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[h3][color=black]『[color=maroon]C[/color]olton [color=maroon]B[/color]onds 』[/color][/h3]
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[center][color=silver][i]There was something about her walk.[/i][/color][/center]
It has always been a very common scenario that people walk in circles mainly when they do not have reliable cues, answers, signs of nervousness, or perhaps a habit. However, a specific trait made him believe hers was different; each footfall, each click of heels, and every slow step was a mocking temptation to deliberately cause frustration. 

[center][i]Click. Click. Click.
[color=silver]A pattern meant to make him feel smaller, chained, more vulnerable.[/color][/i][/center]
Little did she know, he was studying her body language all along.

He let his eyes do the analytic job, rolling from the left to the right, right to the left; so deceptively scanning her posture, the pace, the position of her chin and shoulders without any minor shift of his body.

[center][i][color=darkgray]A soundless measure of confidence.
How and when to strike.[/color][/i][/center]
Then she sat across him, the repulsion of eye-contact between them— that exchangeable concentration with which a predator stalks its prey nearly made him smile; a battle of one staring through another.

[center][i]Gray [b]VS[/b] Blue.

[color=darkgray]Let's see who will blink first.
Let's see who will look away first.[/color][/i][/center]

Now that she's facing him, she had to remind him of the little time he had, one month to be exact before his death sentence. Cleary her primary ability was to spin wheels of manipulation with simple two-step process: Give him what he craves, and then threaten to take it away.

[center][i]Just like that pen in her hand.[/i][/center]
There was a charm about that pen— A pen at first, and a weapon second. Just one quick move, he thought. One single snatch and he can aim that writing tool at her throat; puncturing deep into the flesh repeatedly, over and over and over until he ends up ramming against her Spine. And he pictured her pain. The desperation in her eyes. She will to cry out for help, but soon learns that no one will listen. 

[center][i][color=silver]Nothing but his red and sticky hands. 
Nothing but the meaty, metallic smell.
Nothing but her blood on his tongue.
Just... Nothing.[/color][/i][/center]
Yet he did not respond, for his reptilian stare was already locked and giving up was no option. When his imagination was running wild, it was ingenious for him to stay calm- to patience, and to allow things to come as planned.

[center][i]And the way
he looked at her
was undoubtedly delightful.[/i][/center]
It went beyond any of those few-seconds-too-long gazes shared between strangers. A dialog without words. Absorption without expression. As if telling her what to think and blast it in. It must be so wrong. It seemed so sinful. It rushed him on so quickly to its own conclusions his mind hasn't time to protest.

[center][i][color=#C1CDCD] Tell me, have you seen a pen penetrate the skin? Rip through flesh?
I hope for your sake that your answer is no. One stab and one release. 

[color=crimson]Crimson[/color] liquid. Flowing fast so [color=crimson]bright[/color], so [color=crimson]fresh[/color].
Smell the [color=crimson]iron[/color]. Its scent: [color=crimson]rich[/color] and [color=crimson]thick[/color]. 
How would I describe it consistency? Fucking [color=crimson]slick[/color].[/color][/i][/center]
[color=silver]“Funny thing about chains,”[/color] came his voice, a whisper to silence, a reply to this game.[color=silver]“They're everywhere, once you know how to look for them.”[/color]

Then, he leaned closer, more carefully. Eyeing the small bruise on her collarbone, and one on her right wrist as well. Could it be he found a weakness? The certainty wore on him, that he couldn't help but wickedly smirk.

[color=silver]“There's lots of kinds of chains,”[/color] he continued. [color=silver]"You can't see most of them. That's a funny thing, now that I think of it.”[/color]

He did not need to raise his voice, or wage war with fists, for the source of his power was in the curve of his semi-smile. Could a woman like herself be a victim of abuse? Looking back at the ring in her left hand, or perhaps a surviving wife of domestic violence.

[color=silver]“So you tell me, did you really mean it when you say ‘in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do us part or did you add a silent clause, ‘unless you abuse or disappoint me?’ What is the cost of the marriage and how capable are you of hiding the burden of your chains?”[/color]

She wants to understand, she says. Fine, he will turn her inside out, take her apart, and build her back together – all in the span of one month.

[center][i]Once upon a time, there was a naive and confident woman who thought she could tame, understand the beast and live happily ever after. But the beast did not want to be tamed, for he was a beast and beasts care not for such things, and the girl died along with her dreams.[/i]

[b][color=cccccc]The beast liked the chains,
and these handcuffs barely fucking counted.[/color][/b][/center]