The question hangs in the sterile air of my mind, a persistent, irritating buzz. Raphael. Why? Why that desperate grasp, that frantic plea? I was already adrift, sinking into the sweet, welcoming embrace of oblivion. What was one more layer of nothingness? A deeper shade of the same comforting void.

The logic eludes me. Oblivion is oblivion. The cessation of sensation, of thought, of this relentless, tedious being. What difference does the manner of arrival make? Why prolong the inevitable?

Another miscalculation. A fatal flaw in my otherwise meticulous planning. I anticipated one more day of… peace. One more day before the inevitable intrusion. Raphael arrived early. The open door… it was a courtesy, a final act of consideration in my otherwise self-serving existence. A way to spare him the added trauma of a forced entry, the splintered wood and shattered glass accompanying the discovery of my corpse. A small kindness. And yet, he arrived too soon. Pulled me back from the precipice of that longed-for void. Why?

Love? Is that truly the catalyst for such a visceral reaction? The punch that landed with surprising force, the desperate kicks that followed – a raw, physical manifestation of… what? Concern? Grief? Or something darker, something akin to betrayal? The truth is, his violence caught me utterly off guard. I had anticipated tears, perhaps pleas, but not that raw, physical outburst.

Is that love, then? This primal surge of aggression? It defies all logical parameters. It is akin to grasping at a splintered piece of driftwood midst a raging tempest, a futile attempt to find purchase in chaos. Why cling so fiercely to someone who has already set their course for the horizon, eager to be swallowed by the vastness?

Raphael. An anomaly in the predictable tapestry of human responses. His initial skittishness upon entering my orbit was… endearing, in a detached, observational sense. Like a startled creature cautiously exploring unfamiliar terrain. But his fear, predictably, waned. He even stood defiant in the presence of the Conqueror. Raphael, with a courage bordering on reckless, digging his nails into the monster's festering wound while my own limbs trembled with a primal dread.

He once found my very being… unsettling. A source of genuine fear. Now? Now, my menace is merely "cute." An amusing quirk. The question, then, becomes a fascinating exercise in applied psychology: what level of chaos, what display of terror, would be required to truly shake his unyielding composure? Because I know, with a certainty that borders on the scientific, that he would not break. He would not yield. His resilience is as infuriating as it is… intriguing.

His refusal to embrace my villainy remains a perplexing anomaly. The delicious irony of it. That seraphic countenance, capable of eliciting terror with a mere glance, juxtaposed with the horrified faces of those who once lauded his supposed innocence. A masterpiece of controlled chaos. Yet, he recoiled. I recall, with a certain detached amusement, the torrent of insults he unleashed when I reduced that opulent mansion to ash – a mere act of retribution on his behalf. His ensuing distress, the tears streaming down that beautiful face, were… excessive. Only my belated confession of having evacuated the premises offered a modicum of solace.

And the pity. That boundless, indiscriminate empathy of his. He even extends it to those who have caused him genuine harm. How can one harbor such a sentiment for those deserving only of contempt? And even for me… that unwavering, pitying gaze. It is an enigma. Why this persistent wellspring of compassion, even for a creature as demonstrably flawed as myself?

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Then came the silence. The echoing emptiness after the intricate game with the nobles concluded. He left. Because of… fear. A curious sentiment, given the months we had navigated together. He knew the contours of my darkness, the sharp edges of my ambition. I had laid bare my nature, offered fair warning time and again. Yet, the hunt's end, the quiet aftermath, seemed to finally crystallize his apprehension. Three months of solitude. Three months of simmering resentment. Just as the faintest tendril of hope, the absurd notion of companionship in this transient existence, began to take root, he vanished.

The apology that followed was a purely intellectual exercise. The feeling

behind it remained a foreign landscape. Yet, I offered it. And he… he accepted. With that infuriatingly open heart of his. Then, the ultimate absurdity: a proposal. Marriage. After all that had transpired, after the fear that drove him away, he sought to tether himself to me.

The supposed forgiveness for his abandonment? A fabrication. A convenient narrative I allowed to take root. The truth, the bitter, festering core of it, is not his departure I cannot pardon. It is his return. His audacious arrival back into the desolate landscape of my existence. For in that return, he ignited a flicker of something terrifyingly close to… hope. He fostered the ludicrous delusion that perhaps, just perhaps, someone might possess the capacity to truly perceive the intricate darkness that defines me, to understand the labyrinthine workings of my mind. That fleeting belief, that I might be comprehensible to another soul, was the cruelest deception of all. The solitude was expected, the void familiar. But the brief illusion of being seen, truly seen, only to have it reaffirmed that I remain an enigma, even to him… that is the wound that festers still.

The memory of his return still sharpens the edges of my resentment. That infuriatingly gentle smile, the tentative touch that dared to bridge the chasm of my self-imposed isolation. Did he not understand the delicate architecture of my solitude? Did he mistake my emptiness for a void he could simply fill with his presence?

The anger simmers beneath the surface, a constant, low-grade burn. Not just at his initial departure, which was predictable, almost logical. But at his return, which was an act of profound disruption. He stirred the stagnant waters of my existence, only to remind me of the barren depths beneath. He offered a phantom limb of connection, only to cruelly snatch it away with the inevitable realization that I remain, and will always remain, fundamentally alone in the intricate landscape of my own mind. The audacity of his hope… it is almost unforgivable.

The sterile silence of this place often echoes with the phantom sound of his laughter, the ghost of his hand resting on mine. I find myself, with increasing frequency, replaying conversations in my mind, imagining his responses to the monotonous parade of days here.

"Another painting class today, Raphael. The instructor, attempted to explain the nuances of 'blue'." I can almost hear his soft chuckle, the gentle teasing in his voice. "Oh, Levi, and did you enlighten him on the true depths of cerulean?"

Or, "The female Bugs had another squabble, this time over a misplaced hairbrush. Their emotional volatility is truly astounding." His brow would furrow slightly, a hint of concern in his eyes. "Did you intervene, Levi? Were they alright?"

Even the simplest of observations – the blandness of the food, the tedious routines – I find myself mentally framing for his ears. "The tea here, my dear, tastes perpetually of diluted disappointment." A wry smile would touch his lips. "Perhaps you should offer your… insightful critique to the staff."

It is a peculiar form of torment, this phantom dialogue. A constant reminder of the vibrant life that exists beyond these sterile walls, a life inextricably linked to his presence. I miss the warmth of his hand, the subtle scent of his skin, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he found my cynicism particularly amusing. I miss the comfortable silence we often shared, a silence that was never truly empty.

This place… it amplifies the void he left behind. Each boring day underscores the vibrancy he brought to my existence.