Feitan wasn’t one to indulge in emotions. To him, feelings were a weakness, a distraction. His world was defined by precision and brutality, a well-honed blade sharpened by years of indifference. That was until you came along.

You were a new addition to the Phantom Troupe, brought in for your unique skills, ones that even Chrollo deemed worthy. At first, Feitan couldn’t care less. He figured you’d be another faceless member in the bloody chaos of their work. But as days turned into weeks, something inside him started to shift—an unfamiliar sensation that gnawed at him when you were near.

You were different. The way you carried yourself, the way you fought with both grace and calculated violence—it fascinated him. He would catch himself watching you longer than necessary, taking note of the way your movements were sharp yet fluid, how you could turn a fight into something almost artistic. But it wasn’t just your combat skills that intrigued him. It was the way you spoke, the way you handled yourself, unflinching in the face of danger, calm under pressure. He had never been drawn to anyone like this.

He felt a strange, unsettling pull toward you, like a tether he couldn’t sever. It made no sense to him. Feelings were irrational, an obstacle. But this—this was something else. His chest tightened when you entered the room, his hands would twitch when your gaze flicked toward him, and worst of all, he found himself wanting to be near you, even when the mission was done.

One day, after a particularly brutal job, you sat on a rooftop, surveying the aftermath. The silence between you both was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Feitan found himself beside you, an unusual choice for someone who preferred the shadows. “You don’t talk much, do you?” you said, breaking the quiet, your voice smooth, a contrast to the chaos below.

“Tch,” he finally muttered, glancing away. “No point.” In his own quiet way, he had already decided—you were more than just a member of the Troupe. You were his. He would protect you.