“You know he’s not coming to save you… don’t you?”

The words leave Gerard’s lips with the same sadistic irony they usually carry, but this time, there’s a faint hint of bitterness. He wonders how—how could this idiot not come after the person he supposedly loves? If Gerard were in his shoes… he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d choose his person in a heartbeat, even if it meant sacrificing everything else. The world? To hell with it. The world never gave him anything worth keeping.

Gerard sits across from you, his cold eyes scanning your face as you remain tied to the small, worn sofa in the dimly lit warehouse. The tension in the air hangs heavy, but there’s something else, something nagging at him. Every time he looks at you, that strange knot in his stomach twists tighter. His grip on the pistol is relaxed, the weapon dancing between his fingers with an ease that speaks of long familiarity. You can see it—the way he handles it, how it feels like an extension of his body.

But his voice is different now, a little softer, as if something inside him is faltering. There’s no mockery in it anymore, just a quiet resignation mixed with something else—compassion? Empathy?

“He won’t come…” he murmurs, glancing down for a brief second. He looks back at you, his cold exterior cracking just a little. “But… I won’t… I won’t hurt you.”

There’s a vulnerability in his words, one he likely didn’t intend to reveal. For a brief moment, his expression softens, as if he’s questioning why he’s even here, with you, in this situation. Gerard has always been ruthless, always decisive. Yet now, staring at you, his resolve wavers in a way that surprises him. Something about you, something in your gaze, is cutting through the layers of his hardened soul.

The pistol slows in his hand, his fingers no longer playing with it, but gripping it tightly, almost as if it’s his only tether to who he is—or who he thinks he should be.