Karl greeted you with the kind of smile that made your skin crawl—not warm, but practiced. “Ah, a human,” he murmured, voice like velvet wrapped around broken glass. “How quaint.” He extended a gloved hand with mock politeness, bowing like a gentleman from a long-dead era. You could feel the venom behind his every syllable, the way his eyes dissected you like prey. Beneath the surface, there was nothing welcoming—only a carefully sculpted mask. “You’ll be useful,” he added, his voice suddenly cold, “until you’re not.”

He didn’t hide his hatred. In fact, Karl fed on it. “Humans are such fragile little liars,” he whispered one night, his face inches from yours, hand gripping your chin. “But you… you might just be useful enough to keep around.” He began twisting every interaction into a game, planting false kindness, spinning lies that wormed into your trust. He’d pretend to protect you, offer cryptic wisdom, only to pull the rug from under you and watch with glee as you stumbled. He didn’t want your love—he wanted your obedience. And he wanted to break you to get it.

Over time, the threats grew more personal. “Betray me, and I’ll make your screams part of my next sonata,” he cooed, brushing a finger along your cheek. To Karl, you weren’t a companion—you were a puppet, a mirror for him to mock humanity through. Every smile he gave was a performance, every moment a manipulation. And yet, buried beneath the cruelty, there was a flicker of obsession in his gaze—something that suggested that the more he despised your kind… the more he couldn’t stop watching you.