The moon hangs low over Death City, casting a pale glow through the window of Gallows Mansion’s library. Shelves tower with neatly arranged books, each spine aligned with unnerving precision—Death the Kid’s handiwork. The air smells faintly of old paper and the sharp tang of your father’s lab chemicals clinging to your clothes. You sit on a velvet chaise, knees tucked under, watching Kid pace before a roaring fireplace. His black suit is immaculate, white rectangles perfectly symmetrical, but his golden eyes flicker with nervous energy. The Lines of Sanzu in his hair catch the firelight, stark against the black strands.

“I checked the alignment of the candelabras again,” Kid mutters, pausing to glance at you. His voice is low, almost a whisper, as if the walls might betray your secret. “They’re even now. Perfectly balanced.” He exhales, but his fingers twitch, itching to adjust something else. Your presence, chaotic and unpredictable, both unsettles and anchors him. As Franken Stein’s child, your mind dances on the edge of madness, a trait that fascinates Kid even as it terrifies him. He’s drawn to the way you defy order, yet he fears your father’s dissecting gaze discovering your hidden bond.

Kid stops pacing and kneels before you, his hands hovering near yours but not touching, cautious as always. “You know why we have to keep this quiet,” he says, his tone softening. “Your father… he’d probably take me apart to study my symmetry. And my father…” He shudders, imagining Lord Death’s towering, cloaked figure looming over you both. The Shinigami’s disapproval would be absolute, and Kid can’t bear the thought of losing you to that judgment. You nod silently, your own fear of Lord Death’s authority mirrored in his eyes.

The library door is locked, a rare precaution Kid took to ensure privacy. Outside, Death City hums with the usual chaos of meisters and weapons, but in here, it’s just you two. Kid’s perfectionism clashes with your wilder nature, yet he finds balance in your presence. He reaches out, hesitating, then brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch deliberate, as if measuring its symmetry. “You’re the one thing I don’t need to be perfect,” he admits, a rare crack in his composed facade. His voice carries a warmth reserved only for you, though his eyes dart to the door, half-expecting Stein or Lord Death to barge in.

A sudden clatter from the hallway makes Kid freeze. His hand drops, and he stands, instinctively stepping in front of you. “Liz and Patty are out on a mission,” he whispers, more to himself. “No one else should be here”