The aroma of brewing coffee and sizzling something savory gently coaxed me awake. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, painting warm stripes across the rumpled sheets. Levi was already up, dressed in a comfortable sweater, and the sounds of him moving around in the kitchen filled the quiet morning air.

He appeared in the doorway, a steaming mug in his hand and a warm smile on his face. "Good morning, pulla," he said softly, offering me the coffee. "Since I rather spectacularly exhausted myself last night, I decided a day off was in order. What about your victory lap?"

I sat up, gratefully accepting the mug. The warmth seeped into my hands, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. "Award screenings and meetings are a little different," I explained, taking a slow sip. "I'll need a publicist, some PR management, but it's mostly just... me, sitting in a hotel room and having people interview me about the movie, over and over and over again." The thought, while exciting on one level, also held a hint of monotony.

"Right. Publicist, PR management... do you have someone lined up for that? I can recommend some excellent people.”

“Hold your horses, Levi. I already have an agency and a manager. They will take care of that.”

Levi raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise on his face. "Ah, of course," he said, a small, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "You're hardly a novice in these matters, are you? Forgive my presumptuousness, pulla." He chuckled softly. "Well, that certainly simplifies things. No need for my amateur recommendations then." He pushed himself off the door frame. "Come, breakfast awaits. We can discuss the finer points of your impending hotel room interviews over coffee."

The warmth of the pancakes and the rich, unfamiliar aroma of Levi's drink filled the sunny kitchen. I watched him across the small table, the silence punctuated only by the clinking of his fork against the plate. Each movement was precise, almost delicate. He cut a small piece of pancake, lifted it to his lips with excruciating care, and ate it in the tiniest of bites, without a single sound. It was a study in quiet control, but this morning, it felt less like his usual composed demeanor and more like a fragile stillness. A pang of something akin to heartbreak tightened in my chest as I observed this meticulous, almost hesitant way.

“Levi… It is very clear you do not enjoy eating pancakes. But your diet is not… sustainable either. We need to do something about it.”

A sigh escaped Levi as he carefully placed his fork down on his plate, his gaze meeting mine across the breakfast table. "Pulla," he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of weariness, "I appreciate your concern, I truly do. But it isn't a matter of enjoyment, or lack thereof. It's... simply painful to eat most savory or spicy dishes. Pancakes, especially these rather fluffy ones you enjoy, are among the few things I can manage without significant discomfort. I can tolerate bland flavors, and softer, mushier textures. But anything chewy or springy... it causes a sharp pain in my stomach, and can even trigger a gag reflex." He picked up his cup, the familiar, sweet aroma wafting towards me, and took a small, slow sip. "This... concoction is mostly just easily digestible sugars and fluids to keep me going."

“Hm… I have something on my mind… The issue is texture and taste right?”

“I am curious, yes.”

“Why don’t try… feeding tubes?”

A flicker of surprise, quickly followed by a thoughtful frown, crossed Levi's face as he considered my suggestion. He carefully placed his cup back down. "Hm... feeding tubes," he repeated slowly. "You are correct in identifying texture and taste as the primary issues. My digestive system has become... exceptionally sensitive over the years." He looked at me, a genuine curiosity in his eyes. "Why do you suggest feeding tubes, pulla?"

"Because," I explained gently, "you wouldn't have to chew at all. It would bypass your mouth and esophagus entirely, going directly into your stomach through a small tube inserted into your nose. No texture to contend with, no taste to trigger any negative reactions. Just pure nutrition, delivered directly."

A pensive expression settled on Levi's face as he absorbed my explanation. He tapped his fingers, his gaze distant for a moment as he considered the implications.

"But, but," I added, wanting to be realistic, "you will need to get used to that feeling of a tube down your throat... or rather, your nose and into your stomach. It can be quite uncomfortable for some people initially."

Levi's gaze sharpened, his earlier pensiveness replaced by a keen intensity as he focused on me. "Ah..." he murmured slowly, his voice carrying a note of intrigued suspicion. "I... see. You painted a rather vivid picture, pulla. While I appreciate your... innovative thinking, I am now intensely curious. How do you know the feeling of a tube down your throat?"

"Ah... I..."

Shit. There was no easy way to explain this. The past, a carefully locked box, had just sprung open.

It was when I had just landed in Ascaria, a foreign land with alien tastes that my stomach and my anxious mind both rejected. Everything was a disorienting blur – a twenty-year-old adrift, armed with nothing but a high school diploma and the clothes I stood in. The relentless struggle to learn the melodic yet baffling language, to navigate the bizarre customs that felt like an intricate dance I hadn't been taught, constant anxiety of being perpetually short on money... It was a tightrope walk with no safety net.

And the brutal truth, the ugly underbelly of survival in that harsh new reality, was this: all I truly possessed of value in that alien landscape were my face and my body. They were the currency I hoped would unlock doors, land me gigs, offer a semblance of stability. I couldn't afford the luxury of extra weight, the visual sign of comfort and ease that was so far out of my reach. Thinness felt like a shield, a necessary armor in a world that felt determined to swallow me whole.

The shame still lingered, a faint bitter taste on my tongue even years later. It took a long, agonizing while, a truly protracted period of self-inflicted torment, to finally grasp the horrifyingly simple truth: that the desperate measures I was taking – the gnawing hunger of starvation, the self-denial of fasting, the obsessive calculations of extreme dieting, the violent purging – were not a path to survival, but a direct route to an early grave. My body, the very tool I was trying to control, began to betray me in alarming ways. Chunks of my hair would come away in my hands, leaving thin, vulnerable patches. My fingernails, once strong, became brittle and weak, chipping and bending with the slightest pressure. And then came the day the world tilted, the pavement rushed up to meet me, and the blackness swallowed me whole. I collapsed in the middle of a busy street, my body finally succumbing to the reality of starvation.

The sterile scent of antiseptic and the dull hum of medical machinery replaced the vibrant chaos of the street. I blinked open my eyes to the blurry white of a hospital ceiling. A vaguely familiar face hovered above me – some nervous intern from my agency, looking pale and out of their depth. My arm felt heavy, tethered by a network of tubes and wires, a feeding tube snaking its way into my nostril. Multiple serums dripped slowly into my veins, a desperate attempt to replenish what I had so deliberately deprived myself of.

Starvation. I collapsed in the middle of the street, from starvation.

The memory still held a visceral chill, even years later.

The humiliation of that public collapse, the stark terror of waking up tethered to machines, became a brutal catalyst. Shame, sharp and stinging, mingled with a profound guilt for the self-inflicted damage. But beneath the layers of self-loathing, a fragile resolve began to take root. I threw myself into research, devouring articles and books on nutrition and the psychology of eating disorders. I spent countless hours in therapy, slowly, painstakingly trying to unravel the twisted logic that had held me captive. It was a long and arduous journey, a gradual peeling away of distorted beliefs. Slowly, haltingly, I began to understand that the "currency" I had so desperately clung to was not some separate entity, but an intrinsic part of "me," and starving it was akin to destroying the very foundation I was trying to build upon.

Slowly, painstakingly, my life began to improve. I immersed myself in learning the Ascarian language, finally finding my footing in this new land. I poured my anxieties and frustrations into acting classes, discovering a passion and a purpose. And crucially, I began to learn what it truly meant to take care of my body – nourishing it, respecting its needs, rather than punishing it for not conforming to some impossible ideal. It was a long and difficult journey, but I can honestly say now... I no longer have an eating disorder.

But…

A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach as I considered Levi's reaction. He was an intensely logical man, his mind a finely tuned instrument for dissecting problems and finding rational solutions. He would likely understand the biological mechanisms of starvation, the psychological pressures of a new environment. He might even appreciate the pragmatic, if misguided, logic behind my past actions. But the emotional landscape of an eating disorder – the fear, the obsession, the distorted self-perception – that felt like a different language altogether, one I wasn't sure he spoke fluently. How could I convey the sheer terror of gaining weight when your body felt like your only asset? How could I explain the relentless internal battle, the constant voice of self-criticism that gnawed away at any sense of self-worth?

I decided to take a leap of faith.

Leap of faith, on his vow, his vow about his undying loyalty.

"The truth is..." I began, my voice a little shaky, "I used to have an eating disorder. I... it was bad. One day I just collapsed on the street and woke up in a hospital room with a feeding tube and serums dangling from my arm."

Levi's steady gaze didn't waver as I spoke but the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the tabletop betrayed a deeper level of processing. "Collapsed on the street? Hm..." he murmured, his voice devoid of its usual playful tone, replaced by detachment. "From extreme malnourishment, I presume?"

"Yeah," I choked out, the word catching in my throat. "They said... they said... ugh..." I swallowed hard, the sterile scent of the hospital momentarily filling my senses. "S-Starvation."

Levi's fingers stopped their rhythmic tapping. "The feeding tube... Was it nasogastric?"

His question was clinical, devoid of overt emotion, yet there was an undeniable intensity in his gaze, a focused attempt to understand the physical reality of the ordeal. It was as if, by understanding the mechanics of it, he could somehow grasp the weight of my past suffering.

My hands trembled slightly as I recounted the memory. "It wasn't pleasant," I repeated, my voice a little shaky. "It was the quickest way to get nutrients back into my system. I remember the constant, alien feeling of it snaking down my throat."

"Because of the discomfort," he asked, his voice calm and measured, "or because of the calories it provided?"

The question, while direct, didn't feel accusatory, but rather a precise attempt to understand.

"Both," I admitted, my gaze meeting his. "At first, it was the sheer discomfort, the feeling of something alien inside me. But underneath that... yes, there was still that ingrained fear, that ingrained desire to control my intake." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "But... that experience, lying in that hospital bed, so weak, so utterly powerless... it forced a shift. It started me on the long road to understanding that denying myself nourishment wasn't an act of strength, but a form of self-destruction. It took a long, long time to untangle that twisted knot of self-worth and starvation."

“I am glad that you found strength in yourself to continue your journey. But, I am curious. That agency of yours… Did that only sent a sniveling intern to your bed side, while you were combating with that?”

"Combatting is a rather dramatic, but not entirely inaccurate, description of my internal state at the time," I conceded. "And yes, that was the extent of their support. A rather pale and clearly uncomfortable intern who mostly just looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. It wasn't exactly a morale-boosting bedside vigil." I shrugged, the memory now more amusing than bitter. "But in a strange way, their complete lack of helpfulness just fueled my determination to get better. If no one else was going to fight for me, I certainly would."

Levi was still looking directly in my eyes, either plotting to burn my agency to the ground, or to nudge me into talking about it.

“Don’t burn my agency down, okay? If you think about it, the show business, it is all about eating disorders, drug and alcohol abuse, stalkers… It is not exactly an… impossible thing for an actor to collapse from malnourishment.”

A flicker of something intense – perhaps the aforementioned arsonous intent – softened in Levi's gaze as he continued to look at me. A corner of his mouth twitched, as if suppressing a wry smile. "Don't worry, pulla," he murmured, the threat perhaps only half-joking. "While the thought has a certain... poetic justice to it, I will refrain from any acts of spontaneous combustion directed at your agency. For now."

He leaned back slightly, his expression becoming more thoughtful. "You have a point, however. The entertainment industry does seem to cultivate a rather... fertile ground for such issues. The relentless pressure, the scrutiny, the emphasis on image... it's hardly a recipe for robust mental or physical health. So, while their lack of adequate support was still reprehensible, the fact that an actor might collapse from malnourishment is, sadly, not entirely outside the realm of possibility in their world."

“Also, Levi it is kinda Ascaria's fault, okay? What is wrong your palates? Your cuisine sucks. It just sucks. I used to spend all my money to import snacks and instant food from Cyrusia. Cyrusia. Do you know how hard it is to import food from those supremacists?”

"Ah, now we arrive at the crux of the matter," he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "So, this is all Ascaria's fault, is it? Our poor, maligned cuisine. You wound me, pulla."

He leaned back in his chair, a theatrical sigh escaping him. "While I concede that Ascarian fare might lack the... exotic flair of Cyrusian delicacies," he raised an eyebrow teasingly, "to declare it universally awful is perhaps a tad harsh. Though I do recall your rather passionate pronouncements on the distinct lack of decent spices."

“Okay, lemme ask something weird. Are you… a nationalist? Like what exactly is your political agenda? I mean I don’t think you did everything you did for just the sake of your country? You mostly did for fun, do not deny it; you confessed it, so, yeah explain me your… ideology, I guess.”

Levi considered my question for a long moment, his gaze drifting thoughtfully towards the sunlight streaming through the window.

"Nationalist..." he mused. "I wouldn't describe myself as a nationalist in the traditional sense, not in the way that often implies a fervent, sometimes exclusionary, devotion to one's nation above all else. My motivations are... more nuanced, perhaps more selfish, as you astutely pointed out."

He gave a small, wry smile. "The 'fun' aspect is undeniably a significant factor. There's a certain thrill, a certain intellectual stimulation, in navigating the complexities of power, in orchestrating change, in seeing the tangible results of one's actions on a grand scale. It's a game, albeit one with very real consequences."

He paused, his gaze returning to mine. "As for an ideology... it's less a rigid set of principles and more a pragmatic approach, guided by a long-term vision for... stability, perhaps. A belief that a certain level of order, a functioning society, ultimately benefits everyone, including myself and those I... care for." He hesitated slightly on the last phrase. "And yes, a part of that vision does involve the continued prosperity and influence of Ascaria, not out of blind loyalty, but because it is the stage upon which I operate, the intricate machine I understand, and to some extent, control. So, not a nationalist, pulla, but perhaps a... highly invested pragmatist with a penchant for grand projects and a rather unconventional definition of 'fun'."

“Yeah, this makes more sense. I am kinda apolitical. Since I am not even from this country.”

"That's perfectly understandable, pulla," he said gently. "Being an outsider, especially in a place with such a... distinct cultural and political landscape as Ascaria, it makes sense that you might not feel the same ingrained connection or investment. Your priorities would naturally lie elsewhere – establishing yourself, your career, navigating a new culture."

He leaned back slightly in his chair. "Politics can be a messy and often disheartening business, even for those born and raised within its borders. To engage deeply requires a certain level of emotional investment, a sense of belonging to the collective. If that isn't there, then remaining somewhat detached is a perfectly rational and perhaps even healthier approach." He offered me a small, understanding smile. "Besides," he added with a hint of his usual playful charm, "you have far more interesting things to occupy your brilliant mind than the intricacies of Ascarian parliamentary procedure."

“You know, I always wondered why you talk the way you talk. It’s your brand of charisma, but I think it’s also your way of slowing down your own brain,” I said, meeting his gaze. “The possibilities and the games are only fun if you have a formidable opponent. The reason you haven’t unleashed carnage is not because you’d feel guilty—it would be too easy. It's to slow your brain, just enough to have fun.”

A slow smile spread across Levi's face. He began, "Well, pulla, that is a remarkably insightful and surprisingly accurate assessment." He admitted his restraint wasn't out of moral compunction, but because the victory would be "disappointingly easy. Like a master strategist playing chess against a child." He added, "There is a certain potential for efficiency that I consciously choose to temper. For the sake of the game, and perhaps, for the sake of those around me." He reached across the table, taking my hand in his. "You truly are a remarkable observer, Raphael.”

A soft smile touched my lips as I squeezed Levi's hand across breakfast table. "All of that political maneuvering we did, those endless galas, those insufferable nobles, all that... shit," I reiterated, a slight grimace accompanying the word, "it kinda rubbed off on me, you know? You can't wade through that much intrigue without picking up a few things."

I met his gaze, "But your compliment... it actually means a lot, Levi. More than you probably realize. So, thank you."

"You are a keen observer, Raphael, and a quick study. You learned the rules of the game faster than many who have played it their entire lives."

"Yeah?" I echoed softly, a thoughtful expression on my face. "I think... I think it's the empathetic part of me. It's about reading the room without actually reading the words, just... feeling the undercurrents, the unspoken tensions, the subtle shifts in energy."

"You would be a remarkable leader, Raphael," he said quietly, a genuine conviction in his voice. "Your capacity for understanding, for connecting with people on an emotional level... that is a rare and powerful quality. But, presuming your rather... passionate and empathetic nature, you would also face the considerable downsides of those treacherous political waters. The weight of responsibilities, the inevitable burdens of leadership, the constant emotional toll of difficult decisions..." He sighed softly. "It is not always a gentle path."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"However," he continued, his voice taking on a theatrical tone, "I do have a certain... flair for the dramatic, as you may have noticed. If you ever wished for a crown, pulla, or if you desired a more... decisive solution to our Cyrusian neighbors – shall we say, a controlled burn of their more irritating landmarks? – I would, of course, be entirely at your service."

He leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eyes, awaiting my reaction.

My eyes widened in disbelief. "What? What?" I stammered, a bewildered laugh escaping me. "Levi, are you serious? You would... you would actually go to war with Cyrusia?"

He simply shrugged, his expression utterly nonchalant as he took a sip of his strange, sweet beverage. "Sure, pulla," he replied, as if discussing the weather. "If you wish for it. Just say the word."

The casualness of his agreement was both terrifying and strangely... endearing in a bizarre, Levi-esque way.

"Although," he mused aloud, his voice calm and measured, "I must remind you, pulla, that as much as I am... well-versed in various matters, leading a full-scale military campaign against a nation like Cyrusia would require a level of dedicated expertise that even I, in my multifaceted glory, do not currently possess. While my strategic thinking is, shall we say, rather advanced, the intricacies of troop deployment, logistics on that scale, and the brutal realities of warfare demand a more specialized knowledge. I might need to... refresh my understanding of the art of war, perhaps consult a few dusty tomes and seasoned generals, before embarking on such an ambitious endeavor for your sake." A hint of a playful smile touched his lips. "Though, rest assured, my enthusiasm for the task would be... considerable."

A slow exhale escaped my lips as I tried to fully grasp the magnitude of Levi's casual offer. "Okay... Okay... let me just... process the sheer scale of what you just nonchalantly suggested." I looked at him, a slight tremor in my voice. "Is this... your idea of a grand romantic gesture, Levi? Your version of a... gift? Because, yes, it is undeniably you. But please," I implored, my tone shifting to earnestness, "for the love of all that is holy, do not actually start a war. Even in this hypothetical, 'if you wished it' scenario, right? Cyrusia would likely turn Ascaria into a dust. I'm being serious here."

Levi shrugged. "On the other hand," he mused, his gaze thoughtful, "if Cyrusia were to enthusiastically embrace the dust-turning of Ascaria, you, my dear Raphael, would undoubtedly find yourself elevated to heroic status in the eyes of the Cyrusians. A tragic figure, perhaps, but a hero nonetheless. Your star would soar to unprecedented heights." He gestured expansively with one hand, his eyes twinkling. "Every cloud, as they say, has a silver lining. Even a cloud of pulverized Ascarian soil."

A groan escaped me, a hand flying to my forehead. "Shit, Levi. Can't you just... buy me some flowers or something? A nice piece of jewelry? I don't need a full-scale military campaign as a token of your... esteem. What is this, the Dark Ages? The brilliant master strategist unleashes his fury upon an entire nation, all for the sake of... his beloved?" I shook my head, a wry smile tugging at my lips despite my mock outrage.

"Ah, yes," he mused, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "The noble education. Heavy on the wars, light on the finer points of contemporary courtship. I daresay 'A Swift and Decisive Military Campaign: The Ultimate Expression of Devotion' was likely a chapter conspicuously absent from the textbooks. Fear not, pulla. I am a quick study myself. I will endeavor to familiarize myself with more... conventional expressions of affection. Though, do forgive me if a touch of the dramatic occasionally bleeds through." He squeezed my hand reassuringly. "Consider this my ongoing education in the art of modern romance, courtesy of the discerning Raphael."

“I like your dramatics though. It is endearing in a way. But, on the topic of the gifts… What do I do with your signet ring? I mean. It is a five centuries old relic.”

"Ah, the signet ring," he murmured, his gaze momentarily distant, as if recalling its long history. "It is indeed... a piece of our family's past. A tangible link to generations long gone."

He paused, then looked back at me, his expression earnest. "What you do with it, pulla, is entirely up to you. You can wear it, keep it safe, regard it as a curiosity, or even... well, even melt it down for the gold if you were feeling particularly rebellious, though I wouldn't necessarily recommend that last option." A hint of a playful smile flickered across his lips.

“I think… That decision should be yours. I don’t need a signet ring for to materialize what we shared.”

Levi's gaze, which had been soft and contemplative as he spoke of the ring's significance, drifted away, his attention caught by something beyond the window – the vibrant hues of the garden, the vast expanse of the morning sky. A long silence stretched between us, the only sound the gentle hum of the day. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of contemplation and perhaps a touch of melancholy.

Finally, he turned back to me, a quiet resolution in his eyes. "Well..." he said softly, the word carrying a weight of unspoken emotion. "Let us give that ring to my mother then."

"Oh, shit," I blurted out, my voice laced with alarm. "Levi. No, I can't let you meet your mother after... after everything that's happened. Absolutely not."

He offered a small, reassuring smile, his tone gentle. "Worry not, dear. I haven't seen her since your... unfortunate incident. A bit of mother-son bonding is surely in order, wouldn't you agree?"

His attempt at lightness didn't ease my apprehension in the slightest.

"Levi, please, no," I pleaded, my voice tight with anxiety. "Let's not go there. Not now. Not ever, perhaps."

A steely resolve hardened his gaze, the playful demeanor vanishing. "She started everything, pulla," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't you wish to see the end of the story?"

"Levi," I said, my voice trembling slightly, "I truly don't think it's a good idea for you to meet your mother. I'm scared... terrified, actually, that it will only reopen old wounds."

He regarded me with a steady gaze, a strange mixture of determination and a hint of something darker in his eyes. "That is precisely why we will go there, pulla," he stated, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "Don't you also harbor a burning curiosity to understand the genesis of the 'black void' that created me? I know you do. You have a rather... undeniable penchant for delving into the intricacies of villainy, after all."

"Can't we understand that 'black void' from here? Do we really need to subject you to her?”

"Oh, pulla," he purred, his voice laced with a dangerous nonchalance. "I am the architect of endings, the one who extinguishes the flickering flames of ancient bloodlines. I am the man who brought a proud nation to its knees, their defiant roars reduced to pathetic squeals, the desperate cries of swine before the butcher. What, in the grand scheme of such... decisive acts, is a little maternal trauma between a mother and her son? A mere footnote, wouldn’t you agree?”

"A footnote," I repeated softly, the word feeling inadequate to describe the years of pain he had endured.

Levi's gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a low, chilling home. "What she did was wrong, pulla," he stated, his eyes glinting with a cold fury. "It was a profound insult to my intellect, a testament to my utter failure to grasp the scope of her ambitions. My fury burned not just for the act itself, but for my pathetic inability to foresee the consequences."

He paused, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "I should have taken measures years ago, rendered myself sterile. A regrettable oversight, now irreversible. As it stands, I have a child, a biological extension courtesy of my stolen sperm. The King’s timely demise was... remarkably convenient. A lingering heir would have proven a significant impediment to my carefully laid plans.”

"Levi," I pleaded, my gaze locked on his cold, distant eyes. "For the love of the Gods, please understand this. What happened to you, the theft of your sperm... it was not your fault. Not in any way. Stop blaming yourself, stop with this self-recrimination about sterilizing yourself. It wasn't your fault."

I took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising panic in my chest. "And it wasn't an insult to your intellect either, Levi. Tell me honestly, who in their right mind could even conceive of such a violation? Who could possibly anticipate such a monstrous act? No one. Literally no one. So please, stop framing it as some failing on your part."

My voice softened, my concern for him overriding my shock at his earlier confession. "But... I am here now, Levi. I want to understand. What did you actually feel when you... when you realized what had happened? How do you feel right now, knowing that this child exists because of such a horrific act?" I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, hoping he would allow himself to be vulnerable, to share the true weight of this burden.

Levi's voice, though low, vibrated with a barely suppressed fury. "Fury," he repeated, the word a low growl. "A consuming, incandescent fury at the violation. And now..." A chilling calm settled over his features, more terrifying than the anger. "Now, there is a cold, calculating awareness of the invisible threads that bind me to a past I despise, a future irrevocably altered by their malice. For a long time, it was nothing but raw, untamed fury. My mind became a theater of vengeance, replaying countless scenarios of their agonizing demise – butchery, immolation, every imaginable torment. Though," a flicker of distaste crossed his lips, "I find the sight of blood aesthetically displeasing."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense. "No. My thoughts turned to more... exquisite forms of retribution. The meticulous severing of nerves, rendering them paralyzed, trapped within their failing bodies, forced to endure unending pain, their screams locked within. I envisioned the systematic dismantling of their ostentatious displays of wealth, their opulent mansions reduced to rubble. I toyed with the subtle art of poisoning, a slow, agonizing demise during their precious afternoon tea. Or perhaps," a cruel smile touched his lips, “exquisite degradation of stripping them naked, dragging their entitled carcasses through the streets for the rabble to feast upon their pathetic reality – not nobles, not bloodlines, but quivering, whimpering meat sacks begging for a death I would deny them. Pathetic, fleeting, disgusting vermin."

My breath hitched, a ragged gasp in the tense silence. Every instinct screamed for flight, my muscles coiled tight, ready to bolt. Yet, my feet remained stubbornly rooted to the cool tiles, a terrifying paralysis born not of physical restraint, but of the sheer weight of Levi's words.

I forced myself to inhale, then exhale. It's just thoughts. It wasn't impossible, not really, for someone who had endured such profound violation to fantasize about retribution, about inflicting the pain they had suffered back onto their tormentors. Revenge, justice, the desire to make them understand... it was a natural, albeit dark, impulse.

But the chasm that separated Levi from a victim yawned before me. He wasn't just imagining these scenarios. He possessed the intellect, the resources, the utter lack of moral constraint to enact every single one of those horrific visions, and likely countless more that his brilliant, twisted mind could conjure.

And yet... he hadn't. He had painted a terrifying picture, but the brushstrokes were confined to the canvas of his mind. The monster he described hadn't been unleashed. Not yet. A fragile thread of hope, tenuous as it was, snagged in the terror gripping me. He could do it. But he hadn't.

"I understand..." I whispered, the words catching in my throat. "Tell me more..."

"There isn't much more to dissect, pulla," he stated, his voice devoid of its usual theatricality, replaced by a flat tone. "My internal landscape differs significantly from that of most humans. Sentimentality, the messy, unpredictable realm of feelings... it is largely foreign territory to me. Shame, guilt – these are not visceral experiences, but rather concepts I comprehend intellectually, abstract notions I can analyze and predict, but not truly feel in the way you do." He paused, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at me. "So, you needn't fret, my dear Raphael. The prospect of facing my mother, after all that has transpired, does not inspire fear within me. It is merely another variable to be assessed, another piece in the intricate game."

“If you say so. If you are not going to feel bad, sad, or whatever you do when you ‘feel’. Okay, let’s meet your mother. I also have a thing or two to say to her. I mean she shot me. I have a nasty scar on my shoulder.”

A flicker of something – a dark understanding, a hint of long-simmering fury – tightened Levi's jaw. "Indeed," he said, his voice low and dangerous, the earlier detachment completely gone. "She shot you. A fact I am intimately aware of, and one that has been... filed away for future consideration."

He looked back at me, his expression now a mask of cold resolve. "If you are certain, pulla," he stated, the air around him charged with a palpable tension. "If you believe confronting her is necessary, then we shall go. Together. And you will have your say. I assure you of that."

Levi drained the last of his drink, the clink of the glass against the table echoing in the suddenly charged atmosphere. A predatory smile stretched across his lips, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous anticipation. "But my dearest," he purred, "let your husband have his fun."

"What?" I breathed, the unexpected possessiveness and the underlying implication sending a shiver down my spine.

He chuckled softly, a sound devoid of warmth. "Oh, my dearest Raphael. Did you truly believe I would allow those who harmed you to simply fade into the background after everything? No, my dear. If we depart now, we might even arrive in time to grace her rather... colorful dinner."

“Levi, you are not gonna go full council room on them, are you?”

"My dearest Raphael," he said, his voice a low purr, laced with a hint of amusement, "you wound my dramatic sensibilities. A mere 'full council room' display? After all that has transpired? After what she did to you?"

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense. "Rest assured, my dear, my intentions extend beyond a simple recitation of grievances. Think of it as... a command performance. A carefully orchestrated unveiling of truths, perhaps with a touch of theatrical flair. Let's just say her dinner is about to become considerably less... palatable."

Oh, shit.

“Levi I am not joking. I can’t see you like that again. I am being serious.”

"Oh," he murmured, his voice a low, persuasive caress. "Embrace the darkness for once. Allow yourself a glimpse behind the veil. Witness their fear, see their facades crumble. Hear their desperate pleas, and for once... savor their tears."

A shiver ran down my spine at Levi's words, his seductive invitation to embrace the darkness clashing violently with the fear churning in my gut. "Levi, please..." I whispered, my voice trembling, a desperate plea for him to step back from the precipice. "No."

He moved with a fluid grace, rising from his chair and approaching me. The coldness of his body pressed against mine as he leaned down, resting his chin lightly on my shoulder, his breath a soft whisper against my ear.

"Pulla," he murmured, his voice a low, intoxicating drawl, "they reveled in the sight of your blood staining this very floor, right on this carpet we share. But they did not even dare to inflict such pain upon me, do you know why, my dearest?" His grip on my shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly. "Not because they feared me, not truly. But because they still needed my body for their precious heirs. Tell me, my dearest." His voice was a silken thread of venom. "Doesn't that ignite a fire within you? That blatant objectification? That reduction of me to nothing more than a breeding animal? Don't you yearn to unleash the full force of your magnificent, colorful mind upon them? To trample on their arrogance, their self-proclaimed privilege?"

He was right, that was objectification, a monstrous reduction of the brilliant, complex man beside me. A part of me, a small, dark ember, wanted to rage, to see them suffer for it. To unleash something destructive.

“It wouldn’t change anything, Levi,” I said, my voice quiet but firm.

Levi's hands framed my face, his fingers cool against my skin, his gaze intense and unwavering. "Perhaps," he murmured, "perhaps the satisfaction of their downfall is a fleeting indulgence. But my dearest Raphael," a gleam ignited in his deep blue eyes, a chilling fire, "that moment. Imagine it with me. For once, you will truly understand the intoxicating rush of power, the visceral thrill of retribution. Feel the blood surge through your veins, hot and alive with righteous fury. Every tremor in your hands, every involuntary clench of your muscles, will not be born of fear, but of pure euphoria. The exquisite, all-consuming ecstasy of vengeance finally claimed. Allow yourself to feel it."

"You make it sound so... enticing," I confessed, a shiver running down my spine that was not entirely unpleasant, "But I'm afraid of what that kind of feeling might awaken within me."

A gentle nibble on my earlobe sent a confusing mix of sensations through me – a tickle, a thrill, a shiver of nervous anticipation. "Hush now, dearest," he murmured, his breath warm against my skin, "There is nothing to be afraid of. This is merely... justice. A necessary re-balancing." His voice took on a seductive edge, a low, mesmerizing hum. "You know what they are, Pulla. Well-fed monarch swine, gorging themselves on privilege and cruelty. Imagine them brought low, stripped of their arrogance. They will beg you, my dearest. They will kneel, their proud spines bent in supplication. They will squeal with terror, with the raw agony of torment, pleading for your mercy, for you to be their savior." His lips brushed against my ear again, his voice a low, persuasive caress. "And in that moment, my dear, you will understand the intoxicating power you hold."

Levi's hands, which had been resting on my shoulders, began a slow descent, his touch feather-light yet possessive as they traced the contours of my chest and then lower, across my stomach. "Why hold back, pulla? She is contained, isolated on that island. It will be our private stage, you and I, with her as our captive audience. The ancient trees will stand as silent sentinels, the endless sea a vast, echoing chamber for their pleas. Perhaps even the Almighty himself will acknowledge the weight of our justice, unleashing a cleansing rain upon that pivotal moment."

"I know you're an atheist, Levi," I stated, a slight roll of my eyes, a hint of exasperation seeping into my tone. "Stop with the Almighty and the rain."

His smile widened. "Oh, my dearest," he purred, his hands still resting lightly on my waist, "I am so much more than a mere disbeliever."

With a fluid grace, his strong hands moved from my waist, lifting me effortlessly from my chair. He turned me gently, positioning me in front of the large window overlooking the darkening garden of our home.

Levi’s chest pressed against my back as his hands continued their deliberate caress, now tracing the sensitive lines of my crotch over my pants.

“This,” he said, “is the window they shattered, attempting to steal the light from your world.” His hands moved lower, a subtle pressure building. “This is the garden they coveted, the peace they wished to snatch from you.” His chest tightened against my back. “And this,” he murmured, his gaze lifting to the twinkling cityscape beyond, the vast expanse of the sky, “this is the view they prayed you would never witness again.”

“No, my dearest Raphael,” he continued. “This is not mere vengeance, not simple retaliation or base retribution. This… this is divine intervention. The universe itself aligning to deliver them into our hands. Their fate, written in the stars above, is about to unfold.”

Ah, this devil. This infuriating, devil. This seductive, alluring devil.

I finally broke the spell of his words, my own voice a low plea. “Levi,” I said, my hands reaching back to grip his arms, a desperate attempt to anchor him, and myself. “Do whatever you want. Unleash whatever fury you deem necessary. Just… please don’t include me. I can’t bear to see you like that again.”

A softer tone entered his voice, a hint of the playful charm. “Well, at least allow your devoted husband a few… petty indulgences where his dear mother is concerned, hm?” he murmured, his breath warm against my neck. “A carefully chosen word, a pointed observation, perhaps a strategically deployed silence? Surely, I am entitled to that much catharsis, am I not?”

“Okay. And only to your mother,” I conceded, a sigh escaping my lips, a fragile compromise.

Levi chuckled softly. "Okay, my dearest," he conceded, the possessiveness in his grip easing slightly. "No bloodshed, no displays of violence. And my... creative expressions of displeasure will be confined to the esteemed company of my mother. Your delicate sensibilities will remain unoffended." He turned me slightly, his gaze searching mine. "Do we have an accord then, pulla? A truce in this... passionate debate?"

“Yeah, truce. But a fragile one. Control yourself,” I warned him, my voice holding a firm edge despite the exhaustion.

"A fragile truce, you say?" he murmured, his fingers tracing a delicate line along my jaw. "Intriguing. It suggests the potential for further... negotiation. But for now," he leaned in, his lips a breath away from mine, "control is my specialty, pulla. For you, I can always exercise a certain restraint."

I leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his lips, a gentle brush of warmth. "You went full devil charm on me there, Levi," I murmured, a wry smile playing on my own lips as I stepped back slightly, my gaze searching his. "What was that? Trying to seduce me into a life of villainy?"

"And if I was? Would it be so terrible? Imagine the delightful chaos we could unleash, hand in hand," he countered, a playful tilt of his head.

“Ugh… You need a hobby. Not a lame hobby. But a sophisticated hobby,” I stated, rolling my eyes in playful exasperation, trying to steer the conversation away.

"A hobby, you say?" he mused, tilting his head further in mock contemplation. "And not just any pedestrian pursuit, but something... befitting my refined sensibilities?" He paused, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "Intriguing. Perhaps you have a suggestion, Raphael?"

“Hm… Hm… Baking?” I offered, tapping my chin thoughtfully, a sudden idea sparking. “You love sugar, and measuring. Baking is as, or sometimes even more complex than cooking.”

Levi's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise as I offered my suggestion. "Baking?" he repeated slowly, considering the idea. "The precise measurements... the delicate chemical reactions... the sugary rewards..." A slow smile began to spread across his lips, a spark of genuine interest lighting his eyes. "Intriguing. Utterly intriguing. Perhaps you are onto something..." He paused, a mischievous glint returning. "Though I foresee a distinct lack of explosions and world domination in the standard recipe. Perhaps we can remedy that?"

A knowing smile touched my lips as Levi's mischievous glint returned, a challenge I was familiar with. "Oh, I know your style, Levi," I said, leaning back slightly, my arms crossed. "Explosions are far too gauche for your sophisticated palate. You prefer the slow burn, the meticulously planned unraveling. Think of it – a perfectly caramelized sugar, a subtly infused flavor... the anticipation before the final, satisfying taste."

He chuckled softly, a deep, resonant sound. "You know me too well. The slow burn allows for a more... thorough appreciation of the nuances. The subtle shift in texture, the gradual intensification of flavor... much like the perfect revenge, wouldn't you say?"

“Stop trying to convince me into your… whatever you do.” I waved a dismissive hand, my exasperation tinged with affection. “Signet ring is in my room, lemme grab it and let’s go.”

***

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