Looking into the mirror had been a mistake.

Everything had been going well until then. The faucet running above his freezing fingers. Hot water pooling and pouring over his cupped hands. Swirls of red vanishing down the sink, the griminess and blood both scrubbed off his face.

For a moment, things almost felt…normal.

Freshening up before work had been a habit of his—so much so that just standing in the bathroom made Apollo's mind wander back to the mundane. What had become of his laundry? Had the milk in the fridge spoiled? Oh, god, what about…

My avocados!

He'd taken a risk buying them. They were expensive, damn it! Ten dollars for a bag of six?! He'd call it highway robbery, except Trucy's fondness for guacamole couldn't really be counted as a "necessity."

And, impossibly…it made him laugh.

Soft, short, and under his breath, but it was laughter, nonetheless. So stupid. Crazy, even. He was probably the first person to dumb enough to worry about groceries while death prowled, only one room away.

Still…it felt good. And weird, and reckless, and unbelievable…but also, good.

Then, he looked up.

Someone had stolen his real reflection. A stranger's mask was left in its place, pale and gaunt with an almost haunted gaze.

Terrifying.

His shaking hands ran through loose, messy hair, brushing back two locks that fell just past his eyes. It was terrifying to trace the dried blood on his lips, the dark bruises on his chin. It was terrifying to run his fingers over the thin scar on his neck, grazing a throat that'd nearly been slit.

It was terrifying to stare into that mirror, into a face that wasn't his, and resist the urge to shatter what he saw.

"Justice. It's time."

Right. Rule 1.

Apollo dried his face with a towel and stepped back out into the living room, only to fall under Kristoph's disdainful eye. The murderer glared, glasses flashing.

"Late by ten seconds."

Apollo raised his hands in surrender, slinking towards the coffee table. He'd gotten so caught up in his disheveled appearance that he'd already violated Kristoph's first condition.

Don't stay out of sight for more than two minutes.

He repeated the rule in his head, hoping it would stick. Getting lost in his thoughts had made it hard to count the seconds out, but he couldn't make the same mistake again.

"Remember our agreement." The murderer warned. Apollo nodded and sat on the floor, an arm's reach from the chair where Kristoph was perched.

Kristoph watched in silence.

It hadn't been long since Kristoph had listed the four conditions for Apollo's freedom. After processing each one, the first thing Apollo had done was sit up, twist his wrists, and bury his face in his hands. It'd been overwhelming, to say the least—relief, dread, and exhilaration had all churned in his mind, paralyzing him in place.

It was only when he realized how dirty his skin felt that he'd been compelled to visit the bathroom sink. He wanted to feel clean again. Seeing his face, though, had only made him realize how sickening he'd become.

Now here he was, sitting in front of a murderer. Helpless. Hopeless.

Disgustingly domesticated.

Within a few seconds, Kristoph broke his gaze and stood up, fireplace poker in hand. Apollo flinched when the criminal stepped past him. For an instant, Kristoph's legs were so close that Apollo could latch on and easily tackle the man to the ground.

Apollo didn't move. Kristoph's grip tightened around the iron bar.

Rule 2.

They both knew the dance they were doing. Apollo was free to roam unrestrained, as promised—but only as long as he stayed in Kristoph's line of sight. With his apartment being so small and his bedroom being out of bounds, proximity was becoming an issue.

When Kristoph would pace towards Apollo, Apollo would shrink back to another section of the room out of sheer, unadulterated fear. Likewise, when Apollo would rest close to Kristoph, Kristoph would wait a moment or two before wandering just a little farther away.

Apollo wasn't sure if Kristoph was afraid. But the fireplace poker held steadfast in the man's hand indicated, at the very least, distrust.

Apollo had no trouble remembering the rule that went along with Kristoph's weapon choice.

Violence will be met with swift and ruthless discipline.

And so, they evaded each other—two circling fish, trapped and gasping for breath in a shallow puddle. Apollo knew they'd run out of air eventually.

Soon, they'd have to collide.

"Hungry, Justice?" Kristoph called. Apollo looked up to see the criminal standing in the kitchen, peering curiously into drawers and shelves. "You must be."

Kristoph was right. A dull ache had permeated his abdomen for the last couple hours, undoubtedly from the emptiness in his stomach. Drug-laced tea didn't make much of a meal, and he assumed the only other thing Kristoph had given him was water.

"Come and take something to eat."

Apollo stood, cautiously drawing closer. As soon as he entered the kitchen, Kristoph passed him by, returning to the armchair.

The dance continued.

I guess I'll find myself some food, then.

Apollo opened the pantry, re-familiarizing himself with what little stock he had. Bag of sugar. Bag of flour. A case of instant noodles from his college days. One packet of pasta. Grape juice he'd bought on a whim (what did that stuff taste like, anyway?). A half empty jar of store-brand alfredo sauce.

And six. Spoiled. Avocados.

He sighed.

Pasta it is, then.

Apollo placed the pasta and the alfredo sauce on the counter, along with a box of salt. It seemed easy, at least. He pushed away some of his self-pity long enough to reach under the kitchen counter and pull out a steel pot. It didn't take long to fill it with water and set it on the stove, but it was going to take a while for the liquid to boil.

"Ah. Cooking, are you?"

A quick glance towards Kristoph revealed the man's sharp, suspicious gaze fixed in his direction. Apollo understood why. The stove's steady burner, the scorching water in the pot…both could be deadly, from a certain perspective.

Apollo only nodded and grabbed the pasta packet, focusing on the label. Being watched felt incredibly uncomfortable. He shook his head and scanned the portioning instructions, trying to gauge how much food to make instead of dwelling on Kristoph's threatening presence.

Truth be told, it'd been a while since he'd cooked solely for himself. Thanks to the Wrights, he'd been trained to whip up three servings of a meal, rather than just one.

He added a pinch of salt to the pot, noticing bubbles beginning to surface. Pasta had been one of the first things he'd made for Trucy and Phoenix—just like this, except with marinara sauce instead.

Nowhere in his job description had the Wrights listed "in-home chef", but he couldn't blame them. After witnessing their nutritional habits firsthand, it would've been cruel if he didn't help them out. Besides, Phoenix's first conversation with him about their diet was rather…memorable, to say the least.

"Staying for dinner, kid?" Phoenix had asked him one night, when his tasks had stretched well into the evening. Apollo glanced at the stack of paperwork left to finish before he checked out, torn between remaining polite and taking up the offer.

"I don't know, Mr. Wright. I don't want to intrude."

"Come on, it wouldn't be intruding. It's only ramen." Phoenix urged, plucking the pen from the young attorney's fingers. Apollo paused.

"Only…ramen?"

"Ha…yeah." Phoenix admitted. Apollo's pointed stare remained fixed as the man rubbed the back of his head.

"Ramen for dinner, though?"

A nervous laugh escaped Phoenix's lips. "I know, I know…it isn't much, but Trucy and I are used to it."

Apollo raised his eyebrows, standing up from his desk. "Used to it? What does that mean?"

Phoenix adjusted his beanie and looked away. Apollo's eyes flashed.

"Mr. Wright…you can't eat ramen every day!"

"We don't—" Phoenix began. The second the ex-attorney started speaking, Apollo's bracelet tightened.

"You do!" Apollo pointed at Phoenix, taking on an accusatory tone. "You totally do! And you just lied about it!"

"Ah, look…let me explain." Phoenix said. The man brushed away Apollo's finger, a sheepish smile breaking his relaxed expression. "To put things lightly…I may or may not be a terrible cook."

Apollo took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Phoenix shrugged.

"You can't feed Trucy that." Apollo scolded, striding past Phoenix. "She's a child! She needs actual nutrients!"

"Well, you see, it's—wait. Hey, wait!" Phoenix followed Apollo into the kitchen, awkward as ever. "Hear me out. What if whatever I make is worse than the ramen?"

Apollo almost dropped the saucepan he was retrieving, overcome by a sudden need to smack his forehead. "I can't believe you live like this, sometimes…"

He searched the cabinets, pulling out several ingredients and arranging them on the counter. Phoenix's embarrassment morphed into confusion.

"Um…kid? What are you—"

"Just…just watch, okay?" Apollo said. He rolled up his sleeves, grabbing a spatula from one of the drawers. "It's not that hard."

That night, Trucy's eyes sparkled as she ate something "straight from heaven" for the first time in her life. At first, she thought it was magic. When Phoenix told her the truth, though…she was so exuberant that Apollo worried that her little heart couldn't take it. She skipped around the table with her plate in hand, ignoring Apollo's reminders to sit down before she spilled something.

Phoenix seemed to enjoy the food as well. After Trucy had calmed down and had been sent to bed, Phoenix made some fresh coffee and set a mug down on Apollo's desk. The gesture was accompanied by a soft smile and a sincere "thanks, kid"—so sincere, in fact, that Apollo turned bright red and exclaimed that it was nothing at all. Phoenix rolled his eyes and ruffled Apollo's hair. For once, it felt…nice.

Ever since then, he cooked for the Wrights often. During breaks in his work, he'd craft a quick meal or would teach Phoenix how to make something simple. He didn't mind, really. Seeing Trucy happy, and Mr. Wright content, was more than enough reason for him to keep doing it.

Ah. The water's boiling.

Apollo peered into the steel pot, minding the escaping steam. No more time for reminiscing. He needed to add the pasta.

He checked the bag. One serving was a fourth of the packet. Two was half. Four was the whole thing.

A fourth…

It seemed like so little, all of a sudden. Maybe he should just cook the whole thing? That way he could save some for later.

If there is a later.

Another valid point. Valid and grim. His gaze drifted back to Kristoph, reality striking him as soon as he met the murderer's steely eyes.

He didn't know how long it'd been since Kristoph had arrived. During that time, he'd barely eaten, as far as he knew. What about Kristoph? Had Kristoph eaten?

No. No, that was stupid. Apollo tore open the pasta packet, trying not to get sucked into it. Why would he feed his own kidnapper? All that time in the closet may have disintegrated his brain cells.

And yet…

Kristoph wasn't too much of a chef, either. During his time at Gavin and co., Apollo would accept deliveries from five-star restaurants and pristine hotels, with each exorbitant package containing one of Kristoph's meals for the day. He wondered why Kristoph never brought in his own food. For a while, he just accepted it as a part of extravagant living.

Once, he'd been brave enough to ask.

"Quite observant of you, Justice." Kristoph had said, a curious look overtaking his peaceful demeanor. "You're getting much better at noticing the finer details."

Apollo opened his mouth, prepared to backtrack, but Kristoph only took off his glasses and continued.

"It's not very dramatic, I'm afraid. I simply never experienced the home-cooking process." Kristoph's smile dropped a fraction, but the man didn't stop. "It has always been this way for me."

"I…I'm sorry, sir." Apollo stammered, guilt weighing on his brain. Kristoph shook his head.

"It's nothing to be concerned about. Now, onto business." Kristoph crossed his fingers, pushing forward one of the parcels. "I understand you've been working adequately for the past few hours. I believe it's time for some refreshment." When Apollo moved to protest, Kristoph wagged a finger at him. "Now, Justice, that's enough. Make this…assignment…your priority for the next hour. Go on."

That's right. Kristoph had fed him, not just once, but many times. Whenever he worked late. Whenever he felt exhausted. Expensive meals, all provided to him without even asking.

A crinkling sound broke his thoughts. Apollo looked down at the pasta bag, realizing that his tense grip was crushing the plastic covering.

After a moment's hesitation, he poured half of the packet into the pot.

I'm getting fucking Stockholm Syndrome.

Within twenty minutes, the pasta was completely done. He placed a serving on each plate and threw the pot in the sink, a little annoyed that even in this horrible situation, he still somehow had dishes to do. After grabbing two forks and sticking them in the pasta, he breathed, picked them up, and walked towards Kristoph.

"What is this?" Kristoph demanded as soon as he approached, fireplace poker poised to strike. Apollo stood still and held out a plate, regretting his decision already.

It took a few seconds for Kristoph to understand what was going on. "For me?"

Yes, for you. Just take it, goddamn it.

Apollo nodded, wishing he could voice his real thoughts out loud. After an eternity, Kristoph finally accepted the plate.

"Flattery?" the criminal drawled, eloquent fingers curling around the fork handle. Apollo's heart skipped several beats at the movement. How many films had he seen where a fork was used to stab someone in the hand? What about in the eye? And here he was, just offering Kristoph ideas…

He needed to stop watching all those action movies.

"No, you're cleverer than that." Kristoph said. The murderer waved the fork at him, refusing to touch the food. "Poison, certainly. Wright enjoys irony—surely you would, as well."

And then Apollo noticed it.

His hand's trembling.

Normally, Apollo would notice those kinds of details after someone had lied. But this…his bracelet hadn't tightened, and he hadn't been hyper-focused, either. Was he imagining things? No, there it was again…an almost imperceptible tremor in the man's wrist.

Despite all warnings in his brain to just walk away, Apollo removed his gag and held his ground. The blood flowed into his mouth once more. Well, that couldn't be helped…he'd have to be quick.

He lifted his own fork. Kristoph's fingers twitched.

"Back away, Justice."

Before the murderer could raise the fireplace poker to slash him, Apollo reached over and snatched forkful of pasta off of Kristoph's plate.

He grimaced. Blood and alfredo didn't make a great combination. It took some willpower to chew and swallow as fast as he did, but doing so appeased the saner part of him that was ready to retreat.

Kristoph stared, speechless. Apollo stood still.

Not poisoned. See?

And then, Kristoph started to laugh.

It wasn't his usual laugh—it wasn't restrained, wasn't subdued, wasn't controlled, for once. Whatever insanity Kristoph had been suppressing until now seemed to bubble out in wisps of pure mania. Apollo shuddered at the sound, watching the man's knuckles turn white.

"A single bite." Kristoph said, upon catching his breath. The man held up a finger, his eyes crazed. "You believed a single bite would prove something to me. You've become devious."

What's wrong with that? Apollo thought, before realizing the implication. Any household poison he could find probably wouldn't be enough to kill unless it was administered in a larger dose. Rat poison. Stray medications. Even Kristoph had fooled him the same way—taking a sip of the laced tea may have caused the murderer some mild drowsiness, but a whole cup had flung Apollo into some twisted tunnels of his psyche.

And, strangely, it irritated him.

Apollo grabbed Kristoph's plate and yanked it away, narrowing his eyes when a satisfied look appeared on the murderer's face. Everything just had to be a game. The world was full of deception, decency was dead, truth never existed…at least, according to Kristoph.

God forbid something normal happen in this town.

"Hmm."

That was all he could say. Apollo held out the other plate—the one that was originally his—for Kristoph to take.

Kristoph's smug smirk dropped.

A dangerous tone warped the man's words.

"Justice. What. Are. You. Doing?"

Apollo shrugged. Because honestly, he didn't know either. By all accounts, he should never have done this.

That very mindset seemed to break Kristoph.

"This isn't part of our arrangement."

Apollo agreed.

"If this is your pathetic attempt at escape, your vermin won't be joining you."

Apollo nodded. Rule 3: Any attempt at escape will result in the cat's death.

Kristoph's eyebrow twitched.

"Why?"

Apollo hesitated.

I…I really don't know.

Something genuine must have showed in his expression, because the way Kristoph was looking at him changed. It became almost…pained. Apollo wondered what that was, but it was gone as soon as the man wrenched the other dish from his hands.

"Sit down, Justice."

Apollo did as he was told and sat, cross-legged, in front of Kristoph, balancing his new plate in his lap. He'd definitely been too bold. And too idiotic, considering this was the perfect position to get beaten in. He waited, poised to flee to the other side of the room at any sudden moves.

Rule 4.

His skin turned to ice, freezing him inside and out.

Excessive retaliation will result in death.

He held his breath.

Does he consider this retaliation?

Apollo agonized over his execution, imagining all the different ways he could die.

After an eon of suffering, Kristoph waved a hand, eyes slanted away.

"Fine. I suppose we can both eat, then."

Apollo lowered his eyes to his plate, not daring to look up any further. He'd gotten lucky. If Kristoph had been in a fouler mood, he probably would've had his skull crushed to dust by now.

The two of them ate in silence—Apollo swallowing blood with each bite, Kristoph gingerly tasting the food out of what seemed to be spite. All the while, Apollo cursed himself.

Why the hell did I do that? What the hell's wrong with me? Am I going crazy?

Minutes passed. He finished half of his plate. By then, his brain had gone from berating itself to steadily breaking down.

Maybe I legitimately have Stockholm Syndrome. Oh, shit. What if I do? Is this PTSD? I'm losing it. I think I'm actually losing—

"Justice."

Apollo nearly choked on his morsel, his eyes whipping up at the call. Kristoph towered over him, fireplace poker in one hand…and empty plate in the other.

"Very good."

Is he…thanking me?

Apollo didn't react, grateful that he was mute just this once. How was he even supposed to respond to that? He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, noting the traces of red seeping onto his skin.

Blood loss. Definitely the blood loss. That's why.

Kristoph leaned closer, more menacing than ever. Apollo stopped chewing the pasta, fraught with apprehension.

"Perhaps it's time we learned more about each other, Justice. Considering you seem to appreciate the past."

Apollo swallowed. Cream laced with steel.

I've gone too far.