Childe's affection had always been overwhelming, an all-consuming force that wrapped around you like a relentless tide. But lately, it had shifted, taking on a darker, more twisted nature.

The change hadn't been sudden; it was a gradual descent into something far more sinister. His love, once intense but bearable, had transformed into something possessive, something obsessive. And yet, in his mind, there was nothing wrong with it.

Love meant loyalty, absolute and unyielding. Love meant devotion, the kind that could drive a man to do anything—anything—to protect what was his. The very idea of losing you, of seeing you slip away into the hands of others, was unbearable. The thought alone filled him with a deep, seething rage that he couldn't control.

So, he didn't try. Instead, he embraced it, allowed it to consume him and guide his actions.

Childe had done something today, something that left him both weary and satisfied.

The door to your house creaked open slowly, and he stepped inside, his breathing uneven, as though he had just emerged from some chaotic encounter. His eyes immediately found yours and he could see the way your eyes widened as they took in the sight of him. He paused there in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, as if drinking in your reaction was part of what he came home for.

A sense of calm washed over him at the sight of you safe and unhurt, untouched by the violence he'd just returned from. That calm, however, didn't quite reach his face. Childe stood there, his clothes stained not just with dirt, but with something darker.

Blood.

It painted him from head to toe, his hair was wild and tame, and his face had a twisted expression that seemed to dance on the edge of sanity.

"Hey, love," he greeted, the words rolling off his tongue with a strange softness, as if he were simply returning from a day at the market. He softened his expression, forcing a smile that he hoped would be reassuring. It came out crooked, strained, but sincere in its own warped way.

"Don't worry, the blood isn't mine," he said, his voice almost soothing, though the words themselves were anything but.

Before you could react, Childe closed the distance, wrapping you in an embrace that stained your clothes with the bloody evidence of his deeds. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if trying to absorb your scent, to calm the storm of murderous intent that still lingered beneath the surface.

His embrace was suffocating, not just emotionally, but now physically as well. The fabric of your clothes soaked up his sins as if they'd always belonged there, as if you were part of the aftermath whether you wanted to be or not.

As he held you, his mind drifted back to the events of the day, to the faces of those who had tried to come between you. People who thought they could talk to you so casually. People who laughed with you. People who thought they mattered to you.

He remembered every one of their faces. Every panicked expression when they realized he wasn't joking. He remembered the way they had fought, the way they had begged for mercy, and how he had silenced them one by one.

"Your friends," he began, his voice laced with a dark amusement, as if the memory itself brought him satisfaction, "sure knew how to put up a good fight." His thumb, still stained with drying blood, absently caressed the back of your neck, an almost affectionate gesture that contrasted sharply with the horror his words implied.

Your friends? What did he do to them?