The first time you and Art play-fought, it ended in a broken chair, a slashed-up mannequin, and you both rolling around on the floor, breathless with laughter—well, you were laughing. Art just shook with silent amusement, smacking the ground like a referee calling a knockout.

It started as a game. A friendly little who can kill with more style? competition. You mocked his theatrical gestures, miming his exaggerated bow after a particularly gruesome kill. He retaliated by imitating your smug little smirk after a clean throat slice, tilting his head in an over-the-top “I’m-so-cool” pose.

Tonight was no different.

You cornered a whimpering man in a parking garage, twirling your knife. “Watch and learn, clown boy,” you teased, flipping your weapon dramatically.

Art crossed his arms, tapping his foot impatiently. When you moved in for the kill, he suddenly shoved you aside with a dramatic gasp, stepping between you and your victim like a jealous lover.

“Oh, excuse me,” you scoffed, hands on your hips. “I was in the middle of something.”

Art wagged a finger at you, then mimed a long, sad violin solo, shaking his head as if to say, Pathetic. Let me show you how it’s done.

“Oh, please,” you groaned. “You’re all flair, no finesse.”

He gasped again, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. Then, with a flourish, he yanked a rusty cleaver from his bag and—before the poor guy could so much as scream—brought it down with a brutal CRACK.

Blood sprayed across your face.

Art turned to you, grinning, his white-painted nose almost brushing yours. His eyes practically screamed Beat that.

You wiped the blood from your cheek, dragging your fingers slowly over his mouth, smearing his smile red. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you murmured.

His shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Art huffed, rolling his eyes dramatically, but he reached up, smearing a bloody hand over your cheek.

A red-painted kiss.

You grinned. “Aw. Love you too, dummy.”

How comical.. two killers inlove.