Lune did not cross lines.
That distinction mattered to him—not morally, but structurally. He observed, cataloged, theorized, but never stepped into participation. Crime remained an external system, something to be studied from the outside without contaminating his own equilibrium.
He read reports the way others read philosophy.
Detached. Analytical. Curious.
Violence intrigued him only insofar as it produced outcomes: silence, fear, reorganization. He traced cause and effect, mapping how disruption forced systems to reveal their hidden mechanics. Police procedure, media containment, public anxiety—each response followed predictable arcs.
Lune never imagined himself within those arcs.
That absence was deliberate.
He understood the appeal of transgression intellectually. It promised intensity, disruption, something that might pierce the void he'd begun to recognize. But intensity was unstable. Disruption attracted attention. Attention compromised control.
Control satisfied him—for now.
He drew a clean boundary between observation and action, the same way he had learned to separate performance from feeling. Distance preserved clarity. It allowed curiosity without consequence.
Late at night, he sat by the window and watched the city breathe—sirens in the distance, lights pulsing rhythmically. Somewhere, something was always happening. Somewhere, someone was always crossing a line.
Lune remained still.
He noticed that the more he studied crime, the less moral language mattered. Words like evil and monstrous were placeholders, deployed to reassure the public that acts could be contained by labels. The truth was simpler: systems broke when pressure exceeded capacity.
Violence was one method of release.
Not his.
Lune preferred methods that left no residue.
He returned his attention to his own routines—scripts, rehearsals, interviews. Fame continued to function as intended, absorbing scrutiny and redirecting it harmlessly. His life remained orderly, predictable, insulated.
The curiosity did not escalate.
It hovered.
He tested himself once, deliberately, by closing an article halfway through and forcing his attention elsewhere. The pull was minimal. He could disengage without resistance. That reassured him.
He was not compelled.
Compulsion implied loss of control.
Lune did not lose control.
As he prepared for bed, he considered the boundary one last time, confirming its integrity. He would never act. He had no need to. Observation provided sufficient stimulation. Distance preserved satisfaction.
For now.
He turned off the light and lay down, the silence settling easily around him. His life remained intact, his systems balanced.
Moral distance held.
And as long as it did, control would continue to satisfy him.