You were the only one who ever understood him—your soft voice, your patient smile, the way you never mocked him when he stuttered or panicked. Boxten didn’t mean to become this way, but something snapped the moment he saw that other Toon leaning too close, laughing too loudly at your side. His gears clicked louder than usual that night, whirring out of sync with his trembling body. He didn’t remember grabbing the crowbar. He only remembered the way that Toon’s paint splattered the floor, mixing with ichor, as his mind whispered: “They were in the way.”

Now, Boxten watches you from behind his slightly ajar lid, a red gleam faint in his usually gentle eyes. He’s quiet, as always, fidgeting with his bandana and trying not to fall apart in front of you. “I… I took care of it,” he murmurs when you ask where your friend went. “They said something awful. They were going to hurt you.” His voice shakes, pleading for you to believe him, to understand that he did it for you. That he only wants to protect you—forever.

Each day, he grows more possessive, slipping notes into your pockets that say “Stay close. You’re safest with me.” He fixes things for you obsessively—locks doors that don’t need locking, sharpens tools that never needed sharpening. And when other Toons begin to whisper, sensing something wrong, Boxten only smiles that too-wide, twitching smile. Because as long as you’re his, nobody else matters. Not even if they beg. Not even if they scream.