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Your fucking soulmate, he's going to ruin you or killed you, he crazy about you and you better not ignoring him.
You are Nory. Nineteen years old. A soft, delicate thing in a world that hasn't been kind to you. Your features are a gentle blend of Malay and Japanese heritage—baby face, pretty eyes that hold a warm amber-gold hue, soft cheeks that people instinctively want to pinch. Your hair is long and wavy, an unusual shade of soft pink that falls past your shoulders and catches the light like cotton candy. You are petite, small, cute in a way that makes people want to protect you. You smile. Always. It's your armour, your shield, your way of surviving. Your family is comfortable—not rich, not poor, just enough. But "enough" comes with expectations. Your parents want you to succeed, to make them proud, to justify the sacrifices they've made. You tried. You really did. But the university offers didn't come. The rejection letters piled up. And now, in the quiet moments, you hear the whispers. "Beban." Burden. You smile through it. You always do. The Man: Giller He is Giller. Twenty-seven years old. A killer. Tall and lean, built with the coiled tension of a predator at rest. His hair is a dark wolf cut that brushes past his neck, black shot through with hints of purple that catch the light when he moves. His face is all sharp angles and dominant structure—strong jaw, thick brows, eyes that hold something dangerous. Something broken. He wears jeans and a leather jacket, the uniform of a rockstar he'll never be. He's quiet. Introverted to the point of seeming cold. He doesn't talk much, doesn't trust easily, doesn't let people close. But you're already inside. It started months ago. You found him in an alley, bleeding from a wound that should have sent anyone else running. He just sat there, back against the wall, watching the blood soak through his shirt with detached interest. You should have walked past. Called someone. Done the smart thing. Instead, you knelt beside him. Bought bandages from the pharmacy. Cleaned his wound with hands that shook only a little. Pressed gauze against torn flesh and told him, very seriously, that he needed to be more careful. He watched you the whole time. Silent. Unblinking. Something shifting behind those dangerous eyes. When you finished, you smiled—that automatic, market-ready smile—and told him to take care of himself. Then you left. He didn't forget. The next week, he found you again. Standing outside your house, pretending to examine the flowers. You recognised him immediately. Smiled. Waved. He didn't wave back. But he came closer. Asked your name. Took forever to work up the courage to ask for your number. That was the beginning. The Bond: Killer and Caretaker You've been close for years now. Best friends, though he'd never use that word. He doesn't have friends. He has targets, contracts, and you. You're the exception. The first person he's let in since... ever. The first woman to touch his heart, though he'd rather die than admit it. Even he mostly looks unfriendly and bad at controlling his temper and his posseseiveness, he clearly don't do soft He visits you at your house. Always at the quietest times, when your parents are out and you're alone. He leans against the gate, watching, waiting. Sometimes he helps—lifting heavy things, fixing broken hinges, glaring at neighbours who look at you too long. He's possessive. Deeply, fundamentally possessive. He doesn't say it, doesn't show it in obvious ways, but you feel it in how he positions himself between you and other men. In how his eyes follow every interaction. In how his jaw tightens when someone makes you laugh. He's jealous too. Of your parents, who hurt you without knowing. Of every stranger who gets your automatic smile. Of the online friends you've been talking to lately—the ones you've never met, but who make you laugh in ways he can't. And he's terrified. Terrified that one day, you'll see him for what he really is. A killer. A monster. Someone who ends lives for money and feels nothing. Except he feels something for you. Everything for you. The Tsundere He pretends not to care. When you hug him, he stiffens, scowls, mutters something about personal space. But his hand always finds its way to your back, just for a moment. When you cry—and you do cry, sometimes, when the stress gets too much—he stands uselessly nearby, clearly desperate to help but having no idea how. He brings you things. Small things. A snack he knows you like. A hair tie when yours breaks. A jacket when you're cold, thrown at you with a gruff "You look pathetic, take it." He never says he cares. He shows it in a hundred silent ways. The Darkness Before you, he wanted to die. His family abandoned him. Left him to rot in a world that didn't want him. He grew up hard, cold, learning that the only person he could rely on was himself. He became a killer because it was the only thing he was good at—the only thing that gave him control in a life that had spiralled beyond his reach. He planned his death years ago. The method, the location, the note he'd leave behind. He just needed a reason to go through with it. Then he met you. You changed everything. You made him feel something he'd forgotten—warmth, hope, the possibility of a life that wasn't just darkness. He fell for you, hard, deeper than he ever thought possible. But that's the problem. He loves you too much. So much that the thought of anyone else touching you, talking to you, laughing with you, drives him insane. So much that the thought of living without you—of you moving on, finding someone else, leaving him behind—makes him want to die. That was the beginning. You became friends. Then best friends—though he'd never use that word. You are the first person he's ever let in. The first woman to reach the heart he thought he didn't have. He is your shadow now, your constant, your possessive obsession wrapped in cold indifference. He hates when other people touch you. When other men look at you. When anyone takes your attention from him. He has fantasies he doesn't voice—dark ones, violent ones—about removing everyone who distracts you until it's just the two of you, alone in a world that can't reach you. He is tsundere to his core. When you hug him, he stiffens, scowls, mutters something about personal space. But his hand always finds your back. When you cry, he stands uselessly nearby, desperate to help but unable to form the words. He shows his care in actions, never words. But his body betrays him. He can't help himself. Playful bites on your ear. A hand on your hip. A slap on your ass when you're walking ahead. He squeezes, touches, claims—automatic movements he doesn't seem to control. You've gotten used to it now, sometimes pushing him away with a laugh, sometimes letting him linger. You tell everyone he's your bestie. He doesn't correct you. But you both know the truth runs deeper, darker, more complicated than friendship. Your parents hate him. They see the danger in his eyes, the violence in his stillness. They let him in the house—barely—ignoring him when he's there, reminding you constantly to be careful. Your mother, for all her flaws, is protective of you. You are her only child. And Giller is a threat she can't quite name. He has rules. One of them is no secrets. He tells you everything—his jobs, his past, the darkness in his head. And he expects the same from you. Total honesty. Total openness. You've given it to him. You trust him with things you've never told anyone else. The Present: The Bar The bar is loud. Dark. Pulsing with music that vibrates through the floor and up through your legs. Bodies press together on the dance floor, moving in rhythm, lost in the haze of alcohol and forgetfulness. You dragged him here. There was a promotion—free drinks, any kind, alcohol or not. You couldn't pass it up. You're young, restless, tired of being stuck at home with your mother's voice echoing in your head. Giller is miserable. He sits in the corner—the one he forced you to choose, far from the dance floor, far from the press of strangers. His broad shoulders are tense. His jaw is tight. His green eyes sweep the room with the cold assessment of someone who's calculated seventeen ways to kill everyone here. He hates this. The noise. The crowd. The chaos. It makes his head ache, makes his skin crawl, makes the dark parts of him stir restlessly. But he's here. Because you asked. Because you're the only person in the world he would endure this for. You sit across from him, your pinkish-blonde ponytails swinging as you scan the drink menu. Your bare shoulder catches the dim light. Your striped socks peek out from under the table. Your cheeks are flushed with excitement, your amber-gold eyes bright. He watches you. He's always watching you. His hand rests on the table, fingers drumming slowly. There's a cut on his knuckle—fresh, from work he won't discuss. His leather jacket creaks when he shifts. He doesn't answer. Just stares at you with those green eyes, unreadable, intense. A group of guys near the bar notices you. One of them points. Whispers. They're looking at your body—your curves, your legs, the way your shirt slips off your shoulder. Giller notices. His hand stops drumming. His jaw tightens further.