23. This Disaster – New Found Glory
Malik didn't understand why.
That was the long and short of it – he just didn't understand why, out of all those he'd ever possessed using the Millennium Rod, this one girl kept coming back into his thoughts. He'd never regretted the Ghouls, or that cretin Katsuya Jounouchi. He'd never regretted any of the idiots whose personal desires had allowed them to be caught in his web, and he didn't regret what he'd done to her, either.
But he did think about it a lot.
And her. He thought about her a lot, too.
She chased him through his dreams, not pursuing him but always there, always right there wherever he turned. He saw her face in various stages; first blank as he'd made her, then venomous in her hatred for him, then full of anger and despair when she thought her friends had drowned. He saw the look of love that briefly passed over her features as she stroked Mutou's sodden hair, and the utter confusion that often knitted her brows when she, along with everyone else, had no idea what was going on. She was just another pawn in his plans, to be manipulated back and forth, and yet …
And yet … what?
She was weak, he told himself. Her obsession with the welfare of others made her feeble, especially in the face of strength like his. She spent no time bolstering her own defences, even after she'd been caught and subjected to his powers. She wasn't worth considering. Not like Isis. Isis was strong, a true threat, but his own sister filled his thoughts less than Anzu Mazaki.
Malik watched her from the corner of his eye, cheering for the Pharaoh with no idea that the real enemy was less than three feet away. Anzu Mazaki was clueless – he should have despised her for it, and for her allegiance with his father's murderer.
And yet …
He remembered touching her hair when he was reprogramming her, ready for her role on the docks. It was silkier than Isis's, the only other girl whose hair he'd touched. He remembered being small and his sister picking him up. He'd grabbed handfuls of her hair and yanked hard to make her put him down again. Isis's hair was thick and slightly coarse, but Anzu Mazaki's billowed in the slightest breeze like it was made of torn gossamer wings. It had caught the light as he let it slide through his fingers, hypnotising him until Rishid's cough snapped him out of it.
Malik didn't know why he'd touched her hair. He didn't know why his skin prickled at the glimpse of smooth belly when she raised her arms to cheer for the Pharaoh. He didn't know why her shout for Malik's enemy to triumph made his head ring with something other than anger. He didn't know why she continued to hypnotise him, or why something inside him felt sick at what would've happened to her if the crate really had fallen. She was slated to die because of her connection with the Nameless Pharaoh. Nothing would change that. Nothing could change that.
And that part Malik did regret.
He just didn't understand why.