"So why don't you explain to me.."

The blonde haired girl spoke softly, almost as a whisper, and leaned over the table of the restaurant.

"..Why you asked me out…"

Her hair fell over her shoulders like waves and curls alike, giving her matching gray eyes a sense of exotic emotions. She was pretty, perhaps even gorgeous, but not to him. To him she was merely an instrument of to calm his frustrations, his irritations and, of course, his emotional distress.

The red eyed man felt his lips form a sealed smirk. A smirk which obviously sealed the young girl's fate; a fate which his conscious never seemed to refuse.

"So you killed her."

Shadow found himself smirking at the girl's question. Her red hair held down in a loose plait over her shoulder, the same twisted gray eyes glared through the moonlight hour towards the silhouette of a man before her. Taking his hands, he ran his bloodied fingers through his hair, not nervously, but to prove his point. He didn't care about himself, the girl, their life.

He didn't care.

Niyomi stood up from her seat. Gingerly she allowed the old floor to go against her body heat of her bare feet. The wind cooled the two figures as a harsh slap echoed through the marble walls and floor. Taking her now red hand, Niyomi, gripped it into a tight fist in a way to cure the stringing sensation which remained. Shadow kept his countenance in the position it was left after the harsh blow. His matching crimson man covered the glaring red eyes as, in his own way, he felt unable to strike back at the girl who was his sister.

Her cold gray eyes met the mangled body of the blonde teenager Shadow had planned to bury in the backyard. She closed her eyes, sickened at the sight, and turned on her heels to walk back inside from the back porch of the mansion. Stopping midway, she turned back slowly, her face matching that of an indescribable porcelain doll.

"Clean up that mess and go to bed,"

Her voice commanded tiredly. Even at the small age of seventeen, Rachel Vallaire, still kept her identity of inexpressible. Though, ever since their adoption, they were no longer known as the heirs to the now stagnant affluence. As kind as the army general was Shadow, in his dream of his old luxuries, disturbed each step every time he woke, slept and ate.

Tossing the shovel aside, Shadow collapsed onto the muddled soil entirely stained by the surrounding dirt and the harsh sweat sticking to his build. He closed his eyes, only for a moment, and allowed the cool breeze to bathe over his damp, tired figure.

How many had he slain that day?

One.

How many had he slain last week?

Countless.

How many will he slain again?

More than he could imagine.

Shadow felt himself intoxicated by the blood as if it were a priceless wine, an insane lust, which only he could access by the moments of God.

"Yes," he told himself, "He was God to that girl."

"He was God to all the girls he slew and will slay."

A cramp in his leg ached along with the feeling of the slap remained. A haunting remained within his crippled mind. A haunting of the person he could never play God with. Gripping the grass around him, he snorted in almost a laughing notion, and sat up leisurely.

He promised himself to play God one day. He would hear her scream and plead as he finally slits her throat to destroy himself. Yes. Her death would be his bereavement.

That moment. That instant he would relish.

He was drunk on the intensity of the moment. His vision unsteady and his body refusing to budge from that position on the earth far out into the immense garden of their "home". The haunting remained, her commands, her voice and of course her feelings when she hugged him to calm his madness.

She wouldn't be able to soothe him when she dies. He didn't need her comfort. He needed her haunting of him to die.

For that, she herself, would have to die.

Once more, the wind blew a cold draft onto his damp skin. There and then, he fell back asleep; defiling the grave of the young whom he had slain just hours before.