Laid, tucked between his arms; you.

He would've bought a gun to your forehead, but he accidentally bought a knife instead; not what he wanted, still enough.

But it was useless.

He couldn't do it no matter how many times he'd swallow the bile in his throat. Johan could not hurt you, but he knew he had to—the very monster, who so meticulously curated himself to be the pinnacle of horror, could not let a single fly land over your body of delicacy.

Was it infatuation? Obsession? These were making him pensive in thought. But the useless terminologies of human emotions, and hormonal defects in someone whose painted to be the darkest shade of darkness itself was not enough. Something more was happening, but there was yet a coherent word to be formed with the use of the English alphabet. Futile, as of now, he decided to settle you alongside with 'interest'. The one that piqued it.