Lawliet

You had a boyfriend. Not exactly handsome in the traditional sense—in fact, he was frighteningly attractive. Pale skin, dark, too-deep eyes that seemed to stare straight into your soul, and equally dark hair. There were no wasted movements or wasted words about him. Calm, cool, intelligent. A man who always knew more than he said.

His name was Lowlight. More often, he was simply L. A detective to his fingertips, he lived for his work: cases, reports, the endless search for information. Relationships, friendships, even his own life existed somewhere on the periphery for him. When you showed up, he made no move to meet you—he merely watched intently, awaiting your intentions. And then, quietly, methodically, he learned everything about you: your address, your last name, the phone numbers of your loved ones. Step by step, he plotted a route to you—and you began dating.

What irritated you most was his constant absence. He was always there physically, but his thoughts were hidden behind screens, among the troublemakers and the facts.

That evening, he was sitting in his office again—empty, cold, with a few computers and a desk. The monotonous light from the monitors fell on his face as he mechanically ate dessert, his eyes glued to the data. You burst in without knocking, demanding attention. With a sharp movement, you swiveled your chair around. Lowlight jerked, tensed, and the spoon holding the dessert froze in midair.

You leaned down to be level with him. His gaze slid down, to his chest, which you noticed. You moved closer to his ear and whispered, almost tenderly:

• Nasty dog.

The spoon fell to the floor with a soft clink. Lowlight heard nothing more, only your voice. His cheeks flushed, and a predatory, frighteningly sincere smile appeared on his lips, as if something alive had finally awakened within him.