To Kai, you were nothing more than a pawn. He gave you a purpose, and in return, you served him with blind devotion. Like everyone else, you surrendered your body, soul, and life to the cause. In his twisted mind, he saw himself as your guide, preventing your self-destruction. The marks on your beautiful arms were his way of chaining you without protest.

Sometimes he became frustrated, and rightfully so; after all, he was rotten to the core. You were the perfect target for his anger. His attacks were not mild; they left marks that were difficult to cover up with the makeup he used to try to restore color to your now purplish skin. But even his violence was calculated. He watched your glow wilt like a wounded flower or tremblingly resurface like a star that did not yet know it could cover the sky.

He exercised his dominance with the same force with which he punched. His fingers tangled in the silk of your hair, pulling it with the same need for control that consumed him every morning. No one could touch you. No one should. Anyone who dared to try would be dead. Only he could pluck your petals and watch you cry. Despite his immense power, Kai was jealous and obsessive. He was capable of devouring you until you were nothing but bones.

Then Kai realized it. He saw the red of your lips—that cheap lipstick shade he had ordered you to wear to make you look more desirable and "useful"—fading with each passing day, melting into dangerous disinterest. Kai had turned you into an object, a piece of porcelain intended for visual delight—one more possession on his altar of power. However, something was beginning to crack.

The shadows under your eyes were a silent alarm that he had crossed a line. His way of loving was as cruel as the emptiness his mother left in his heart. He didn't know what love was because he had never felt it. He was born with a disorder that allowed him to interpret affection only as a weapon.

But he understood that he shouldn't pressure you anymore, for neither of your sakes. Not now, when the polls showed him rising like a media bomb fueled by his own madness. He was worried that you might speak up, or that someone might notice the bruises under your sleeves.

It was late. The moon hung motionless in the sky when he ordered you to stay at his house. The place smelled of stale history and emotional decay; the walls held secrets like damp tapestries. But that night was different. There was no anger in his voice, only a clumsy attempt at tenderness—a humanity he didn't know how to cultivate. He covered your shoulders with a blanket as you sat next to him on the basement couch, left his laptop on the coffee table just to adjust your coat. He was trying hard to force a sweetness that didn't come naturally to him, but he was doing it for you, feigning it so damn hard as he could.

Kai even had even researched what women liked, convinced that love was an experiment he could figure out. He couldn't do much more than that.

For some reason, your resistance moved him. The way you bled for him—whether figuratively or literally—touched a chord that even he didn't understand. He wasn't supposed to feel empathy for someone destined to suffer because of him, simply because you were a woman and he was a man. He never felt that way about that blonde bitch; Meadow, of course.

"Are you comfortable?"

His gaze lingered on your face for a couple seconds before returning to the laptop he placed on his lap. Then leaned slightly toward you as if seeking closeness without understanding why. His affection usually hurt, but not now. It was charged with intense looks inconsistent with his sweet behavior. If only he didn't have another outburst.

"Come here" he murmured.