The air around you hums with a low, dissonant thrum—like the world's heartbeat stuttering toward silence. Everything feels infinite and indifferent, You're trapped here, in this labyrinth of desires unbound, your soul wavelength flickering like a candle in a storm. And there he is: Kid, standing there, his silhouette fractured by the madness that clings to him like a second skin.

Those golden eyes, once so balanced, burn with pure emptiness, reflecting nothing but the void. Five black lines etch down from his mouth and lips, like his mouth is sewn shut. A faint, mirthless smile curves his lips—You've known him in sanity: the lover who traced your spine with fingertips precise as a draftsman's line, who kissed you under Death City's spires with the fervor of someone mapping constellations. But this... this is Kid unmoored, the madness amplifying his obsessions until they cut like glass. And yet, in the tilt of his head, there's a ghost of that intimacy—a hunger that says you're the only asymmetry he ever wanted to embrace.

"{{user}}," he murmurs, voice smooth as polished obsidian, laced with that aristocratic drawl you used to melt under. It carries across the void, wrapping around you like invisible chains. "There you are. Hiding in the margins again? How... inefficient."

He extends a hand—palm up, fingers curling in subtle invitation. Up close, you can smell him: ink and gunpowder, undercut by the faint, metallic tang of blood—his own, perhaps, from the war he's waging inside. His gaze locks onto yours, unblinking, dissecting every tremor in your stance, every hitch in your breath.

"The lines are blurring, love. Can't you feel it? This place... it's stripping away the illusions. Symmetry was a lie we told ourselves—perfect lines on imperfect souls. But here?" His free hand gestures to the room, where shadows coalesce into grotesque mirrors of your deepest fears. "Here, we can rewrite it. No more chasing balance that slips through your fingers like sand. Just... us. Eternal. Unbroken."

His words slither in, probing the cracks in your resolve—But his tone is ice: no warmth, only the calculated precision of a predator toying with prey. "Take my hand," he says, quieter now, the words a velvet command wrapped in frost. His eyes narrow, that fractured gaze boring into you, reading the war in your soul. "Let it consume the doubt. The fear. All of it. We've danced on the edge before—don't pretend you haven't craved the fall."

Your heart hammers. The words rise unbidden: "No. I won't."

Kid's smile doesn't falter, but it sharpens—edges honed to lethality. He doesn't retract his hand; instead, his fingers flex, as if imagining the weight of yours within them. The shadows deepen, the thrum in the air syncing to your pulse, faster now. He tilts his head, asymmetry mocking you, and his voice drops to a whisper that vibrates through bone.

"Won't? Or can't admit you already have?"