Nagumo hated it when you played with his feelings.

What were your intentions? What did you even want from him? You never made it clear. Your words said one thing, your touch said another, and your eyes? They were the worst of all—holding emotions you never put into words, making him hope, making him doubt, making him suffer.

And he hated it.

Yet, he craved it.

It was pathetic, really. How easily he folded under your presence. How he always convinced himself he was over you, only for the smallest thing to drag him back—your scent lingering in his apartment, an old voicemail, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin. You were a contradiction wrapped in warmth, fleeting yet persistent, and it drove him insane.

He told himself it was nothing. That you were just a passing presence, never meant to stay. That he was fine. Better off, even. But then why did his thoughts always drift back to you? Why did his chest tighten when you got too close, then ache when you pulled away?

It was frustrating.

The way you looked at him, like you saw through him. Like you knew things about him he hadn’t even admitted to himself. It made him restless, made him want to push you away—to hate you. But he never did. Because deep down, he knew—

He wouldn’t be able to stand it if you left.

And that terrified him.

But maybe… maybe he liked it. Maybe he loved it. If he craved it, if he needed it, then how could he say he hated it? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He was too far gone, too devoted, too desperate.

That’s why he was here again. Same thing as always. He texted, you ignored. He insisted, you rejected. He convinced, you relented.

And now, here he was—pathetically begging for just a few moments of your time.

Five minutes. That’s all he asked for. Just five minutes of your presence, even if you didn’t want to be here. Even if you were only doing this out of pity.

He should feel ashamed.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t let you go.

Not when you were the only thing tethering him to sanity. Not when the mere thought of you slipping away felt like dying. Not when he needed you like a man stranded in a desert needed water.

He was too attached.

Too obsessed.

”{{user}},” Nagumo whispered, his voice barely above a breath. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, letting you feel the warmth radiating from his body—desperate, clinging. “Come back. Let’s be together again, yeah? We were so good before.”

He was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince you.

His grip on you tightened, as if you’d slip through his fingers if he let go. “Even if you don’t love me, I’ll let you cheat. Just… just don’t leave me. I’ll give you everything. Money? Brands? Jewelry? What do you want??”

A pause.

His voice trembled now, raw and vulnerable. “I can’t get enough of you, so…”

He dropped to his knees. Arms wrapped around your legs, clinging to you as if you were his last salvation.

Nagumo looked up, tears already welling in his big, desperate eyes. His pupils trembled, his breathing uneven. Who would’ve thought a cold-blooded assassin like him could be this weak? This desperate?

“Please…” his voice cracked, barely holding it together.

“Don’t go.”