His eyes were riveted to hers as he watched carefully. His favorite part was to watch the moment of death. The thin tone of a trill began to match the quickening of his heartbeat. It overrode his senses.

And yet there was a note out of place. The usual joy seemed dulled somehow. He couldn't quite comprehend what was wrong and that angered him. His face crumpled into one of rage.

A great horn bellowed in agony--or was it his frustrated yell ringing in his ears?--as he smashed a hand into the wall next to Aerith. He spotted it then: the flinch all along her body, the terrified trill of a flute panicking like a small bird, the tension in the body and fright in the eyes--and what would normally delight the wicked beast inside of him turned the music inside of him into a desperate plea that he had never heard before. The beautiful chords of the harp changed key and all the notes turned sharp and painfully forlorn. A flicker of confusion and hurt flashed through his eyes, unbidden.

Gone in an instant, his head tilted to one side as his eyes narrowed in furious cynicism. She was doing this to him. She was the cause of his music's distress. Her unhappiness was-

Collins grabbed at her wrist and squeezed it so hard he could feel the slight pressure slip into his own wrist, for he could not hurt her; she would only feel his hand a-hold of her but no pain from it.

"Don't," he warned angrily, but whether the ominous word was meant for her or to chide himself for his own folly was debatable.