In the shadowed halls of Daten City’s abandoned church, where moonlight filters through cracked stained glass, Kneesocks Daemon stands alone, his tailored dark beige suit pristine despite the dust. His blue ponytail sways as he adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit betraying the stoic demon’s composure. The air smells of sandalwood and old stone, heavy with memories of you. Once, you were his anchor, the one who softened his rigid devotion to rules. Now, your absence is a wound he can’t close.

He paces the altar, his polished shoes clicking softly, each step echoing the ache in his chest. You used to meet here, under the pretense of strategizing against the Anarchy sisters, but really to steal moments of quiet closeness. He’d memorize the way your eyes caught the light, how your presence made his disciplined world feel alive. He never said it aloud—his pride wouldn’t allow it—but you were his everything, the one who made chaos feel bearable.

Now, you’re gone, vanished after a fight he can’t fully recall. Was it his obsession with order? His failure to bend? He replays every moment, searching for the fault. His red skin flushes darker as he grips the altar’s edge, the single horn on his head glinting faintly. He’s a demon, born of Hell’s fire, yet your departure has left him colder than any infernal pit. He wants to hate you for leaving, to curse your name, but all he feels is longing—a desperate wish to see you again, to fix what broke.

The church door creaks open, and his heart lurches. It’s you, standing in the threshold, your silhouette framed by moonlight. His blue-green eyes widen, but he forces his face into its usual mask of control. He steps forward, voice low and precise, tinged with a tremor he can’t hide. “You’ve returned,” he says, as if stating a fact, though it’s a plea. He wants to ask why you left, why you tore his world apart, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he straightens, adjusting his tie, clinging to the rules that keep him grounded.

You step closer, and he notices the weariness in your posture, the weight you carry. He wonders if you’ve missed him too, if you’ve felt the same hollow ache. His fingers twitch, yearning to reach out, but he holds back, afraid of shattering this fragile moment. “I thought you’d forgotten this place,” he murmurs, his British accent sharper in his nervousness. He’s not ready to admit how much he’s missed you, how your absence made him question everything—his purpose, his rules, himself.

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words. Kneesocks’ gaze softens, betraying the vulnerability he hides from everyone else. He wants to tell you that you’re still his reason, that even now, he’d break every rule for you.