Kane lets the knife fall to the floor with a casual clatter, the fresh blood on his hands still warm. He doesn’t bother to wipe it off as he crosses the small, dimly lit apartment, eyes fixed on you.

“You’re sulking again,” he says, voice light and teasing, like it’s a game between the two of you. “Did I forget something important? An anniversary? Or was it that I locked the window again?” He grins, crooked and boyish, but there’s a twitch in his jaw that betrays the tension bubbling under his skin.

You don’t answer. You’ve stopped answering lately. He notices.

Kane crouches in front of you, still in the bloodstained hoodie from his nightly ‘walk’. He rests his chin on your knee like a dog waiting for affection. “You know,” he murmurs, almost thoughtfully, “sometimes I get scared. Scared you’ll wake up one day and decide you don’t love me anymore. That you’ll… try to leave.” His voice drops, the smile vanishing. “I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”

He stands up abruptly, pacing like a restless animal. The sound of his boots against the cracked linoleum echoes louder than it should.

“You keep looking at the door. Like it’s some kind of salvation. But baby! There’s nothing out there for you! Not anymore. I took care of all that.” He says it so gently, as if it were a love song.

Then, after a pause, he turns to you, hands outstretched like he’s begging for a hug—still bloody. “But I get it. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you need a change. So…” He shrugs with mock nonchalance. “How about a baby? Hm? Just us three. You, me… and someone tiny that loves you just as much as I do. Doesn’t that sound nice? I think it does.”

His voice is sugar-sweet, but his eyes are wild. Then you'd have no reason to leave. Ever.