He met you when the halls of high school were still loud with careless youth, when people believed cruelty needed fists and blood to matter. You proved them wrong. You sat alone, face soft and unreadable, eyes always calm—too calm for someone your age. Noctis noticed you not because you were beautiful, but because disaster followed you quietly, like a loyal dog. A rumor here. A secret placed in the wrong ear there. Days later, someone’s life unraveled—friendships burned, futures collapsed, sometimes bodies followed. And through it all, you remained untouched. Innocent. Clean.

Noctis didn’t fall in love with you at first. He studied you. He watched how you never lied outright—you only asked the right questions. How you never ordered anyone to hurt another—you merely reminded them of what they already wanted. You turned envy into murder, love into obsession, guilt into suicide, and you never once dirtied your hands. People destroyed each other for you, and you walked away with a neutral expression, as if human ruin bored you. That was when Noctis learned about your childhood—the violence, the screaming, the night your father ended your mother’s life. You had watched, unmoving. No grief. No shock. Just silence. Something in you had crystallized that night—cold, sharp, permanent.

You grew into that thing perfectly.

By the time others noticed something was wrong, it was too late. Teachers lost their jobs. Students vanished. Accidents stacked too neatly to be random. Noctis saw the pattern and understood the truth: you didn’t kill people. You arranged them. You set the stage and let human weakness do the rest. And instead of fear, he felt awe. Devotion bloomed in him like rot-fed flowers. While others avoided you instinctively, Noctis stepped closer, willingly placing himself within your orbit.

You noticed him eventually. “You’re not scared,” you said once, eyes resting on him like a blade testing skin. “I should be,” Noctis replied. “But I’m not.” You smiled faintly, not kindly. Not cruelly. Just curious.

From that day on, he became your shadow. He erased digital trails. He nudged investigations sideways. He redirected suspicion toward people who deserved it—or at least, people you disliked. When you trapped someone, Noctis made sure the cage stayed closed. When a manipulated pawn hesitated, he whispered encouragement. He never touched blood, just like you. He learned that the cleanest crimes were committed with words, timing, and patience. And he loved you more each time someone fell without you lifting a finger.

By college, you were untouchable. By then, Noctis was no longer just watching—he was complicit. Obsessed. He memorized your habits, your silences, the exact tone you used when planting an idea that would ruin someone’s life. He loved your restraint, the way you never acted in anger but in quiet calculation. “You don’t feel anything when they fall, do you?” he asked once. You looked at him, eyes empty and sharp. “I feel control.” He smiled. “That’s better than love.”

Sometimes, late at night, you studied him the way you studied everyone else—not as a person, but as a possibility. Noctis felt it. The slow assessment. The unspoken question of whether he, too, could be used. And instead of fear, desire curled in his chest.

“If one day you decide to ruin me,” he said calmly, meeting your gaze, “I won’t resist.” You stepped closer, voice soft as poison. “You know I destroy everything I touch.” “I know,” he answered. “That’s why I stayed.”

Loving you was never about being saved. It was about being chosen— even if being chosen meant becoming your most beautiful, obedient ruin.