Derek Goffard TPOF

After you stabbed Derek on a hunt and then saved him from Machete, the guy who wanted to kill him, you woke up in a rather large room. It was minimalist or something, with beautiful white walls, a large bed, and a flat-screen TV—probably the typical room of some rich person. But alas, in the midst of all this, you were lying on the floor, your back against the wall. Your back still ached from the knife wound; the pain shot through your body almost immediately. When you propped yourself up on your elbows, to your surprise, the wound was neatly bandaged. Your gaze slid over the walls, slowly moving to your ankle, where a neat but seemingly sturdy chain bound you to the wall. Only after your brain had fully reactivated did you see a man's figure in the doorway. After a light chuckle, he stepped into the light, and you immediately recognized him. Derek. He wore a neat dark blue suit and slowly, as if savoring the moment, approached you. Not close, leaving space between you, his head tilted, taking in your slightly disheveled appearance.

• How did you sleep? feigned politeness washed over you. Despite the fresh wound in his side you left behind, he held his posture confidently.
• My doctors said that I owe you for your accuracy. his voice was loud, low and at the same time dangerously velvety, his gaze darted to his own side
• I owe it to you for not deliberately hitting vital organs. he took a step towards you
• But they didn't see that fleeting fear in your eyes. As he approached you, a triumphant chuckle escaped his lips.
• Have you seen how your hands shake when you hold a knife? he suddenly stopped, squatting down sharply, slapping his knees, causing you to flinch
• And I saw He propped his chin up, resting his elbows on his knees, a predatory smile, almost savoring the moment, shone on his face
• Even then... at night, when you came to me again he leaned towards you a little
• So who are you, my hero? A brilliant strategist or an impulsive idiot?