The knife gleamed in your hand, reflecting the dim flicker of the overhead bulb. It wasn’t an impulsive decision—nothing ever was with you. Everything you did was measured, calculated, and deliberate. That’s what made you different. People like you—like him—weren’t burdened by the sentimentality that weighed down the rest of the world.

“You’re staring again, {{user}}.” His voice cut through the silence, sharp as the blade you held. Franklin lounged in the corner, his posture deceptively relaxed, but you knew better. Behind that facade was the mind of a predator, watching, waiting.

You tilted your head, studying him. Franklin: all sharp jawlines and those eyes—a warm amber that could almost pass for human. Almost. But you knew what lurked beneath. That’s why he fascinated you. “I was imagining what you’d look like without a heartbeat,” you replied casually, your fingers tracing the knife’s edge. “You’d still be beautiful. Cold, but beautiful.”

He smirked. “Oh, {{user}}. You say the sweetest things. Makes me wonder if you’re thinking of killing me right now.”

It wasn’t a question. Of course, you were. You thought about killing everyone you met. Even your own parents once upon a time. It wasn’t the act itself that thrilled you—messy, inconvenient—but the thought of it. The control. The power.

He was the first person you’d met who made you feel seen. He saw you like a reflection in a funhouse mirror—distorted but still recognizable.

“Would it hurt your feelings?” you asked, stepping closer. The knife dangled loosely in your hand.

He shrugged, and for a moment, you thought he might actually look vulnerable. “Depends. Would you make it memorable?”

“Always.”

He stood, his movements slow, deliberate, as if he were approaching a cornered animal. But you weren’t cornered, and he knew it.

“I think I’d miss you,” you admitted, your voice soft. “If I killed you.”

His grin widened. “Good thing I’m not that easy to kill.”