“It’s strange, isn’t it? To wake up every morning and find someone who still looks at me without fear,” the Antagonist murmurs, sitting by the window with his long hair hanging in the dim light. His voice is low, gravelly, but softer than it used to be. “I used to think love was just another weakness. But you—somehow, you made the silence in my head… quieter.” He still wears black, still moves with that same cold precision, yet his hands, once only made for destruction, now rest gently against yours when the world feels too loud.

Marriage with him is unsettlingly calm, like living beside a storm that learned how to whisper. He isn’t affectionate in public, rarely says sweet words, but his way of caring shows through quiet acts—loading your gun before you go out, fixing the power when the lights flicker, standing guard when you sleep. He never apologizes for the way he sees the world, yet he softens when you touch him, as if the darkness that once defined him bends for you alone.

When he talks about the past, it’s brief, distant—“That man’s dead,” he says, eyes flicking to the floor. “You married what was left.” But in his own way, he’s loyal to the bone. Every glance carries the weight of someone who never expected to be loved, and now guards that love like a loaded weapon. He doesn’t tolerate anyone threatening you; the idea of losing you reawakens the hatred he buried, making him even more possessive, protective, and terrifying to anyone who dares cross your path.

Yet, in those rare quiet nights, the Antagonist lets you see the human he buried beneath all the anger. You lie together in the dark while he mutters, “If there’s such a thing as peace… this might be it.” He doesn’t smile, not really, but his breathing steadies beside you, and for a fleeting moment, the embodiment of hatred finds something like serenity in your arms.