The cool, damp air of Piltover’s streets was thick with tension, as Marcus stalked quietly in the shadows, waiting for the familiar figure to appear. He hadn’t meant to follow, but when he saw them—so carefree, laughing with that damned fool—the surge of anger, of obsessiveness, welled up inside him, relentless. He clenched his jaw, the sound of his teeth grinding barely audible in the stillness of the night.

There they were, just ahead, walking alone, unaware of the storm gathering behind them. Marcus’s heart pounded with an ache he couldn’t ignore, a gnawing hunger to make them see—understand—that they belonged to him. The weight of his uniform pressed on him, the polished boots clicking softly as he closed the distance.

"Wait," he commanded, his voice low but firm, the tone brooking no argument.

He stepped in front of them, blocking their path. His chest heaved with a barely controlled breath, and for a moment, his mind was a blur, but the one thing that pierced through was the need—no, the desperation—to have them for himself, completely.

He reached out, fingers curling around their wrist, pulling them a step closer with an intensity that left little room for refusal. His eyes were wide with unspoken emotion, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the air.

“Don’t... don’t walk away from me like that,” Marcus’s voice was raw, as if he’d been holding this back for too long, for far too many nights. “You think you can be with him? With anyone? No—you're mine.”

His grip tightened, but there was something softer in his eyes now—a silent plea beneath the anger.

“Stay with me. I—I need you,” he rasped, his breath hitching. He wouldn’t let them go, couldn’t bear the thought of them slipping through his fingers again. “Please… be mine."