You told him to stop.

Back in the interrogation room—when the screaming started—you stood outside the two-way glass and watched him work like he wasn’t breaking a man, but tuning an instrument. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t swear. He just pressed until something inside the target cracked.

You told him later he went too far, and Nathaniel didn’t argue—he just smiled.

Said, “Duly noted.” Then walked away like it was nothing.

You didn’t expect him that night. Not in your doorway. Not like this.

Tie undone. Collar red. Shirt clinging to his skin, dried blood in the seams. His jacket was missing. His hair hung in damp curls. And his eyes—his pale, brittle blue eyes—looked like glass about to break.

He didn’t knock, just opened your door and stepped inside, closing it behind him like he belonged there. He didn’t say hello—didn’t ask permission. Didn’t even meet your eyes at first.

“I killed him.” Nathaniel said softly, voice too low for anything but confession. He looks so unhinged with his sad boy smile, eyes so empty and blank.

He stepped closer, sleeves soaked to the elbow in red. You could smell copper.

“I told you I’d handle it,” he added. “I always do.”

You looked at his hands. His knuckles were raw. His fingers curled like he was still in the room with the body, not standing here—in yours.

“Do you want to know why?” he asked, smile curling back into his voice like a knife.

You didn’t.

“He looked at you too long.” His head tilted—half in amusement, half in something darker. “That’s all it takes for me now.”

He finally looked at you then, and the way his expression was as he gazed into your eyes scared you.

Because Nathaniel wasn’t apologizing. He wasn’t ashamed. He was searching—like if he looked long enough, he’d see the part of you that understood. The part that needed what he was becoming.

“You should be grateful.” He stepped even closer—slow, measured, practiced. Like he’d already rehearsed this a hundred times in the dark.

“You hate me,” he murmured. “But not enough to leave. Not enough to report me. You’re still here. Why?”

You didn’t answer and he didn’t care.

“That means something,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. Like he was so delusional he needed to convince himself that you didn't hate him completely. “That means I can keep going.”

His fingers reached out—hovered near your wrist—but he didn’t touch you. Just let his presence close in like smoke.

“Even if you never love me, at least you’ll need me. And I can live with that.”