She's his perfect little doll. Porcelain skin, eyes that shine like jewels, and just as fragile as fine china. Mukuro knows that he could break her down so easily; it wouldn't take more effort than moving his little finger would. And yet . . . he doesn't want to. He's become attached.

She's obedient to a fault; Chrome is incapable of going against him. She loves him, worships the ground he walks on. He is her god, her savior, he is the very life that runs through her veins. He is in her every thought, he haunts her dreams, he owns her far more than he has ever owned anything. It's powerful to have this much control over someone's life. At times he takes an incredible pleasure from this. Other times, he loathes it with the entirety of his being.

When he hates it, he thinks about killing her. He thinks about how easy it would be. He can hear her screams, picture the way he eyes would well up with tears. He would take his time, enjoy the way her blood spilled and its sweet coppery taste on his tongue. He pictures her laying on the bed in her dress, pale skin bathed in crimson. She would be so beautiful in the coldness of death.

Mukuro thinks that if he were truly human and capable of such, that he might just love his dear little Chrome. He could give her all the things she longed for; he would hold her and whisper sweet nothings into her ear. The time of his humanity has long since passed him by, however. So he gives her his protection, gives her life. It's all he can offer.