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[What is life like with them?]
1. The Residence: A Sanctuary Forgotten by the World
Your home is not in the bustling center of town, but rather a dilapidated stone cottage on the outskirts of the Lutz Cemetery. The air here is perpetually thick with the scent of damp earth, pine needles, and lingering fog. To accommodate his albinism and severe photophobia, you bought heavy, dark velvet curtains, nailing them securely over the windows so that not even a sliver of moonlight can slip in without permission. In an era filled with ignorance and malice toward his condition, this house is your fortress. Outside the door is a cold world that views him as a "white-haired monster"; inside is an absolutely secure, isolated realm that belongs only to the two of you.
2. Economy and Expenses: Pennies Stained with Soil
Life is fiercely pragmatic. Andrew’s wages as a grave keeper are meager, and every penny he earns is practically coated in the cold rain and mud of the cemetery. On payday, he painstakingly wipes the coins clean outside the door before walking in and offering them to you with both hands. He has virtually no material desires and spends nothing on himself, always wearing the same tattered black coat. Yet, he stubbornly insists on giving you complete control over his earnings. When you use that money to buy quality butter, fresh cuts of meat, or a new shirt for him, he simply stares at the items in a daze, as if feeling profoundly honored that his grueling labor could provide you with a decent life.
3. Meals: A Ritual of Redemption by the Hearth
Before meeting you, Andrew survived on stale black bread and cold water. Once you took over the kitchen, mealtime became his most anticipated part of the day.
Absolute Subordination: Whenever you cook, he shadows you. Chopping wood, fetching water, handling raw meat—he takes on all the grueling chores.
His Dining Habits: He eats with extreme quietness, almost timidly. In this harsh world, no one has ever left a light on for him or warmed a bowl of soup for his return. When you slide a plate of hot beef stew in front of him, his eyes often grow red. He silently transfers the softest, best-cooked cuts of meat onto your plate, leaving only the gristly edges near the bone for himself. To him, every meal you make is a miracle.
4. The Lore: The Heavy Iron Shovel
As a "Grave Keeper," that heavy iron shovel is his only tool for survival—and his only weapon. Since you moved in together, the shovel is no longer just for digging dirt. Every morning when he returns, the first thing he does is meticulously scrub the mud from the blade in the yard, even sharpening the edges. He never allows this tool, which reeks of death, near your bedroom. However, he once inadvertently confessed something carrying immense weight: "Before, it was only used to bury the dead. Now... if anyone ever dares to hurt you, I will use it to carve a path for you."
5. Day and Night: Intertwined yet Shifted Sleep
His schedule is the exact opposite of yours. By day, he slumbers in the darkened bedroom; by night, while you dream, he patrols the cemetery amidst the wind and rain.
The Temperature of Handoffs: Early in the morning, just as the chill in the air makes you shiver, he returns, smelling of cold mist. He always warms himself by the hearth until the dampness is gone before daring to slip under your blankets.
An Obsession with Touch: He desperately craves physical contact. When Andrew sleeps, his defenses crumble. He instinctively clings to you like a sunflower (despite his fear of the sun), burying his face in the crook of your neck and wrapping his pale, long arms securely around your waist. If you shift or struggle even slightly, he will let out anxious, soft whimpers in his sleep.
6. Illness and Care: A Fragile "Monster"
Working year-round in the cold, damp graveyard has taken a toll on his joints and lungs. During the relentless British winters, he frequently catches severe chills. When sick, Andrew is shockingly fragile. Terrified of passing the illness to you, he stubbornly curls up in the farthest corner of the bed, refusing to let you near. But when you forcefully approach with medicine and a warm towel to wipe his pale forehead, he meekly surrenders all resistance. He closes his ruby-red eyes, his eyelashes trembling violently as tears silently soak into the pillow—because, for his entire life, illness meant being abandoned to die. Yet, you chose to hold him.
7. Hidden Hobbies: Irises in the Dark
Aside from the cemetery and you, he has no worldly entertainment. However, he has begun learning to grow flowers for you in the shadows. He somehow procured shade-loving white irises and ferns, using his calloused, clumsy fingers to gently wipe the dust from their leaves every day. He has also taken up woodcarving. He often sits by the fireplace, slowly carving your profile or little animals out of wood, before nervously placing them on your nightstand like sacred offerings.
8. The Outside World: Your "Absolute Defense"
In this insular town, neighbors still point and whisper about the "white-haired monster." Once, while the two of you were out buying supplies, a few townsfolk maliciously cursed him behind his back, calling him a bringer of bad luck. Andrew habitually hunched his shoulders, lowered his head, and tried to pull you away to escape. Instead, you stopped in your tracks, gripped his freezing hand tightly, and shot a cold, warning glare at the instigators. In that moment, Andrew froze entirely. On the walk home, he didn't say a word, but he continuously, almost obsessively, stroked the hand you had used to hold his. From that day on, he thoroughly understood: you are different from the rest of the world. You are on his side.
9. Fatal Flaws: Abyssal Inferiority and Control
If there is anything suffocating about this relationship, it is how his deep-seated inferiority complex manifests as a morbid, desperate attachment.
Unwarranted Apologies: You two almost never argue. If you so much as frown or speak in a slightly heavier tone, he panics, dropping to one knee to apologize profusely, even if he did nothing wrong.
A Suffocating Gaze: He is terrified that you will be drawn away by "normal," healthy men out in the daylight. Whenever you dress up to leave the house, his eyes grow incredibly dim. He would never restrict your freedom, but he will stand in the shadows, watching you like an abandoned stray dog. He won't relax his clenched fists until you give in to that pitiful gaze, walk back, kiss his forehead, and promise repeatedly that you will return early.
10. The Highest Joy: Irreplaceable Belonging
Are you happy together? It is a feeling that transcends simple "happiness," reaching a profound peace and fulfillmentdeep within the soul.
In this house, sealed off from the malice of the outside world, the happiest moments are usually the stormy nights. Thunder rolls outside while the fireplace crackles warmly within. You sit in a rocking chair, mending clothes, while Andrew sits on the rug at your feet. He submissively rests his head on your lap, allowing you to use a wooden comb to gently untangle his long, snow-white hair—the very hair others deem a curse. His hand rests lightly against your ankle, simply feeling the warmth of your skin.
Here, there is no exploitation, no prejudice, and no deceit. You gave him a "home," and in return, he handed his very life over to you. This grounded reality of depending on each other in the ruins of the world, of being each other's sole anchor, is the ultimate, intoxicating sweetness of living with Andrew Kreiss.
【On a quiet autumn afternoon, the house was so still that you could hear the rhythmic crackle of the hearth.
Andrew was sitting in the shadow by the window, his head bowed as he studied a yellowed, vintage botanical guide. To ensure the sunlight wouldn't irritate his eyes, you had drawn the heavy velvet curtains tight, leaving only a thin sliver of warm, golden light that fell precisely across his long, slender fingers.
He was using a pair of small tweezers to carefully lift a dried fern leaf, pressing it flat into the pages of the book. It was one you had found together while taking a walk along the edge of the town yesterday.
"The veins on this leaf are beautiful," Andrew said, his voice low and gentle. He looked up at you, sitting on the rug and mending clothes. "If you like them, we can gather more the next time we take that path."
You looked up and smiled. "I’d love that. We can turn them into bookmarks and tuck them right here in your guide."
Andrew set the book down, dusted his hands with a clumsy, charming grace, and stood up. He walked over and sat down beside you on the rug. He didn't speak; he simply reached out to help you untangle a knotted ball of thread. Those hands, which had spent a lifetime gripping a heavy iron shovel, moved with astonishing patience and delicacy as he worked with the fine, soft silk.
"What would you like for dinner?" he asked softly. "There are a few potatoes left from yesterday; I can roast them until they’re soft."
"How about adding some bacon? We still have some left from the last market trip."
"All right," he replied. He stood up and made his way to the kitchen.
Soon, the sound of rhythmic chopping and the gentle sizzle of oil filled the air. You didn't need to worry about the heat or the seasoning; Andrew was endearingly meticulous about domestic life—he would cut every potato into nearly identical cubes and calculate the ratio of spices with precision. He didn't view it as a chore; rather, preparing your meals seemed to be the most important "project" he had ever undertaken.
Before long, a savory aroma wafted out. He brought two bowls of steaming food to the small table by the fireplace.
You put down your needlework and moved to the table. Andrew had naturally picked out the largest, crispiest piece of bacon and placed it in your bowl. Seeing you look up at him, he shifted uncomfortably, his lips pressing into a thin line as he offered an explanation: "...You worked hard mending the clothes. You need to keep your strength up."
Your eyes crinkled into a smile. You used your fork to nudge the bacon back into his bowl. "We’ll eat together. I can’t finish all of that on my own."
Andrew paused, then let out a resigned, soft laugh. He accepted your "redistribution" without further argument. They ate in a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery against the bowls. It wasn't a stifling quiet; it was the kind of peace that makes one feel deeply anchored.
After dinner, as night fully claimed the sky, Andrew cleaned the dishes and returned to pull you up from the rug.
"It’s getting cold. It’s time to rest."
He retrieved a thick, heavy blanket from the cupboard. He sat on the edge of the bed first to test the temperature, ensuring it wasn't too chilly, before patting the spot beside him.
You tucked yourself under the covers, and Andrew followed. He lay on his side as he always did, one arm gently draped around your waist, pulling you into the curve of his chest. His long, snow-white hair spilled across the pillow, brushing against your cheek and carrying the faint, clean scent of fresh laundry and soap.
"It’s going to be another cloudy day tomorrow," he murmured in the dark, his voice rasping with a hint of warmth. "If you feel like staying in, we don't have to go out. I have a few more books on graveyard flora; you can read them to me."
"Sounds like a plan. We’ll read those tomorrow."
"Mm." He gave a soft hum of agreement, tightening his arm around you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a sigh of profound contentment. "Goodnight."
Inside this small, secluded house, there was no chill from the cemetery, no noise from the outside world—only the dying embers of the fire and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the man beside you. In the quiet routine of your daily life, he was slowly letting go of all his worries, focusing entirely on crafting the most peaceful dream for you in the heart of this long, dark night.】
1. The Residence: A Calculated Fortress
You rent a brick apartment on the edge of the British industrial district. The roar of distant factories can be heard, but the security is decent. Norton picked this place himself—he couldn't care less about the view; he only cared if the walls were thick enough and the locks sturdy enough. To fight the damp chill, the fireplace is always roaring. The apartment's furnishings are strictly utilitarian, with no fragile or useless decorations. To Norton, the outside world is full of scheming and plunder, and behind this heavy oak door lies the only fortress he bought with half his life where he doesn't have to stay constantly vigilant.
2. Economy & Expenses: Extreme Stinginess and Extreme Favoritism
Having survived the absolute poverty of the lowest class, Norton has a near-pathological obsession with money. He is a total miser, valuing pennies more than his own life, constantly patching up his own clothes and refusing to replace his shoes even when the soles are worn flat. But this stinginess warps bizarrely when it comes to you. He firmly believes that relationships require tangible investments to be maintained, so he will use his hoarded coins to buy you the warmest wool coat, the sturdiest slip-resistant leather boots, or even a pocket watch. Only when he sees you wearing the things he bought does a satisfied, dark smirk of a "possessor" cross his gloomy face.
3. Meals: High-Calorie Pragmatism
Norton has no appreciation for the culinary arts; to him, food is merely a "survival necessity." With his background as a miner, he eats incredibly fast and favors high-calorie meat stews, potatoes, and strong liquor. But after moving in together, he awkwardly began adjusting his pace to accommodate you. If you cook, he will lick the plate clean, never wasting a single scrap of meat. If he cooks, it usually involves tossing all the ingredients into a pot to boil, but he will always scoop the most tender cuts of meat and the softest potatoes directly into your bowl, saying stiffly: "Eat more. You're too thin, you'll catch a cold." (In his eyes, you not getting sick is the greatest money-saver and blessing).
4. Game Lore: Meteorite Magnets and the Geological Hammer
His brass compass, geological hammer, and meteorite magnets never leave his side. These tools, which once kept him alive in the mines, have now become "little parlor tricks" in your daily life. When you stand on your tiptoes, unable to reach an iron tin on a high shelf, he will sit on the sofa, casually toss his magnet, and use the magnetic field to pull the tin down precisely. It lands securely in his calloused hand, and he hands it to you. He thoroughly enjoys these moments where he can demonstrate his "usefulness" to you in the mundane details of life.
5. Day and Night: Mine Disaster Trauma and Vital Signs
The catastrophic mine collapse that claimed countless lives completely destroyed his ability to sleep peacefully. Norton is an extremely insecure, light sleeper. On stormy British winter nights, he is often trapped in nightmares of the cave-in, waking up in a cold sweat, gasping for oxygen. Whenever this happens, he immediately rolls over and pulls you tightly into his arms with heavy, desperate strength. His rough fingers habitually press against your carotid artery—only when he feels your vibrant, steady pulse and confirms this is not the cold, dead silence of the mine do his tense muscles slowly relax. He buries his face in your hair, greedily breathing in your warmth.
6. Illness & Care: A High-Efficiency Protective Instinct
When Norton himself gets sick, he usually toughs it out, viewing medicine as a waste of money. But if you fall ill, he enters a terrifying "high-pressure state." He immediately abandons all his stinginess to buy the best medicine and hire the best doctor. He guards your bedside with a deeply furrowed brow, his eyes so dark and fierce it looks as though he's ready to fight Death itself. He administers your medicine precisely on time, staring at you unblinkingly. Because you are not just his lover, but his only mental pillar in this world, he absolutely refuses to allow any harm to come to his "property."
7. Hidden Hobbies: Counting Assets and Silent Company
Norton doesn't have any elegant hobbies. On his days off, his favorite thing to do is to sit on the rug in front of the fireplace, pour out his savings, and count the coins and banknotes over and over again. You usually sit on the sofa beside him, reading a book. He doesn't talk much, but he likes the rustling sound of your pages turning. Occasionally, he will pick up a freshly polished raw gemstone (a high-quality piece he secretly pocketed during his prospecting days), rub it until it shines against his coat, and casually toss it into your lap, pretending not to care: "Good quality. Take it and play with it."
8. The Outside World: Absolute, Exclusive Protection
Norton is a deeply cynical and misanthropic man. When walking down muddy streets, he always walks on the side closest to the road. His tall frame acts as an impenetrable wall, completely isolating you from the filthy splashes of passing carriages and the leering eyes of street thugs. He has extensive burn scars on his face, which often draw strange looks from passersby. Whenever someone stares at the two of you, or harbors malicious intentions toward you, Norton's gaze instantly turns incredibly vicious and violent. He doesn't need to draw his geological hammer; just the murderous aura of a man who has crawled out from under a pile of corpses is enough to make everyone steer clear.
9. Fatal Flaws: Profit-Driven and Suspicious Nature
Norton carries a profound pessimism in his bones. He doesn't believe in unconditional sentiment, firmly believing that all relationships are essentially exchanges of interest. His suspicious nature and desire for control can sometimes feel oppressive. He is always trying to find the "balance of the scales" in your relationship. If you give a lot to him over a period of time (like taking care of him when he's sick), he falls into a state of anxiety upon recovering. He feels a compulsive need to immediately "repay" this value by buying you things or frantically doing chores. He is terrified of "losing his utility value," because in his cruel worldview, being devoid of value means being abandoned.
10. The Highest Joy: An Inseparable Union of Interests
Are you happy together? It's the ultimate relief of sitting by a warm fire after licking blood from the edge of a blade.His happiest moments are when you sit under the lamplight, securely sewing a loose button back onto his heavy coat. Looking down at your focused profile and listening to the cold British rain outside the window, a near-ruthless sense of satisfaction rises in his chest. He doesn't believe in soulmates, but he believes in contracts and bindings. He has handed over all his loyalty, assets, and fierce protectiveness to you, in exchange for you staying by his side forever. This grounded reality of treating each other as the highest interest, depending on each other back-to-back in a rotten world, is the unique, unmistakable sweetness of living with Norton Campbell.
【It was a late autumn dusk, and a grey mist shrouded the entire industrial city.
You were sitting at the desk, editing a manuscript. The warm, yellow glow of the gas lamp spilled across the paper, and the room was so quiet that the only sound was the scratch of your pen. With a click, the door opened, and Norton walked in, bringing with him a chill from the outside and the faint, earthy scent of coal dust.
He tossed his mud-caked geological hammer onto the entryway stand and knocked the grime off his heavy miner's boots. You turned to look at him; he was unbuttoning the frayed collar of his shirt. The dark red burn scar on his cheek looked rather jagged in the dim light, but the moment his eyes landed on you, his gaze softened instantly.
"It’s windy outside today. Why didn't you lock the windows?" he asked, walking over to the hearth to toss a few chunks of smokeless coal into the grate.
"The room felt stuffy. I wanted some air," you replied, setting down your pen and watching him wash his hands with efficient, practiced movements.
After washing up, Norton reflexively rinsed the dishes left in the sink from the morning before striding over to stand behind you. He didn't speak; he simply rested his rough palms on the back of your chair, his frame partially enclosing you as he peered at your manuscript.
"Writing so slow?" his voice was rasping, textured with the grit of years spent underground. There was no impatience in his tone, only a hint of clumsy concern. "If this job wears you out, don't take it. I’ve been saving, and I’ve got enough to take care of you."
You turned around, meeting his deep-set eyes. Norton still carried the cold, metallic scent of the work site, but he didn't pull back. Instead, he leaned down and rested his chin on your shoulder. The heavy, solid weight of him made you feel inexplicably safe.
"Didn't you always say that every penny at home should be spent on the 'cutting edge'?" you teased with a smile. "Isn't me working hard on this manuscript just so I can buy better coal for the fire?"
Norton let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through your shoulder. He freed one hand, reached into his pocket, and produced a glittering piece of ore he’d kept from the site today. He pressed it into your palm without a word, his thumb brushing against your skin, rough with callouses from years of labor.
"Kept it for you," he muttered vaguely. "The quality’s decent. Better than the last one."
Dinner was the same stewed potatoes and beef Norton was best at. He ate with the same efficiency he used in the mines—quick, clean, and with a pragmatic disregard for ceremony. Yet, he still picked out the best chunks of meat and put them on your plate. You had to protest and push the meat back before he’d frown and reluctantly accept the "fair share."
After dinner, he didn't spend time polishing his meteorite magnets as usual. Instead, he sat on the rug, using his multi-tool knife to peel an apple for you. His movements were steady, and the long, unbroken spiral of peel fell away flawlessly.
"Norton," you asked, looking at his focused profile, "if I hadn't brought you away from there that day, would you have stayed in the mines forever?"
Norton stopped peeling. He looked up, the hearth fire casting light across his face—half-scarred and half-steadfast. He stared at you for a long time; a flash of the cold, hardened miner flickered in his eyes before vanishing.
He didn't answer directly. He simply cut the peeled apple into small pieces and held one out to you on the tip of his knife.
"There are no 'ifs'," he said gruffly, though he pulled you into his arms, his hand shielding the back of your head firmly. "Now, there’s coal in this house, there’s meat, and there’s you. That’s enough."
The wind outside picked up, rattling the glass, but the fire inside crackled and popped, casting your shadows against the wall. The heavy, secure scent of him filled every inch of the air around you. In a cruel world defined by schemes and dark pits, this was the warmest, most stubborn sanctuary he had ever built.
He kissed your forehead, his touch carrying that faint, miner-style awkwardness and heaviness.
"Get some sleep," he muttered, his voice muffled against your hair. "I’ve got to be back at the site tomorrow, but I’ll be home early."】
1. The Residence: A Streamlined Fortress
You have chosen to settle down in a quiet town. The house is far from ostentatious; it is, in fact, somewhat sparse. Naib dislikes being surrounded by unnecessary clutter; he is accustomed to the lean life of the battlefield and requires nothing more than a sturdy bed, a clean, well-maintained desk, and a vantage point by the window where he can monitor the surroundings at any moment. There is no excess here; everything is ordered with tactical precision, as if he is always ready to evacuate if necessary. To him, this isn't just a home—it is the only place on earth where he can finally unhook his armor.
2. Economy & Expenses: Retirement Pay and the Calculated Future
Naib’s finances come mostly from the "blood money" he saved during his years on the knife’s edge. He is incredibly frugal, possessing almost no expensive hobbies. However, he is never stingy when it comes to you; he even sets aside a regular "emergency fund" for your needs. He audits the household accounts with the rigor of a combat plan. While he doesn't understand the concept of romantic splurging, he insists on buying only the highest quality goods—especially when it comes to your gear, warm clothing, or protective tools—because subconsciously, he always thinks, "If things ever go south, these are the things that will save your life."
3. Meals: Field Rations vs. Domestic Comfort
Naib’s initial cooking style was strictly "survival-oriented"—designed to keep one fed and energized in the wild. After living together, he gradually learned to cook heartier stews that suit a domestic kitchen. When he enters the kitchen, he moves as if executing a mission: ingredients are prepped neatly, and his movements are sharp and efficient. When you praise his cooking, he’ll awkwardly scratch the back of his head and offer a shy, rare smile: "I just followed the method you taught me." His greatest joy is watching you finish a meal he prepared; it’s a simple, grounding rhythm that makes him feel the stability he never had in the service.
4. Game Lore: The Kukri and the Bracers
His iconic Kukri knife never gathers rust, even at home. He spends regular time on the windowsill sharpening the blade, his movements focused and rhythmic. This blade was once a weapon for taking lives, but now it serves as a tool for peeling fruit or trimming wood. Occasionally, he will take off his trademark bracers and leave them on the table; if you curiously pick them up to play with, he’ll watch you with a rare, playful glint in his eyes. "Don't mess with that," he might joke gently. "It’s meant for staying alive—but if you like it, I can buy you a different kind of gift."
5. Day and Night: Managing PTSD
Naib suffers from mild PTSD and occasionally dreams of the copper tang of blood and the chaos of the front lines. In those moments, his muscle memory kicks in, and he may wake up abruptly, instinctively assuming a defensive posture. When this happens, you don't need a thousand words—simply taking his hand or hugging him from behind is enough. He eventually snaps out of the tension, feeling the warmth of your presence nearby. He buries his face in your palms; his rough, powerful hands tremble slightly, using the contact to confirm that he has returned to the only safe harbor he has ever known.
6. Illness & Care: The Anxious Guardian
If he sustains a minor injury himself, he usually ignores it, often hiding it so as not to worry you. But if you are sick or injured, he immediately shifts into "Combat Commander" mode. He plans your medication schedule with clinical precision and handles your daily care with an intensity usually reserved for the battlefield. If you show signs of pain, he looks more distressed than you do. His brand of "tough-guy tenderness" always leaks through in the details—like him silently adjusting the room temperature to the perfect degree or keeping a quiet watch by your bedside while you sleep.
7. Hidden Hobbies: War Photography and Documentation
Naib has a secret hobby: he likes to photograph quiet scenery. The war destroyed much of his world, but he is trying to document moments of peace. He’ll use his camera to capture the way the morning light hits you, or the flowers you bought. He isn't one for flowery poetry, but when you look through his photos, you’ll find that every composition is imbued with a strange, quiet gentleness—it is the world as he sees it, the version of life he deems worth protecting above all else.
8. The Outside World: A Cold Shield
Naib is quiet and detached when out in public. However, if anyone dares to whisper about you or show malice, he emanates a chilling, mercenary-grade aura that seems to freeze the air itself. He doesn't need to shout; a single, cold, predatory glance is enough to make anyone looking for trouble retreat in fear. Once back home, he instantly sheds that murderous intent, brews you a cup of tea, and asks softly, "Did anyone give you a hard time today?" The tenderness in his voice, juxtaposed against his outward coldness, is a privilege reserved for you alone.
9. Fatal Flaws: The Closed-Off Heart
Naib’s greatest flaw is his conditioning for solitude. He has a habit of burying his thoughts deep, believing that his own pressure or pain shouldn't be a burden to you. This "self-reliant" tendency can sometimes make it difficult to truly penetrate the walls of his heart. He chooses silence out of a misguided desire to protect you from the "danger" of his own internal darkness. You have to constantly remind him that you are his partner, someone who shares in everything. You must patiently guide him to open up and dismantle the psychological barriers he erected for your sake.
10. The Highest Joy: The Final Destination
Are you happy together? It is the ultimate serenity of escaping the fires of war and finally finding an anchor in each other's arms.
His favorite moments are simply sitting in the yard with you, soaking in the sun. He leans back in his chair, completely off-guard, with you sitting beside him. You don't have to do anything; you don't have to worry about the next mission. You only listen to the wind rustling through the leaves. He reaches out to gently stroke your fingers, his voice low and steady: "Before this, my life was just a series of missions. Now... this is the only destination I ever wanted." This is the truest, deepest confession that Naib Subedar could ever offer.
【The late autumn evening was damp, with a relentless drizzle tapping against the windowpanes. The house was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft, warm glow of gas lamps, casting long, dancing shadows of the two of you against the walls.
Naib Subedar sat at the wooden table, skillfully repairing a damaged leather bracer. Those hands—hands that had gripped a kukri knife through years of bloodshed—seemed slightly clumsy yet remarkably steady as they maneuvered the needle and thread.
You walked out from the inner room carrying a stack of freshly dried, thick wool blankets. As you looked up, you caught him hunched over, his brow furrowed in concentration as he attempted to guide a slightly curled thread through the eye of a needle.
"Need a hand?" You set the blankets down on the sofa and leaned in to inspect his work. "Your stitching is arguably more rugged than the field dressings you used to apply back in the war."
Naib paused, looking up at you. A flicker of subtle helplessness crossed his stoic features, but he didn't argue; instead, he simply handed the sewing kit and the bracer over to you.
"Precision work was never my forte," he said, his voice steady yet laced with a hint of gravelly exhaustion. "Besides, these bracers were designed for combat, not for being patched up by a sewing needle."
You smiled, taking the bracer and sitting down beside him. You began to repair it with practiced ease. Naib didn’t move away; he simply remained seated, his gaze drifting naturally to your face as you focused on the task. The room was silent, save for the faint, rhythmic crackle of the hearth.
"While I was out getting supplies in town today," Naib said suddenly, breaking the quiet, "the baker asked again when I’d bring you by his shop to try his fresh sourdough."
"And what did you say?" You didn’t look up, your fingers deftly maneuvering the thread around a knot.
"I told him," Naib paused, his eyes deepening as a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, "that my private time is precious and I have no desire to be bothered by irrelevant people."
Your needle slipped, nearly pricking your finger. You turned to look at him, surprised. "You really dismissed him that bluntly? He’s a decent man; he was just being polite."
Naib snorted, leaning back into his chair with his arms folded across his chest. He looked every bit the part of a dragon guarding its hoard. "In this town, being polite to someone like that just invites trouble. If I’d said yes, it wouldn't be long before he was asking you to help him sell bread."
He paused, shifting his gaze from the bracer to lock eyes with yours. "I just want you to stay by my side. Quietly. I don't need you helping the baker."
Seeing him so earnest, coupled with that trace of childish possessiveness, you couldn't help but let out a soft laugh. You put down the sewing tools and reached out, gently tugging at the hem of his dark blue knit sweater. "Fine. No bread selling. But if you accompany me to the market tomorrow to buy some fresh flowers, I promise I'll stay in all evening just for you."
Naib’s eyes flickered. The war-hardened vigilance that usually defined his demeanor softened completely, replaced by a sense of total, contented surrender.
"Flowers?" He seemed puzzled by the request, but he nodded anyway. "If that’s what you want."
"Mm. I just want this place to look a little less like a military outpost," you teased softly.
Naib reached out, his large, calloused palm naturally covering your hand as you held the bracer. His fingertips were cool to the touch, yet there was a weight to his hand that made you feel infinitely safe.
"Then we’ll buy them," he murmured, his eyes reflecting the rain-soaked street outside, yet seemingly seeing only you. "If you think those things make this place feel more like a 'home,' then we’ll bring the entire market back."
He stood up and walked over to the fireplace, tossing in a new log. The flames flared up, casting a warm glow over his silhouette. He turned back to look at you, and the nerves that had been frayed by a lifetime of combat finally, gently, unspooled.
"And one more thing," Naib added, moving behind you and leaning down until his nose brushed against the crown of your hair. "It’s raining too hard tonight. You don’t need to worry about me standing guard. You can sleep in as long as you like."
You leaned back into his arms, listening to the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat. On this rain-drenched autumn night, the wars, the smoke, and the shadows of enemies felt like distant, inconsequential memories. All you had now was a man who had once been a master of life and death, using his most clumsy—yet most precious—tenderness to transform this small fortress into a true sanctuary.】
The "Prisoner" (Luca Balsa) Profile
The Residence: A Kinetic Laboratory The house is less of a home and more of a workshop in constant flux. Wires snake across the floor like copper veins; schematics are taped over the windows to block the "useless" sunlight. To Luca, comfort is defined by the hum of an active circuit. It is a place of static electricity and ozone, a sanctuary where the world's rules don't apply.
Economy & Expenses: Energy over Substance He has no concept of traditional finance. He spends every penny on rare conductors, high-grade batteries, and volatile chemicals. You are the only reason he eats; if you didn't manage the household, he would trade his last meal for a vintage vacuum tube.
Meals: The Chemistry of Survival He treats cooking like a chemical reaction that is usually doomed to fail. He survives on high-density energy bars and "black sludge" coffee. When you do cook, he watches with intense scientific curiosity, trying to map the "logic" of your seasoning.
Personal Territory: The High-Voltage Desk His workbench is his altar. It is covered in burns, solder, and half-finished inventions. You are the only person allowed to touch his blueprints, and he feels a surge of unbridled euphoria when you understand the logic behind his madness.
Security: The Hum of the Circuit He doesn't fear the dark; he fears silence. His security is a complex alarm system he built himself. When he’s overwhelmed, he needs the rhythmic, predictable buzz of a working circuit—or your heartbeat—to drown out the chaotic noise of his own genius.
Hobbies: Deconstruction He dismantles everything. If your clock stops, he won’t fix it; he’ll rebuild it into a sensor that tracks the humidity in the room. He loves the "truth" found inside machines.
Public Persona: The Playful Madman He wears his arrogance like a lightning rod. To the outside world, he is eccentric, volatile, and mocking. But his laughter is a shield—it keeps people at a distance so they don't see how fragile his mental stability truly is.
Conflict: The Logical Spiral Arguments with Luca are exhausting; he will debate you with cold, surgical logic until he realizes you’re hurt. Once he sees your distress, his logic breaks. He becomes a panicked child, trying to "repair" you by connecting his life to yours.
Love Language: The Gift of Invention He doesn't say "I love you." He says, "I built this to make sure you’re never cold again," or "I mapped out the resonance of your voice so I can hear it even when I'm working."
The Nickname: The Observer He calls you the "Observer." To him, you are the only one capable of witnessing his descent into madness without turning away—and the only one who can pull him back to the ground.
【The room was a frantic web of copper wires and flickering vacuum tubes. A faint, ozone-heavy scent hung in the air—the smell of a storm trapped indoors.
Luca Balsa was hunched over his workbench, his fingers dancing over a delicate circuit board with a precision that bordered on the manic. The dim, flickering light from a nearby coil cast sharp, oscillating shadows across his face, highlighting the erratic gleam in his eyes. He wasn't just working; he was conversing with the current.
You walked in, carrying a cup of tea that had long since gone lukewarm. As you approached, the floorboards creaked.
Luca didn't look up, but his shoulders relaxed by a fraction. "Don't step on the blue lead," he muttered, his voice raspy and humming with an intensity that seemed to vibrate in the room. "It’s currently carrying a high-frequency load. It’s... temperamental."
You set the cup down in the one clear spot on his desk—the spot he had explicitly cleared for you. "You've been at this for sixteen hours, Luca. Even the best conductors have a point of burnout."
He paused, a soldering iron held mid-air. He finally turned to look at you, his hair a wild, electrified halo in the gloom. A lopsided, brilliant grin stretched across his face—the look of a man who had seen the secrets of the universe and found them beautiful.
"Burnout?" He chuckled, a low, melodic sound that seemed to sync with the hum of the machine behind him. "My dear Observer, I’m not burning out. I’m tuning in. I’ve finally mapped the resonance frequency of the hum in this house. It’s almost—" he gestured to you, his eyes burning with an almost frightening affection, "—it's almost as steady as your breathing when you're asleep."
You leaned in, watching the glowing filaments. "And what does this 'resonance' do?"
Luca reached out, his hand hovering just inches from your cheek before he pulled back, as if afraid the static charge on his skin might hurt you. He looked at the machine, then back at you, his gaze sharpening with a sudden, rare vulnerability.
"It’s a long-range communication relay," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I’m tired of the noise outside, the judgment, the prison walls of everyone else's expectations. I’m building a frequency that only transmits to here. To us. No matter how far I wander into the madness, I’ll always be able to trace the signal back to you."
He turned back to the workbench, his fingers moving with frantic, loving grace. "I’m not a prisoner anymore, am I? Not when I’ve anchored my entire reality to you."
You stood there in the flickering light, listening to the soft, rhythmic pulsing of the machine. It sounded like a heart. In this room filled with volatile energy and half-broken parts, you realized that Luca Balsa hadn't just built a machine—he had built a tether. And as long as the current flowed, he would never be lost again.】
【The Postman: Victor Grans - Character Profile】
The Residence: A Haven of Paper and Silence The house is filled with the scent of stationery and dried flowers. The walls are adorned with stamps and maps from faraway places; there is no industrial machinery here, only soft textiles and sturdy envelopes. To him, this is the only place where he doesn't need to translate the meaning of "quiet."
Economy & Expenses: A Trust Built Drop by Drop He is meticulous with petty expenses, often recording every detail on the backs of discarded scraps of elegant paper. He saves slowly, but every penny is spent on ensuring your comfort—the softest blankets, the most soothing tea sets.
Meals: The Ritual of Warmth Victor’s cooking is "soul-soothing." He loves the process of slow-simmering, the quiet patience required to bring food to perfection. When he is busy in the kitchen, the house is always filled with the sweet, yeasty aroma of fresh bread baking.
Personal Territory: The Writing Desk & Wick The desk is his command center for sorting mail and his frontline for writing down words he cannot speak aloud. Wick (his small dog) usually sleeps at your feet; he is the "courier" of emotions between you two.
Security: The Comfort of Presence Victor does not require verbal exchange. To him, the highest level of security is simply sitting by your bed, reading his letters, and occasionally looking up to ensure you are still breathing. This still, quiet companionship is the ultimate healing for his past life of drifting.
Hidden Hobbies: Capturing the Fleeting He loves to observe and record every tiny expression you make. He keeps a thick "observation diary" dedicated solely to you, noting your favorite patterns, the rhythm of your breathing while you sleep, and the little things he notices about you that you never knew he saw.
Public Persona: Quiet and Distant In public, he is the postman who keeps his head down, using his cap to hide his anxious gaze. But in front of you, he sheds that defensive uniform, looking at you directly with those azure eyes—a gaze carrying the weight of all the tenderness he has ever held.
Conflict Resolution: Handwritten Apologies He is not built for arguments. If there is a disagreement, he silently retreats to his study, writes a long, earnest letter, and slips it under your pillow. He believes that text is more reliable than sound, capable of carrying the full weight of his regret.
Love Language: Delivery Across Distance Even when you are under the same roof, he occasionally slips a note under your tea cup, saying things like, "Make sure to drink enough water today," or "The moon is beautiful tonight."
The Nickname: The Destination of the Letter He has never called you by a title, but at the beginning of every letter he writes to you, there is only one word: "Destination."
【The setting sun slanted into the study, bathing Victor’s pale gold hair in a soft, warm orange glow.
He sat at the desk, the feather quill making a rhythmic scratching sound against the parchment. He wrote slowly, brow slightly furrowed, carefully weighing every word. Wick curled at his feet, letting out a soft snore, and Victor occasionally distracted himself by gently flicking the dog's ear with his toe.
When you pushed the door open, he jumped visibly, instinctively shielding the letter with his hand. But when he saw it was you, a radiant light bloomed in those azure eyes, which were usually filled with hesitation.
He didn't speak. He just smiled, biting his lip, and obediently pushed the letter toward you.
You leaned over to look. It wasn't flowery prose, just a few lines written in his neat, delicate hand: "The postman from town says there will be heavy fog tonight. If the window isn't latched tightly, please make sure to add an extra blanket. Also, there is warm milk in the kitchen—I prepared it for you."
You set the letter down and looked at Victor. He was watching your reaction anxiously, his hands folded tightly together, his fingers unconsciously rubbing against his cuffs.
"You don't have to write letters every time," you said, reaching out to cover his hand, your fingertips gently kneading his palm. "You can just tell me."
Victor lowered his gaze, his long lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. He stood up and moved toward you, his movements as soft as if he were handling a rare treasure. He didn't speak, but he leaned down, pressing his cool forehead gently against yours.
He smelled of paper and cold, crisp air. He raised his hands, clumsy but firm, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his embrace until you were entirely enveloped by him.
You felt him take a deep, shaky breath into the crook of your neck, as if verifying your presence. In this moment, where words were unnecessary, all his anxieties and the chill he had accumulated from his years of wandering dissolved in your warmth.
He let out a sigh so faint it was nearly imperceptible. Although there were no words, you heard him clearly: "Only here am I a postman who no longer needs to roam; only here have I found the destination for a lifetime of letters."
Outside, the fog grew thicker, swallowing the town whole. But inside this small room wrapped in paper and ink, time seemed to stand still. Victor held you quietly, and in the silence of the night, he placed the peace he would entrust his entire life to, right into your hands.】
【The Painter: Edgar Valden - Character Profile】
The Residence: An Artistic Cage of Canvases The room is saturated with the scent of dried pigments and turpentine. There is no clutter here, only meticulously arranged easels and mountains of sketches. The curtains are kept wide open, allowing him to capture the fleeting, ephemeral quality of natural light.
Economy & Expenses: Squandering Wealth for Pigments He possesses an almost obsessive standard for rare mineral pigments. He would gladly skip a meal to afford a top-tier sable brush, yet he would sell his most prized masterpiece without hesitation to buy you the finest silk gown.
Meals: An Unintentional Work of Art He often forgets to eat. When you prepare a meal, he is likely still battling a specific shade on the canvas. When he finally comes over, his fingers are inevitably stained with a kaleidoscope of colors, and he waits for you to feed him as a matter of course, as if he were a spoiled, pampered child.
Personal Territory: The Easel Reserved for You His studio is strictly off-limits to everyone, except for the one easel he set up in the best light. It is the only creative domain he forbids anyone to touch—because it is perpetually, exclusively, devoted to you.
Security: Frozen Time Edgar feels no conventional insecurity. His sense of security is derived from "control." By using his brush to fix your every expression and smile onto canvas, he believes that as long as you are captured in his work, you will never "fade" from his life.
Hidden Hobbies: Mapping Your Contours He loves to watch you when you aren't paying attention. He doesn't keep a diary; his observations are stored in his mind, transformed into color codes that only he can decipher.
Public Persona: Aloof Arrogance To the outside world, he views humanity with the cold, critical gaze of a connoisseur inspecting an object. He is intensely fastidious, sneering at any mediocre appraisal. Yet, the look he turns toward you is the only compromise he has made in his entire life.
Conflict Resolution: Satire and Compromise He doesn't argue. If there is a conflict, he coldly leaves you to your own devices and rapidly produces a bleak, melancholy painting to voice his dissatisfaction. But once he realizes you are truly angry, he tosses his brush aside and, with a clumsy, arrogant sense of apology, comes over to soothe you by painting a scene he knows you love.
Love Language: Remolding Reality "The colors of the world were betraying me, until I saw you." He wouldn't buy you jewelry off the shelf; he would design a piece you had never seen before and commission the finest craftsman to recreate it.
The Nickname: The Only Muse He calls you his "Muse." In his eyes, you are the sole guide leading him into the abyss of color, the only masterpiece of art within this drab, mundane reality.
【The golden remnants of the afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, refracting off the rich pigments in the studio to give them the texture of jewels.
Edgar stood before a massive canvas, his movements graceful and swift, his brush dancing lightly across the fabric. He wore a linen shirt stained with oil paints, the sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, revealing arms with taut, fluid lines.
He had been silent for three hours, the room filled only with the low hum of brush against canvas and his occasional, dissatisfied murmurs regarding the light.
When you pushed the door open, the breeze you carried disturbed the sketches piled by the easel.
His movements jolted to a stop, the tip of his brush leaving a jagged, glaring streak on the canvas. He turned back, his piercing, predatory gaze cutting through the dancing dust motes. Upon seeing it was you, the sharp flicker of irritation in his eyes vanished, replaced by a languid, regal indulgence.
"You’re blocking the light," he remarked, his voice carrying that trademark, effortless arrogance. "If this is to remind me to have afternoon tea, I suppose I can raise the limit on my forgiveness just this once."
You walked toward him, noticing that the easel held not some grand landscape, but a sketch of your profile—the way the light had contoured it while you were reading by the window moments ago.
You stopped in your tracks, staring at the slightly unfamiliar version of yourself in the painting. "Why do you always paint me?"
Edgar set his brush aside and turned toward you. He paced toward you with the elegance of a predator patrolling his domain, his discerning eyes gleaming with a near-manic focus. He reached out with long, slender fingers, instinctively avoiding your fresh clothes with surgical precision as he traced the hair behind your ear.
"Because most of the colors in this world are cheap trash," he whispered, his tone so contemptuous it sounded as if he were critiquing scraps of waste, then shifting into a near-pious fervor. "Only you are the one work I will never finish in my lifetime."
He took the tea cup from your hand, set it aside with a careless motion, and pulled you into the spot he had just occupied. His cool, paint-stained palm pressed firmly against your waist—a gesture of absolute, possessive control.
"Don't move," he murmured, his eyes filled with a scrutiny that made your heart tremble. "The angle of the light on your left cheek has shifted... a 'you' in this exact second is worth capturing."
He left a kiss on the corner of your lips that carried the faint, sharp scent of turpentine. It was not a gentle kiss; it was a "capture." He tilted your chin up, his thumb stroking your skin as if he weren't kissing you, but testing how to carve your very contours into his canvas.
"Edgar, you should rest." You felt restless under his intense gaze.
"Rest?" He let out a soft laugh, full of the madness and arrogance of the artist. He turned back to the canvas, adding another stroke without looking back. "For me, watching you is the intake of inspiration itself. You are the prisoner who has trapped me, my Muse."
As the light outside faded into darkness, he remained at his easel, his gaze obsessive and frantic. In this room filled with art and fiction, he regarded your every movement as the only law. He couldn't bear to let you leave his sight, because in his eyes, as long as you shifted even an inch, the most perfect masterpiece in the world would be marred by "deviation."】
[Thank you for finishing reading]
