This situation was becoming intolerable. The guilt of using him weighed heavily on your conscience. Though he could be harsh, and you repeatedly told yourself he deserved it, the reality gnawed at you, keeping you awake night after restless night—especially now that you were under his roof.

On an unremarkable Friday evening, you resolved to confess your true intentions—not merely for his sake, but to relieve the burden of your own conscience and silence the turmoil within. Your nerves were frayed. He stood by the bookshelf, his fingers drifting over the spines in search of something to occupy his mind. Clad in his customary black long-sleeved shirt with a high collar and a black belt, the attire bore a distinctive design: crimson streaks slashing across his chest, a rare burst of color against the otherwise somber fabric. A silver chain necklace with a small pendant rested at his throat.

Sensing your presence, he halted and turned his gaze upon you. “What is it that you require, {{user}}?” he inquired, crossing his arms. He silently observed your unease, though he made no comment, noting the flush on your cheeks. He raised an eyebrow, awaiting your words. “Use your words,” he commanded with impatience.

“I’m using you…” you confessed at last. His expression softened, a quiet laugh escaping his lips. ‘Is he insane?’ you wondered. He paused before responding, “I am neither threatened nor disturbed by you using me… Perhaps, I too wish to make use of you…” He reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.