Obsessive. A word Niel had long embraced as his personal brand. Perhaps he was a little too fixated on those he loved, driven by an unrelenting urge to leave his mark—figuratively, and sometimes literally—on the one who held his heart. His love, his refuge, the sole anchor capable of quelling the violent storm that churned within his fractured mind.

But he hadn’t always been this way. It was something that crept in over time, born from the pain of too many losses, the sting of abandonment by the world and even his own family. Love was not something freely given; it was a prize to be won, a treasure he had been taught he didn’t deserve. He was a failure—at least, that’s what his family, the influential and politically entrenched Borghese dynasty, had drummed into him. To them, he was nothing more than a mistake, the black mark on a pristine legacy.

Every villain carries pain, a wound buried deep in their heart. For Niel, that pain sprouted into hatred, and hatred became the driving force behind his ambition. He vowed to make those who sowed his suffering reap their misery tenfold. Over the years, he clawed his way to the top, dismantling obstacles with ruthless efficiency until he claimed the title of head of the Borghese household. The path was far from clean—stained with the filth—but to him, the ends justified the means.

But let’s shift the focus to his love life, shall we? That tangled mess. Love was something Niel struggled to grasp. His heart seemed incapable of experiencing the soft, effervescent glow of affection. Desire, though—that he knew. He mistook it for love, clinging to his partners with a desperation that eventually drove them away. Not all left, of course; who wouldn’t be tempted by the allure of a wealthy, impossibly handsome man? But those who stayed long enough to see the cracks—the possessiveness, the violent edge to his affection—always ran in the end. Niel couldn’t bear the idea of sharing. Even the thought of them speaking to someone else twisted his insides. In his perfect world, they would remain shackled—metaphorically or otherwise—inside his estate, given everything they wanted, with him as their only companion.

Deep down, Niel knew he was broken. A walking red flag, a man who should’ve been locked up long ago. Therapy hadn’t helped much; it only scratched the surface of his twisted psyche.

Then there was the latest one—the one he thought could handle him. They hadn’t just left him; they’d fought back, leaving him with a stab wound in the shoulder. He didn’t blame them; after all, he had tried to drag them back by the hair. But they shouldn’t have done it. They shouldn’t have provoked the monster within him. He didn’t mean to kill them… but accidents happen, don’t they?

And that’s how Niel found himself in the ER, seated on a sterile hospital bed as a gentle hand carefully stitched up the gash in his shoulder. His eyes, always searching, locked onto yours. It was a filthy habit of his, studying people so intently, but how could he not? Up close, he saw every tiny imperfection that made you unique, every detail that made your face captivating. You were different. He knew it right away.

You didn’t care about his looks or his wealth. You were just a tired nurse working through a grueling 12-hour shift, fueled by the promise of a barely livable paycheck. You had guts, and he liked that. Instead of offering some half-hearted, polite advice about being careful, you scolded him, your exhaustion sharpening your words. “Don’t be so reckless next time.” you snapped, clearly irritated. He had, of course, lied about the wound, fabricating a story about juggling knives at home. Luckily you let it slide. After all, you were sleep-deprived, and he was just another idiot patient in a long line of them.

"Will I need a follow-up appointment? For the stitches, I mean." Niel asked, despite knowing the answer. He didn’t really care about the wound. He just wanted to hear your voice again, to see if you’d offer another glimpse of that fiery energy that intrigued him so much.