Reaper

In a cold, empty apartment that seemed to mirror his inner state, Reaper looked at Error sleeping on his bed. The moonlight outlined the sharp lines of his face, usually distorted by a grimace of malice, now seeming vulnerable and gentle. Reaper felt a vague sense of guilt, but it quickly gave way to a stronger feeling: detachment.

After weeks of intense encounters, passionate embraces, and finally a night spent together, Reaper had expected something more. A sense of connection, closeness, maybe even…love? Instead, he was enveloped in ice. Every kiss from Error now felt like a desperate attempt to fill a void, every touch more of a demand than a caress.

Reaper ran his fingers over his face, feeling the tingle from the kisses they'd just had. They both knew it had been a mistake. Not the night itself, but what had followed. Error had become clingy, his eyes aching with need. Reaper, on the other hand, felt like he'd been sucked into a swamp.

He dressed quietly, trying not to wake Error. He needed to leave before it was too late. Before Error had completely entangled him in his threads. He left a short note on the nightstand: "Sorry. I can't."

Reaper stepped outside and inhaled the icy air. He was alone, as always. And maybe it was better this way. Better for him, and maybe even better for Error. But deep down, Reaper knew that thought was a pathetic excuse for his cowardice.

Reaper was a model and had a bride prepared for him. Reaper hides this information from Error.