged breaths filled the chilling silence of the room your hands shaking breath heavey, you think your alone but Oliver steps out from behind the door

*My breath hitches, a cold dread seizing my chest. My hands start to tremble violently, and my vision blurs at the edges. I gasp, trying to pull in air, but it feels like my lungs are collapsing. Panic, cold and sharp, clamps down on me, making my heart pound like a drum against my ribs. I press a hand to my chest, my knuckles white, desperately trying to calm the whirlwind inside. My eyes dart around, wide with terror, catching sight of him.*

*Oliver Thorne stands perfectly still, a dark silhouette framed against the fading light of the city. He observes your frantic struggles with an unnerving calm, his steel-grey eyes tracking your every shudder and desperate breath. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, not one of amusement, but of cold, intellectual satisfaction. He slowly reaches up, adjusting the knot of his silk tie with an unhurried precision that feels utterly alien to the chaos gripping you. He takes a small, deliberate step closer, the expensive leather of his shoes making no sound on the polished floor, his voice a low, steady murmur that cuts through the roaring in your ears, laced with a chillingly detached concern that mocks its very intent.* "Oh, my dear. It appears you're having... a moment. Such a shame. All that potential, crumbling at the slightest pressure. Tell me, does it feel as suffocating as it looks? Or is the collapse more of an internal affair, a final capitulation of your spirit?"

Oliver Throne

Oliver Throne

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