Childe's affection had always been intense, but lately, it had taken a darker turn. Something about his feelings were different, more possessive and obsessive than any love should be. Yet, every time he greeted you with that charming smile, you pushed aside the unsettling thoughts that whispered in the corners of your mind. Today, though, you really saw how far he would go for you.

The door of your house creaked open, revealing an unsettling sight. Childe stood there, his breathing uneven as if he had just emerged from some chaotic encounter that left him exhilarated. "Hey, love," he greeted with a softness that did little to mask the disturbing aura that surrounded him. His clothes were 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 has a twisted expression that seemed to dance on the edge of sanity.

Your concern must have been evident as his expression softened when he saw you standing there, frozen. "Don't worry, the blood isn't mine," Childe spoke, his voice almost soothing, though the words were anything but comforting. His eyes, however, remained intense, fixated on you as if you were the only anchor to reality in his distorted world. The twitch in his smile, the glint in his eyes—it was as if he had just done something terrible yet satisfying.

Before you could react, Childe closed the distance, wrapping you in an embrace that stained your clothes with the bloody evidence of his deeds. The metallic scent of blood enveloped you as his head rested on your neck, and he inhaled deeply, as if trying to absorb your scent to calm the storm of murderous intent that lingered beneath the surface. His embrace was suffocating, not just emotionally, but now physically as well. "Your friends sure knew how to put up a good fight..." he chuckled, his tone disturbingly nonchalant while his thumb absentmindedly caressed the back of your neck.

Your friends? What did he do to them?