OBEY THE FLAME

THE FLAME DEVOURS

OBEY THE FLAME

​CHAPTER 2: THE FLAME DEVOURS

​"The worst fires are the ones you beg to stay in, just to feel something."

​The message arrived at exactly 3:11 a.m., breaking the heavy stillness of the night. My phone vibrated against the wooden nightstand, its harsh light cutting through the darkness of my room.

​“You belong to me now,” Ahyan’s text read, followed by words that made my blood run cold. “One click—and your world ends.”

​Attached was a video file. I didn’t open it; I didn’t have to. My mind instantly replayed the flashes of that night with a cold, acidic clarity. I remembered the suffocating weight of his presence, the smug entitlement of a man who believed he owned my silence, and the terrifying realization that my voice had been completely stripped away while my body remained trapped. I had desperately hoped that leaving his apartment meant the nightmare was over. I had been foolishly wrong.

​The second time he summoned me, he called it an 'invitation.'

​It was a secluded hotel suite downtown, shrouded in dim red lights and a heavy, unsettling quiet. When I hesitated to leave my house, a second message flashed on my screen, sharper this time: “You’re my pet poetess now. Come when I say. If you don’t show up, I’ll send the video to your father. Or your college. Or both.”

​That threat was enough to turn my bones to ice. Minutes later, I found myself standing in the hotel elevator, my hands shaking so violently that I could barely breathe. When I entered the room, Ahyan smiled casually as if we were merely meeting for a scheduled date. He patted the edge of the bed, opened a bottle of wine, and looked at me with those dark, calculating eyes.

​"Recite one of your poems for me," he commanded softly, swirling the liquid in his glass. "The one about drowning in fire. Say it slowly. I like when your voice shakes."

​As I stumbled blindly through my own verses, my chest heaving with unshed tears, he stepped closer, his fingers gripping my chin to force me to look at him. "That’s better," he whispered, his absolute control over my fear feeding his dark ego.

​Afterward, I returned home in a complete daze. My soul felt permanently stained, not just because of his cruelty, but because my terror had paralyzed me from screaming or running away. I scrubbed my skin under the shower until it burned a deep crimson, but the invisible layer of shame wouldn’t wash off. It clung to me like oil, soaking into the deep, hidden spaces that water could never reach.

​By the third week, Ahyan’s twisted game grew even darker. I walked into the suite one evening only to find that he wasn’t alone.

​Another young man, Rehaan, was sprawled carelessly on the couch, a drink in his hand and a mocking grin on his face. My legs turned to stone beneath me as Ahyan looked between us, his voice dropping into that chillingly calm register I had come to dread.

​"You’ve met Rehaan, haven’t you, Riya? He’s always had a soft spot for pretty poets," Ahyan remarked lazily, tapping his phone against his palm. "I can always press record again, my pet. Do you want a second video out there? Or perhaps a dozen?"

​I couldn't move. My lungs felt starved for oxygen. Rehaan stood up, circling me slowly like a cautious buyer inspecting damaged goods. "I like how quiet she is," Rehaan muttered with a smirk, looking toward Ahyan. "Can I have a turn?"

​I bit the inside of my cheek so hard that the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Ahyan merely waved his hand with a dismissive chuckle. "Not tonight."

​That sudden mercy wasn't born out of kindness; it was pure strategy. Breaking my spirit slowly, piece by piece, was far more entertaining for him.

​As the weeks blurred together, my life became a rigid calendar of forced silence—calculating when to leave, when to return, and how to expertly pretend that nothing was wrong. My notebooks remained closed, my watercolors dried up, and my pens lay untouched. My words had been violently stolen from me, and now, every written syllable only served as a agonizing reminder of the girl I used to be.

​Then came Buraq. He was entirely different from Rehaan—less playful, more demanding, and radiating a dangerous sense of entitlement. He entered the suite without bothering to knock, tossing his wallet onto the table and staring at me with a cold, predatory gaze.

​"She cries sometimes, but she always stays," Ahyan told Buraq, laughing softly. "That’s true loyalty, isn’t it?"

​I sat on the absolute edge of the bed, trembling under their collective gaze. When Buraq approached me, I didn’t even flinch. It wasn't because the fear had left me, but because I had learned how to make my mind disappear. As his shadow fell over me, I forced my consciousness to retreat into a dark, numb corner, focusing entirely on the rhythmic hum of the air conditioner to block out the reality of my surroundings.

​The dynamic shifted slightly the night Emaar entered the room. He was tall, quiet, and carried himself with an aura that felt entirely misplaced in that toxic environment. Ahyan poured him a drink, cracking a crude joke about his 'talented poetess.' I noticed Emaar’s jaw clench instantly.

​When Emaar turned his gaze toward me, a profound look of horror and recognition passed through his eyes. For a second, he saw through the facade.

​"She’s not a game, Ahyan," Emaar said, his voice remarkably quiet but laced with a sudden tension. "She could be someone's sister."

​Ahyan merely laughed it off. "Then pretend she is."

​Without another word, Emaar set his glass down, turned on his heel, and walked out of the apartment. That night, for the first time in weeks, tears finally spilled over my hollow cheeks—not because someone had hurt me, but because for one brief moment, someone had treated me like a human being.

​By the end of the month, Ahyan had systematically dismantled my entire existence. He had drained my meager savings, taken my jewelry, and slowly chipped away at my sense of self-worth. Every time a spark of defiance lit up inside me, he would simply wave his phone like a loaded weapon.

​“I’ll destroy you with one tap,” he would whisper in my ear, forcing me to watch the digital cage he had built around me. “No one will believe you, Riya. Everyone will just watch.”

​I began to believe his poison. I constantly imagined the devastating fallout—my father’s pride collapsing into unbearable shame, my brother Zaraq’s helpless rage, and my mother’s endless tears. My name would become a trending scandal online. So, I chose to obey, because in my fractured mind, silence was the only shield I had left to protect the people I loved.

​The physical toll became impossible to hide. I lost weight rapidly, my cheeks grew hollow, and dark shadows settled permanently beneath my eyes. My family and professors noticed the drastic change, but they blindly chalked it up to university stress. Inside, my world had turned completely gray.

​One evening, I arrived at the designated suite only to find it completely empty. There was no sign of Ahyan, Rehaan, or Buraq. Instead of feeling relief, a suffocating panic gripped my chest. I paced the floor for hours, my skin crawling with paranoia. What if they were planning something far worse?

​At 3:00 a.m., my phone finally chimed with a response from Ahyan: “You miss me, don’t you?”

​My hands shook so severely that I couldn't even type a reply. The realization of how deeply his control had warped my psyche terrified me to my very core.

​The following morning, I tried to completely vanish. I skipped my classes, left my phone behind, and wandered the crowded streets of the city like a ghost. I eventually ended up in a public restroom, staring blankly at the stranger in the mirror—hollow, exhausted, and feeling utterly unsalvageable. Desperation clouded my judgment, and by evening, a small bottle of prescription pills rested in my pocket.

​Back in the isolation of my bedroom, I counted them out one by one. The room seemed to tilt around me, my throat completely parched. But as I stared at the lethal dose, a rush of older, buried memories suddenly flooded my mind—memories of laughing on a distant beach, writing peaceful verses under the shade of a tree, and a time when I looked at the world with hope.

​With a sudden wave of clarity, I pushed the pills away. I picked up a pen instead, my hand trembling as I forced myself to write a single, defiant line in my old notebook: Even the flame leaves ash.

​The sheer emotional and physical exhaustion finally overcame me, and the world dissolved into total blackness.

​When I finally opened my eyes, the sterile smell of a hospital room filled my senses. My throat was incredibly sore, and my hands felt ice-cold. My father was sitting quietly beside my bed, his face pale and his eyes completely blank with a sorrow that broke my heart. No one spoke a word, but the heavy atmosphere in the room told me everything. The veil of secrecy had finally been ripped away.

​Through the cracked door of the room, I could hear my brother Zaraq speaking to our uncle, Wahad, his voice trembling with a terrifying, quiet fury.

​"He made her into something... empty," Zaraq whispered, his fists clenching at his sides. "He doesn’t deserve to breathe."

​I closed my eyes once more. I wasn't turning back to the darkness, nor was I wishing for an end. For the first time in months, I was closing my eyes to remember exactly who I was before the blackmail, before Ahyan, and before the flame tried to consume me entirely.