003

You didn’t learn manipulation from Mori.

Not directly.

He never sat you down and said, “here’s how to lie to someone.” He didn’t need to.

You watched.

You listened.

You saw how his voice softened with patients he wanted to control, how his posture changed when he needed compliance, how his eyes sharpened in silence just before someone cracked under pressure.

Mori was a master of suggestion. Of levers and strings.

And you were a child with too much time and a brilliant, volatile mind.

You memorized him. Not just his words, but his methods.

The subtle tilt of his head when he gave false empathy. The way he offered praise like crumbs, never too much, never too little.

Always calculated.

So you tried it.

Not on him, of course. Not at first.

On the criminals that came into the clinic, bleeding and desperate. On the women who cried in the waiting room. On the old man who brought flowers for a wife who never woke up.

You watched how they responded when your voice trembled.

When your eyes widened just enough.

When you sniffled at the right moment and said, “I’m just a kid… I didn’t mean to see that much blood…”

They comforted you.

Touched your hair. Handed you candy. Told you it would be okay.

It was intoxicating.

You didn’t feel guilt. Not even once.

Their pity felt warm. Like bathwater.

Their brief affection made your chest swell with a fluttery sort of high.

Fake love. Just like Mori’s.

But that was fine. You liked it better that way.

Real love was messy. Unreliable. You’d seen it rot people from the inside.

But fake love, manipulated love, was pure.

You controlled it. You summoned it with precision, like your teleportation.

A sob here. A wide eyed stare there. Let your voice crack once, at the right moment, and they bent around you like reeds in water.

Eventually, you tried it on Mori.

It was bound to happen.

You tested him in small ways.

Lingering touches.

Faux vulnerability.

You watched him like a scientist watches test subjects.

You were eager to find out what made him tick.

Once, you tripped while carrying a tray of sterilized instruments.

You didn't have to.

You teleported them into the sink before they hit the floor, but you still let yourself fall, hands scraped, eyes glassy with tears you didn’t feel.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to help…”

Mori stood over you silently.

Then crouched.

He examined your hands.

No blood. No real damage.

Then he looked into your eyes. Sharp. Still. Measuring.

“…Don’t try that on me, L/N-kun. It won't work,” he said softly.

You blinked.

“Try what?”

He reached forward and tapped your forehead with two fingers.

“I know what that is. You’re trying to twist me.”

You smiled.

Not embarrassed. Not even ashamed.

Caught, yes.

But you didn’t mind.

It had been a worthy experiment.

You didn’t try it again on him.

Not directly.

Because you understood now.

He would not be manipulated.

But more importantly, he didn’t punish you for trying.

That was its own kind of reward.

He didn’t stop you, either.

Not when you used your little tricks on others. Not when you slunk through alleyways with your wide eyes and trembling voice. Not when you lured criminals into quiet corners and then played with them like puzzles.

He never said “no.”

He only said, “don’t try it on me.”

And so you didn’t.

You saved the real performances for the outside world.

You once found a well dressed woman crying on the sidewalk, phone clutched in hand, mascara streaking her cheeks.

You crouched beside her, small and soft spoken.

“My brother died,” you whispered, real tears shimmering at the edge of your lashes.

“He was all I had left.”

She gasped and wrapped her arms around you like a lifeline.

She gave you money. Told you it would be okay. Pressed her lips to your temple and cried with you.

You watched her, expression blank where she couldn’t see it, only responding when it was time to say thank you.

Then you vanished.

Not a word. Not a trace.

Just another shadow in the city.

'Was kissing a child you don't know on the streets normal?' you wondered.

Mori knew. Of course he knew.

Sometimes, he’d lift his eyes from his paperwork and say, “where did you go today?”

You’d shrug.

“Just a walk.”

“You’ve got blood on your collar.”

You’d grin. “Do I?”

He didn’t ask further. He never scolded.

Sometimes, he smiled faintly.

Proud.

Other times, he tapped his pen against the edge of the desk and murmured, “You’re sharpening your teeth too fast.”

You tilted your head.

“I like the sound they make when they scream,” you said once, offhandedly.

He didn’t even flinch.

Your games evolved.

Soon it wasn’t just criminals or the emotionally weak.

You started picking strangers with good posture, people who looked like they’d never felt guilt in their lives.

You made them feel guilt.

A dropped toy. A small cry. A whispered, “I just want to go home…”

They’d falter.

They always did.

People wanted to be heroes. Especially to someone small and sad.

You gave them the illusion they needed.

And you drank it down like water.

But no matter how many eyes you fooled, how many hearts you cracked open, Mori was still your favorite.

Because he saw you.

Not the mask.

Not the act.

You.

And even though you couldn’t manipulate him…

Even though your tricks bounced off his armor like glass pebbles…

You still chased his attention like a moth to flame.

Because when he told you “Good job,” you believed it. Even if it was a lie.

Because when he tapped your shoulder or ruffled your hair, your skin burned for hours.

Because when he looked at you and said, “You’re special,” you felt it in your bones.

Even knowing the truth didn’t make it feel any less real.

You kept trying.

Sometimes in subtle ways, offering him tea just how he liked it. Repeating things he’d said days ago to show you were listening. Quoting him back to himself like you worshipped his mind.

It wasn’t manipulation. Not exactly.

It was devotion.

And it was a performance.

But there was truth at the center of it.

You liked him.

You liked the danger. The grey morality. The calculation. The way he saw through you but didn’t flinch.

You’d watched grown men cry and beg. Watched women faint at your feet.

But Mori?

He watched you back.

And he smiled.

Like you were a story still being written.

Journal

Subject L/N Y/N has begun exercising learned manipulation techniques on external targets. Emotional mimicry refined. Displays exceptional adaptive learning via observation and controlled social trials.

No formal instruction given. Behavior developed independently.

Target patterns:

- Criminals (preferred: emotionally unstable, impulsive)

- Civilians (secondary: soft-hearted, female-presenting, mid to late 20s)

- Controlled victims (selected within 3–5 minute emotional engagement window)

Motivators:

- Attention seeking behavior rooted in early neglect

- Affection addiction (non-discerning, favors false attention)

- Validation from perceived authority figures (notably myself)

Boundary Reinforcement:

- Subject does not attempt manipulation on me after initial exposure

- Interactions marked by submissive admiration, borderline idolization

- Minimal disciplinary response required, awareness of limitations established

Recommendation:

- Permit behavior within set parameters

- Utilize manipulation skills in future controlled operations

- Maintain emotional dependency through calculated praise and exclusive acknowledgment

One night, you watched Mori stitch up a man who had taken a knife to the gut.

You leaned against the wall, silent, eyes gleaming.

“You know,” you said softly, “he screamed like a pig when I found him. Didn’t think he’d live long enough to crawl here.”

Mori didn’t pause his stitching.

“Is that so?”

You nodded, crossing your arms.

“You think I’m a monster?”

He looked up, eyes calm, fingers steady.

“I think you’re useful,” he said.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Sometimes,” Mori replied. “But I’d rather have a monster who listens than a saint who wanders.”

You grinned.

That night, you didn’t sleep on the cot.

You curled up in the hallway beside the surgical room, the scent of blood still clinging to your clothes.

Warm.

Comfortable.

Not from love.

But from purpose.

From knowing you were seen, measured, used, and chosen.