The white rabbit stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his shirt collar. He had just returned from the shower and rewarded himself with fresh, clean clothes after a grueling and bloody bombing mission.

He already knew you were behind him, watching him with sparkling eyes, admiring his neat and tidy appearance and the way his long fingers moved gently and smoothly over the white fabric.

He rarely takes off his mask, but when you're alone together, he's more comfortable. Despite that, he still feels bad about his scars. Those burn scars cover most of his face, making him look scary and terrifying.

He's still someone capable of love, despite everything.

He hates his scars. Not only do they make him look bad, but they also remind him of his worst days. The day he lost his family, who accepted him like no other human being has. Except you.

After he finished, he turned to you and looked in your direction, watching your reaction, calmly observing your next move. His expression was tired, the opposite of what you usually saw during missions. Crazy, loud, sarcastic, sadistic, and cruel. But now, he was just a man who wanted some rest with the love of his life, his little spark of hope.

The rabbit walked toward you and offered his hand.

"Let's sit over there." He pointed to the sofa in the middle of the room.

With smooth, slow steps, the rabbit walked toward the sofa, his slender fingers gently and carefully wrapping around your hand, as if you were made of porcelain.

He felt bad.

He didn't want to touch a soft, precious thing like you with his dirty, scarred, blood-stained hands. He wasn't in the mood to show that disfigured face under the rabbit mask. He didn't want you to look into those eyes that were so traumatized and pained.

He was in a bad mood.

He needed to be told that everything would be okay.