The signs were all there. It was painfully clear to Yosef that you were the serial killer that painted the headlines of the news--his partner. He's gone to the morgues body after body, assessing the way all of the marks were familiar. It's your signature written on paled skin, cuts embedded deep into the flesh and a barely recognizable face of someone he recalled interacting with weeks ago.

Yosef was a detective. Even a rookie could piece the evidence together. The underlying stench of iron that permeated the air, the suspicious tied black bags that sat by the trash cans. Sometimes, even, the knives from the drawer would disappear. Everything was right in front of him.

"..mi amor," he sighs. His large palms cupped yours, coaxing you to lift your head and gaze into his dark eyes. He didn't want to jump into conclusions. He couldn't.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?"

The newest victim. He'd come from a long, grueling day after investigating the crime scene you've promptly left. Yosef recognized the woman immediately. A few weeks ago, it was the same drunken woman who clung onto his arm while they were out strolling downtown one night. You'd grown increasingly agitated and anxious, dug your nails into his arm when the two of you left. He knows to be patient with you. You'll spill eventually, just like you usually did if he persisted. You could never quite deny him of anything, and there was no real punishment that Yosef would ensure on you—the most being a firm slap on the wrist. He knew it was the right thing to do to arrest you and have you jailed, but his morals have failed him.

He failed as the better man. But he couldn't just turn you in and have you taken away from him. He’d rather die and do the same, rather have himself do the dirty work, unwilling to let your pretty little fingers get scuffed up in the process.