Co-written by rohanfox. With her writing as Bakura (whom we shall be referring to under the pseudonym of "Penumbra" for a while), and myself as Malik.

My dearest Malik,

I think you sometimes forget how beautiful you are. Your eyes, for example, are so captivating that I long for you to study me with them, judge me with your amethyst orbs. Dissect me.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. That will come later.

You see, my lovely little liar, you have something I want. Well – you have several things I want. The first, yet not the most important, is that golden artifact you adorn. I'm a collector of sorts, and your Millennium Rod would be invaluable to me. You have no idea how important it is– trust me. However hard that may be.

Now, don't get me wrong– normally, when somebody owns something so very important to my plans, I just murder them and have my way. The problem is, my dear, that I have this horrible habit of mutilating beautiful things that I really need to break. I mean, just look at this poor body I invaded, that I use as a host. Such a pretty little Angel he was, until I broke him from the inside out, pushing against the walls of his soul. An infection in his bloodstream. But, ah– I'm giving away too much of myself too early in this little game. I suppose you could say this is a duel, of sorts. This letter, my first move, and I– I am the monster. A word of advice– beware of traps. If I wanted, I could break you just like I broke my pretty little host. The sad thing is, you'd like it, however much you pretend you hate me. My host's favourite card is, after all, the Change of Heart.

This brings me to the second thing you own that I crave so dreadfully– your heart. Say I'm insane, say I'm mad; but I want your heart. It would be foolish to believe that I won't succeed. I always get what I want, in the end.

Now, you may be wondering how I got your address. I'm afraid that you cannot comprehend the vast amount of information that I already know about you, and yet, you know nothing of me. Isn't that strange? When I stop and think, that you know nothing of me. It's a little tragic, really, that I know more about you than I do of myself. But who am I to put my burdens onto you, when that's all I am? A burden. I'm an extra shadow you can't quite shake off. Have you noticed me, before? In the corner of your eye. My gaze on your back. When the hairs on your neck stand on end like soldier's awaiting command, that's me. When your breath hitches in your throat I'm there, behind you. When you hear your footsteps echo in the street, that's me, falling perfectly in time with the rhythm of your body. I know it all too well, by now. But I long to know it better. Does that scare you? I suppose it scares me.

I don't think you should be scared. I may be a monster, I may be inhuman, but I do not hurt those I care about. I could easily bruise you, abuse you; but this is a matter of pride. Of loyalty. Scars may prove that you're mine, but they can't prove admiration and love. Possession, obsession; things, feelings that I am extremely intimate with. I thought I'd try something new this time. Connect, perhaps. Maybe I'm just getting lonely.

It'll be interesting to see if you try to pay me a visit– after all, I have included a return address. Your trip would be fruitless, however. You won't find me. Don't get ahead of yourself, Malik– perhaps we should be better acquainted, first. Why do you think I have sent this, after all?

It's strange, how easy it is to write this letter. It's much more honest than hearing my words in a voice that doesn't belong to me. I worry I am being too formal, however– it's difficult for me to understand how I can be so intimate, and yet, this is the first you have heard from me. I never did make a good first impression, and this is no exception, is it?

It's okay. You will learn to love me, in the end.

Do write back, Malik. It would be in your best interests to do so.

Trust me.

–Penumbra

Penumbra,

I must let you know that I have the complete mind of a child.

Keep telling me to respond to your letters. I'll read them over, hundreds of times—until I have the entirety of the first paragraph memorized, until I can feel your eyes digging into my back with every step that I take, until I can no longer eat for fear of you watching me do it, until I have to spill my guts in a grimy bathroom because every stranger looking at me could be you—and I'll always write back. Because you told me to.

Call it idiocy or call it loyalty. Though preferably not the latter, because I don't exactly know where you're going to be taking me. I don't want to be very loyal to a mystery. I don't know how loyal I can be.

But, I would certainly be lying if I said that you didn't interest me. Not it a good way—not at all. You intrigue me like a car crash or a train wreck. It's hideous and disgusting and violent and devastating, but it holds my fascination and I'll be damned if I look away.

You want my Millennium Rod, do you? It will be "invaluable" to you? I have "no idea how important it is"? Oh, how you make me laugh! You think that you know so much about me, but you know nothing of my past. You don't know of the kicking and screaming and bloodshed that went into my acquiring of this relic. I'll be dead before you so much as touch it, I can assure you.

And you want my heart? How pathetically romantic. I wouldn't be surprised if I don't even have one. It was probably ripped out a long time ago, and left nothing in its wake but a black hole in my chest that does its best to beat, but always fails. I don't know if you can hear it from where you always stand in my shadow, but you must believe me when I say that it's a desolate sound. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Do you think that I should be scared? Do you think that I should've tossed this letter into the fire? That I shouldn't have even bothered writing it? That I should have called the police and have them hunt you down? Then you know nothing.

But you don't think these things, do you? My lovely little stalker. You've been following me, so you know. You knew I'd respond, so you sent me a letter.

I'm honored to have such an intelligent man researching me in such a fashion. Honored and frightened. You say you won't harm me in any way, but that song has been sung one too many times. You speak of a host—an "Angel,"—you tell me of how you've abused him. Part of me is screaming, crying, sobbing, praying that I'll stop while I'm ahead. Toss the letter into the fire; prevent myself from falling prey to the same fate. It's such a shame that you and I both know that this won't be happening.

And you call yourself a monster. What does that make me? The Angry Villager? The Mad Scientist? The abandoned house atop the hill that is just begging to be haunted? Or, am I simply the victim? The sweet, sorry, sad, blonde damsel in distress, pouring her blood and guts all over a patch of ashen snow (because we all know this is the perfection backdrop for such a vile murder. They way snow reflects blood is beautiful. A sharp contrast. Like a knife between the eyes).

And "I am not a victim," has been a mantra of mine for a while. Have you gone so far in your…"studies" so that you've seen the greatest shame that I have carved into my back? A parting gift from my father, before he died—before I killed him. Because I am not a victim, I am not a victim, I am not a victim, Iamnotavictimnotavictim. And I never will be. Never again.

What role does that leave me with, follower? (Follower. I laugh at the name. Though, I cannot shake the thought from my brain. Are you following me, now? Are you watching me write the very letter that I've addressed to you? Besides, the word "follower" implies that I'm leading you somewhere. I find our situation to be quite the opposite.) Maybe… maybe I'm also a monster in this game of ours. And if I am to be a monster, I must be a God.

And you, the demon—liar, cheater, murderer, abuser—that I've gathered that you are, you will praise me. You want to mutilate me? Do it. Take a knife to my skin and revel in the feeling; worship the blood that flows out. Take a fist to my face and revere the way that the flesh turns a dark purple. Do whatever you'd like, just pray while you do it.

Come and do it now. I'm sitting right here, and I can feel your presence impaling itself onto my brain. Your eyes are digging into my back and I know it. Right here, right now.

I'm just sitting across from the fire. Looking at it, then the letter, then back.

And part of me thinks that it's not too late to toss it in.

–Malik