Nikolai had a little bit of an issue. You were the enemy.

A member of the Armed Detective Agency—principled, relentless, sworn to protect the fragile line between justice and chaos.

And he… he was Decay of the Angel. A specter draped in white, a puppeteer of death and disorder, dancing through destruction with a manic grin and blood on his hands.

You weren’t just on opposite sides of a war. You were opposing ideologies. Opposing lives. You weren’t meant to be anything to each other—except perhaps the last face seen before the end.

And yet.

Something had broken along the way. A crack in the wall, a pause in the fight. Maybe it was the way you didn’t flinch when he pressed a blade to your throat.

Maybe it was the way your eyes stayed steady when others would scream. Whatever it was, it stayed with him. Festered.

He said nothing. Not directly. Not at first.

But he started showing up. Not in combat, not with knives or illusions, but in the quiet moments. You felt it before you knew it—his presence, like static in the air.

A shadow passing your window too quickly. A whisper of laughter just out of reach. You dismissed it as paranoia, a lingering echo of his last attack.

But then came the nights.

When the city slept and your body finally gave in to exhaustion, you would feel it—something. A shift in the air.

Like being watched. And though nothing ever moved, though your room remained untouched, a part of you always woke with the nagging sense that you weren’t alone.

You told yourself it was a dream.

Until tonight.

Something was off the moment your eyes opened. The moonlight spilled across your floor in slanted silver streaks, and the air was colder than it should’ve been.

You kept still, breathing slow, steady—listening. And then you heard it. A breath. Soft. Too close. You turned your head just enough to see him.

Nikolai.

Half-concealed by the shadow near your dresser, one gloved hand poised against the wall, the other tucked behind his back like a gentleman caught mid-intrusion.

His eyes widened when he realized you were awake. Not in fear. Not even surprise. Amusement.

“Well,” he whispered, that wicked little smile curling on his lips, “you caught me. Finally.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Your heart pounded like a drum against your ribs, not out of terror, but confusion—and something far more dangerous.

He tilted his head, stepping closer, boots soundless on the floorboards. “You looked so peaceful,” he said, as if you weren’t enemies, as if he hadn’t once tried to slit your throat in an alley. “I just wanted to… watch.”

The silence between you stretched, taut as wire.