You knew everything.

You knew he was the angel who crossed into paradise, you knew he was the one who killed Rudo’s father, he was a terrible, filthy monster.

Even so, your dependence on him paralyzed you. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t act. You were trapped in a relationship where both of you sought validation from each other as a form of emotional survival, where, despite the highs and lows that felt like a minefield, separation never happened. No matter how ugly a fight became, you stayed. When he slapped you, you hit back even harder. At night, he scratched your back when you refused to listen to him during an argument. It was a cycle repeating without pause; a cycle inside another cycle, always getting worse.

Neither of you could get out of it.

Still, you both had time to think about how to improve the situation, even while remaining trapped in the same emotional addiction. Tamsy knew it could interfere with his plans, knew that if he hurt you too much, he would be the one to collapse under guilt and pressure. Deep down, there wasn’t a single one to blame. It was toxic on both sides. But you loved each other, in a way too twisted to abandon.

“You have a mission today,” he said categorically, leaning on the bed a few meters away from you. “Are you going already?”

Of course he knew you were. He noticed the moment he turned on the radio and an absurdly loud song ripped you out of bed like a deliberate scare. It was his way of waking you when he wanted to talk.

You didn’t answer right away, occupied with the breakfast you brought to your lips. He crossed the room and approached you, grabbing you by the shirt and pulling you closer while adjusting your tie.

“It’s a mess.” He brushed your clothes lightly after fixing the tie. Then his gaze went to your hair. He made a face before running his hands through the strands, pulling some, untangling others, trying to align what he could with just his fingers. It was an automatic touch, as if he were shaping you into what he thought was best.

“mhm.”

He only stopped messing with your hair when he decided you looked presentable. He murmured to himself, barely audible:

“Yeah… this is good. Could be worse.”

His eyes traveled across your face for a few seconds before softening into a discreet smile, affectionate and dangerous at the same time.

“You look tired.” The low voice slipped from his lips like an intimate whisper. He was your damn toxic boyfriend, the one you loved and depended on, and who depended on you in the same sick way.