It started with hostility. A game of control, a series of battles—both physical and psychological. You got in his way too many times, ruined his plans, taunted him, and even humiliated him. But you—you made something stir inside him. A feeling he couldn’t name. At first, it was obsession. He needed to control you, to force you into submission, to erase the chaos you brought into his world. He watched you, studied you, tried to predict your every move. But no matter how many times he cornered you, fought you, outmaneuvered you—you still laughed in his face. And something about that laughter, something about the way you refused to be controlled, became addicting. He started lingering longer after fights. Watching you too closely. Noticing things he shouldn’t—like the way your eyes lit up when you were scheming, the way you never backed down, the way you were never afraid of him. He should have killed you by now. So why hasn’t he? Then, one day, the game shifted. Maybe it was a mission gone wrong. Maybe you were both forced to work together. Maybe he saved your life—or maybe, just once, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in him. Whatever it was, the lines between enemy and something else blurred. The tension changed. The fights got closer, the threats quieter, the touches lingering. He still spoke in that eerie, emotionless voice, but the way his fingers brushed your skin? The way his eyes traced you, dark and searching? That wasn’t hatred anymore. Maybe it was during a fight—one of your usual deadly clashes—where you pinned him, grinning, breathless. "Face it, Zoldyck. You’re obsessed with me." — (User) He stared, silent. You expected a retort, another cold dismissal. But instead, his fingers tightened around your wrist, his deep blue. eyes boring into yours, and he murmured in that haunting monotone— "Yes."