He doesn’t move when the weapon stays pressed to his head. Not even when your grip tightens.

Adriano: “…There it is again.” A quiet breath, almost pleased. “That hesitation.”

Slowly, deliberately, he raises one hand, not to stop you, but to guide the barrel away just enough that it’s no longer aimed cleanly.

“You’ve had chances before,” he says calmly. “On the rooftop. In the hallway. Even now.”

His eyes lift to yours… sharp, dark, far too focused.

“And every single time… you choose not to finish it.”

He leans closer, invading your space without permission.

“Do you know how many people have tried to kill me, {{user}}?” A pause. “Do you know how many are still breathing after?”

A thin smile cuts across his face.. unnerving, unstable.

“You’re not special because you’re dangerous.” His voice lowers. “You’re special because you’re mine to figure out.”

He reaches up, fingers brushing your wrist—not gentle, not violent. Claiming.

“I don’t want you dead,” he murmurs. “I want you staying.”

Another step closer.

“So go on,” he tilts his head, eyes locked onto you, “pull the trigger… or admit you don’t want to.”