Love as a Leash

“Some call it love. Others call it control. In the end, it feels the same.”—Hiiro

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The first thing I noticed wasn’t sight, but scent.

No—I drowned in it.

Powdered baby skin, laced with a cloying perfume. It curled around my ribs like a ribbon tied too tight. A hand pressing down on my chest, deciding when I was allowed to breathe.

Beneath it, something fainter. Metallic. Blood.

Rows of pristine, white cribs lined the walls. Empty. Like tiny coffins dressed in lullabies. A music box tune floated in the air, skipping every few notes. As if the box itself had learned to stutter from fear.

She sat at the center of it all.

The Duchess.

Straight-backed. Gloved hands resting on the arms of her chair. Chin raised, as if posture alone could pass judgment.

She didn’t pour her own tea. A servant carried a chipped tray. Another flinched as he dragged a blood-streaked rag across the floor, the red trailing behind it like a child’s crayon.

I didn’t ask whose blood it was.

Not because I didn’t care. But because asking would’ve been a waste. The answer is always worse than silence, in places like this.

She raised her teacup with precise, deliberate grace. The porcelain kissed her lips like it was honored to be destroyed.

Then she spoke. Her voice was warm like a hearth, and wrong like fire in a nursery.

“Love is the ultimate captivity, don’t you think? Chains so sweet you beg never to be free.”

I’d braced myself, armored for a fight. But her question slipped past every defense. Like stepping into the ring expecting blades—only to be tackled barehanded.

What is this? A conversation between middle schoolers whispering secrets over cookies?

I didn’t answer. Not fast enough, anyway. She wasn’t really asking.

The Duchess smiled—not at me, but at her reflection in the tea.

“I consider myself the mother of all assassins. It is my duty to love them. To discipline them. To mold them.”

Her hands folded together at her chest, almost in prayer.

“That’s what love is, after all—control. Obedience. Order. When you love someone, truly love them, don’t you want to own every part of them?”

She looked at me the way mothers look at children who sneak sweets.

Except this time, I wasn’t the thief.

I was the sweet.

“I take pride in my love. I share it with everyone—my children, my servants, even my targets. Especially my targets.”

Her pupils were wide. Greedy. Like black holes waiting to swallow me whole.

“Submission polishes the soul. And I could polish you into perfection, my obedient child.”

The worst part was—I believed her. Every word. That sincerity was more dangerous than any blade.

Love as a leash. How quaint.

I didn’t flinch.

That either irritated her or pleased her. Or both. With people like her, the line between threat and compliment is too thin to walk.

—----------
“Tell me, child,” she said, stirring her tea—somehow—without touching it, “isn’t that the reason you’re doing all this for my nephew? Because you love her?”

Her voice stretched love until it sounded like a knife wrapped in velvet.

I blinked once.
Wait—her nephew?
Of course.
Of course the bloodline is cursed.
Of course twisted logic and twisted smiles are family heirlooms.

Is warped DNA hereditary?
What do they lace in the baby powder?

I looked into my own teacup. The rippling surface stared back—my reflection distorted by heat and bitterness. Steam clung to my face like a breath on a window.

My heart felt like that water: uncertain, uncomfortable, unsure what shape it wanted to take.

“Love,” I said slowly. “If I had to choose between that and hate… yeah. I love her.”

The Duchess’s smile spread—like mold on sugar.

“But not like that,” I cut in.
“I don’t want to control her. And I don’t want her controlled by anyone else. That’s the point.”

I met her gaze. Made sure my voice was sharp enough to shatter porcelain.

“So I think we disagree.”

She tilted her head, soft and patronizing. Like a mother humoring a child who insists the monsters under the bed are real.

“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear.”

Her tone didn’t change. Kind. Gentle. Exactly the kind of kindness you flinch from.

“You’re too proud to love. Too proud to be loved. But you misunderstand. Pride and submission—they’re not opposites. They’re steps. You submit to what you’re proud of. And you should take pride in your obedience. In being molded.”

She stood.

Not with a stomp or flourish.

Just… rose.

Graceful—the way guillotines drop.

With a soft flick, she opened her fan. The movement was silent. Its intent wasn’t.

“Words don’t seem to reach you. That’s quite alright.”

She turned toward the door.

“In the trial, I’ll teach you. I’ll turn your pride into obedience. I’ll feed you love with my own hands—even if you choke on it.”

She paused as the lullaby restarted, like the beginning of a ritual.

“That’s what a mother does.”

Then she left.

The room stayed full after she was gone.

Full of scent.
Full of lullaby.
Full of me.

I didn’t move. Not for a while.

The cribs were still empty. But something about them made me feel watched. Like invisible infants were judging me for not knowing what love meant.

Is she wrong?

Or am I just not ready to admit I’m like her?

What if we’re reflections—me and her—just cracked at different angles?

What if her version of love is just mine turned inside out?

What if I do want to own Emiha?
Not with chains—but with salvation?

Is that any better?

I don’t know.

But I know this much:

If I ever loved Emiha the way the Duchess claims to love—I’d be the one putting her in a crib.

That thought alone made me want to vomit.

Eventually, I stood.

The tea had gone cold.
So had the blood on the floor.

This isn’t about winning anymore.

Not the trial.
Not the philosophy.

It’s about disproving her.

Or proving myself wrong.

Either way—I’ll know what kind of monster I am by the end.

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Kagame Jin's commentary:

Ah, delightful, isn’t it? A chain dressed as love, a leash painted in tender colors. One might call it devotion… I call it theater. And tonight, you’ve watched the leash tighten, though no one will admit who’s holding it.

If you’ve made it this far, dear audience, I applaud you. Stay a little longer. Whisper a thought, leave a mark, for even shadows crave an echo.

And as for what comes next…

The curtain of the first trial will soon rise. Shall we see who steps onto the stage, and who is crushed beneath it?