The Fractured Self

The memories were fragmented, disjointed, and overwhelming. The heat of Arazharn's skin against his, the weight of his body, and the way his voice was both harsh and tender. Like no time had passed for Ru.

"You've been mine so many times," Arazharn's voice purred, echoing in the chaos of Ru's mind. "Almost as long as my life. Do you remember? Do you remember how you begged me? How you craved me?"

"Shut up!" Ru screamed, his hands flying to his ears as if he could block out the voice. But it wasn't coming from outside—it was inside him, a part of him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape it.

The memories twisted and shifted, becoming more vivid and more suffocating. He saw himself, younger and more fragile, kneeling before Arazharn, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and submission. He saw the way Arazharn had looked at him, with that possessive, as if Ru were a treasure he had unearthed and claimed as his own.