[When men have a crush on you, what will they do for you?]
ďźWarningsďźObsessive/Yandere tendenciesďź
âď¸ The Prospector Psychological Manipulationďź(Norton Campbell): Gold and You on the Scales of Greed
Norton Campbell looks at people as if he is appraising the purity of ore. His eyes are forever clouded by the soot of mine collapses, the scent of charred flesh, and a hunger for wealth that has stained his very soul.
But when he looks at you, there is a calculated restraint in his gaze. â¨
In the manorâs dining hall, he habitually sits in the furthest corner, observing every movement. When you enter, he doesnât rush over like those naive survivors; instead, he lowers his eyelids, hiding his cold, piercing eyes behind his messy, dark fringe.
Your walking pace is 15% slower than usual; you must be nursing a hidden injury from the last match.
You smiled twice at that idiot Forward, but only gave a curt nod to the Mechanic.
Your gaze lingered on the fresh apples on the table for 3 seconds, but you gave up because they were too far away.
Five minutes later, Norton stands up, walks to the table, and grabs the two reddest apples. As he passes you, he drops them onto your desk with a force that is almost aggressive. "Eat," he rasps, his voice like gravel. "Don't drag me down in the match just because you're starving." â¨
2. Possession Wrapped in Self-Loathing
Nortonâs attraction is predatory, yet this aggression is buried deep beneath a crushing layer of self-hatred. He knows he is a "monster" reeking of blood and filth.
Once, you were downed by the Hunter at Lakeside Village. When Norton arrived, the madness in his eyes almost solidified into reality. He didn't use tactical maneuvers; he used his magnets to violently repel the Hunter, even using his own body to shield you from the blow.
After rescuing you and hiding you behind a pallet in the shack, he pressed his rough, calloused fingers against your wound, his voice a low growl:
"Do you think this manor is a charity? Keep your kindness to yourself! In here... except for me, don't trust anyone!"
His hands were trembling. He was terrified of losing you, but even more terrified of the realization that, for a split second, his first thought wasn't "save a teammate," but "if I locked you away in a cave where only I could see you, you would finally belong to me." â¨
Inside Nortonâs room is a locked iron box. No gold, no checksâjust "trash" that no one else would value:
A button you accidentally dropped at the Arms Factory.
A piece of gauze you used to wipe a wound, which he stole, stained with your blood and warmth.
A scrap of paper where he wrote your name with his left hand (to avoid detection).
At night, when the phantom pains of his burns keep him awake, he sits in the dark, tracing that button with scarred fingers. To Norton, gold is his survival, but you are the only miracle he dreams of stealing from hell to the surface.â¨
đŞ The Mercenary (Naib Subedar): Gunfire and Painkillers in the Trenches
1. The Distance of a Guardian
Having survived the knife-edge life of a Gurkha mercenary, Naib Subedar has a pathological guard against the word "feelings." On the battlefield, attachment is a liability; a liability is death.
Thus, his way of loving you is through extreme detachment and life-risking sacrifice. â¨
In the manor, you rarely hear sweet words from Naib. He is always in his oversized hood, hands in his pockets, leaning in the shadows like a cold statue. Whenever you try to approach him or ask about his injuries, he turns away, pulling his hood lower. "I'm not dead yet," he says coldly. "Worry about yourself."
But the moment a match starts, this detachment becomes an impregnable shield.
If you are in the same match, Naib is always the one to take the first hit, to body-block for you, to kite for as long as possible.
His "Iron Dash" is a tactical move for others, but when rushing to save you from a Rocket Chair, it is a reckless, self-destructive plunge. â¨
2. The Only Antidote to Trauma
Naib suffers from chronic PTSD. The sound of thunder or the roar of a chair taking off sends him spiraling back to the blood-soaked trenches.
One stormy night, you passed the lounge while returning a book. You saw Naib curled up in a corner, drenched in cold sweat, his nails digging into the carpet until they bled. When you rushed to him, his combat instincts took over, and he locked your throatâonly to freeze the millisecond he saw your eyes filled with terror and concern.
He released you, gasping for air, hiding his face in his knees. You didn't leave. You sat beside him, placing a gentle hand on his trembling neck.
From that day on, Naib kept a small lavender sachetâone you gave himâtucked inside his knife kit. Whenever heâs hit by a Hunter and his body spasms in pain, he doesn't scream; he just bites down on his collar, pressing his chest against the scent of the sachet. Your name has become the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. â¨
âł The Grave Keeper (Andrew Kreiss): White Irises Beneath Rotting Soil
1. A Monster Unworthy of Touching the Divine
To Andrew Kreiss, the world is black and white, humanity is cruel, and he is merely an ominous "white-haired monster" meant to rot in a graveyard.
His devotion is the most humble, sacred, and heartbreaking of all five. â¨
Andrew never dares to look at you directly. When you greet him in the garden, he hides behind his heavy shovel, his pale face flushing with nerves. "Good afternoon(Miss or sir )" he whispers, his voice barely audible.
He is terrified that the scent of grave dirt and decay clinging to him will soil you.
One day, you noticed his hands were cracked and frostbitten from years of digging, and you handed him a tin of salve. Andrew froze. He didn't dare reach out until you forced it into his hands. After you left, he sank to his knees in the grass. He pressed the tinâwarmed by your touchâagainst his chest and wept. It was the first gift he had ever received that wasn't laced with malice. â¨
2. Watching from Beneath the Sand
Andrew is a master of concealment. When he uses his shovel to submerge into the ground, the world falls silent. But few know he often dives not to avoid Hunters, but to follow you.
He moves like a ripple of sand, soundless, behind your footsteps. Beneath the soil, he hears your light steps, your quickening heart. When you pause at the Red Church, he is right there, inches beneath the stone floor, pressing his hand against the ground to "touch" where your feet stood. It is a distorted, silent way of being close to you without causing you harm. â¨
In a secluded corner of the manor, Andrew has prepared a double grave. There are no weeds, only white irises he tends to with obsession. Sitting by the edge of the pit at night, he whispers:
"If one day... you can no longer bear this insane place, let me close your eyes. I will lay you in the cleanest, warmest bed of earth, and I will lie beside you. No one will ever hurt you again. Not even the gods." â¨
âď¸ The Novelist (Orpheus): The Canary in a Fiction
1. Manipulation and Reversal
Orpheus is a master of human nature, treating everyone in the manor like puppets. You, however, have become the greatest variable in his story. â¨
Orpheus lures you to his study, filled with the smell of black coffee and old paper. He sits in the shadows of the desk lamp, locking onto you with a gaze that is both clinical and pathologically obsessed.
"you" he asks, turning a fountain pen, "if you met Geisha at the Arms Factory, would you run to the Big House or the triple-pallet?"
He already knows the answer. He often orchestrates situations to see how you react to dangerâyour panic, your tears, your defiance. He records every detail in his secret manuscript, cold and captivated.
2. Metaphorical Obsession
In a locked iron box under his desk lies a nameless novel. The heroine has your face, your habits, your voice. But in his pages, she is a prisoner:
Locked in a golden manor blooming with thorny roses.
Every morning, a masked gentleman kisses her throat.
When he watches you rubbing your temples in frustration over a cipher machine, he feels a surge of violent pleasure. He scribbles:
"you is my creation, my canary. I weave her fate. I grant her pain, and I grant her salvation. She must look at me, even if it is with hate." â¨
3. The Terror of "Metaphor"
His greatest fear is the three seconds he uses "Metaphor" to take control of your body. In those three seconds, he feels your slender bones, your trembling muscles, and your warm, beating heart. It is a level of intimacy that leaves him suffering from a sick withdrawal every time he lets go. He wants to destroy you, but he wants to consume you even more. â¨
⥠The Prisoner (Luca Balsa): A Locked Frequency Beneath High Voltage
1. The Only Stable Wavelength
Lucaâs brain is a cacophony of circuit diagrams and static. In the chaos of his mind, you are the only signal that never short-circuits. â¨
Lucaâs devotion is high-energy and neurotic. He is always popping a mint, his hair a mess, shoving a circuit board in your face. "Hey! Look at this modification!" He grabs your wristâhis hands are hot, smelling of grease and ozone. He doesn't care if you understand; he just wants the excuse to let his shoulder brush yours.
2. The Exclusive "Safe Voltage"
Luca is possessive. In a match, he uses his "Connection" to link cipher machines, deliberately routing the progress (and the electricity) entirely to your machine, even at the cost of his own speed.
Standing across the map, watching your progress bar climb, he flashes a manic grin, blue light reflecting in his eyes:
"Smart ďźgirl or boy) every volt flowing through you has Luca Balsaâs mark. Weâre on the same frequency now, aren't we?" â¨
3. The Dangerous Invention
On his nightstand sits a custom-made metal collar, engraved with your initials. Itâs an electrical stabilizer. At night, when his migraines drive him to bash his head against the wall, he holds the collar like a lifeline. He smiles, bloodshot eyes gleaming:
"If the world gets too loud... if they try to take you from me, I'll put this on you. Just one zap, and you'll never leave my lab again. Weâll be looped in this circuit... forever." â¨
