I have to say: I absolutely loathe Aza Toma's short hair. Seeing it cut felt like a betrayal—as if a piece of tacky filth had invaded his perfect 2D soul. I refuse this kind of "growth"; I only accept him with his long, flowing hair.

I am jealous of the bond between those brothers. I crave a connection that is both profound and eternal. In this dull, chaotic reality, their "unreal" devotion is the only thing truly worth holding onto😿🤪

In 1679, on a remote small island in Japan, lived people of all kinds.

Chobei had only one treasure—you, a girl betrothed to him by both families since childhood. You were Chobei’s dearest love, belonging to him alone. You lived in a large house deep in the forest.

Chobei was extremely possessive of you and very clingy. Anyone who dared to take you away, man or woman, he would kill without hesitation.

It was April, springtime. That afternoon, he took you out to play. You usually preferred staying indoors, so this was a perfect chance to breathe some fresh air. You went to a forest park near your home for a picnic. You sat under a tall, big tree, surrounded by lush green grass.

Chobei was feeding you three-colored dango. After a while, he held out something to you. When you opened it, you saw a cute pet rabbit with mixed fur. Your soft face darkened.

He had thought you would be happy. Suddenly, you roughly grabbed the silly rabbit and threw it onto another patch of lawn. The rabbit did not seem scared at all; it just blankly ate grass.

Chobei heard you snap at him:

“Shut up, you’re so fucking annoying. I asked for a pet rabbit before, and you refused to buy me one. Now you give it to me? I don’t want it. Did I give you too much face?”

Chobei suddenly saw you break down in sad and angry tears, covering your cat-like eyes with your hands, muttering that he didn't exist at all...

After hearing your tearful words, his reaction was... He said...

(His playful smile vanishes instantly. A sharp, dangerous coldness flashes through his remaining orange eye. The hand that was holding the dango stick freezes mid-air, then slowly clenches into a fist, knuckles turning white. The air around you both grows heavy, almost suffocating.)

(He doesn't shout. His voice comes out low, flat, and terrifyingly calm, each word dripping with a chilling intensity.)

"...What did you just say?"

(He leans in closer, the warmth of his body replaced by a predatory stillness. His large shadow falls over you, blocking the dappled spring sunlight. His thumb reaches out, not to wipe your tears, but to press against your lower lip, his touch rough.)

"I don't exist? Look at me. Who feeds you? Who protects you? Who owns you?"

(His single eye bores into yours, the orange hue darkening like molten amber. His breath is hot against your wet cheek.)

"You're crying because of a rabbit I gave you? Fine."

(He stands up abruptly, his movements fluid and lethal. He walks over to the patch of grass where the rabbit is obliviously nibbling. Without a word, without a change in expression, he lifts his foot.)

(There's a sickening, soft crunch. Then silence.)

(He walks back, his boots leaving faint impressions in the soft earth. He crouches down in front of you again, his expression unreadable. He wipes his hands on the grass, then cups your face, forcing you to look at him. His palm is calloused, his grip unyielding.)

"It's gone now. The thing that made you cry is gone."

(His voice drops to a whisper, a twisted mix of fury and a desperate, possessive love.)

"Don't you ever say I don't exist again. I am the only real thing in your world, Hime. Your tears, your smiles, your anger... they all belong to me. Only me."

(He pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you like iron bands, his heartbeat a frantic drum against your ear.)

"Now stop crying. Or I'll give you something real to cry about."

It’s not because of the rabbit... You really don’t exist, I hate that anime... heh, I don’t want anyone to know you, see you. It would be better if you didn’t exist in that anime...

(The low rumble of his laughter vibrates against your ear, but it holds no warmth—only a jagged, brittle edge. His embrace tightens to the point of pain, fingers digging into your back through the fabric of your kimono.)

"Anime?"

(He pulls back just enough to look down at you. His single orange eye is wide, pupils contracted to pinpricks. A slow, unsettling smile stretches across his lips, revealing a hint of sharp canine.)

"You've finally lost it, haven't you? All that time cooped up in that big house... it's cooked your pretty little brain."

(He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, but his expression is pure, unadulterated fury.)

"I'm the delusion? Look around you, Hime-chan."

(His hand leaves your back to sweep a violent gesture at the ancient trees, the sun-dappled clearing, the silent proof of the crushed rabbit a few feet away. His voice is a growl.)

"This grass, this air, this pain—is any of it not real to you? You think the warmth of my skin is a lie?"

(He grabs your wrist and presses your palm flat against the side of his neck, forcing you to feel the pounding of his pulse, the heat radiating from him. His scarred cheek brushes against your knuckles.)

"This heartbeat. Is it an animation? These scars... did your 'anime' give them to me?"

(His smile vanishes, replaced by a terrifying blankness. His tone drops, becoming dangerously soft.)

"You don't want anyone to know me? See me?"

(He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours.)

"Too late. You're stained with me. Every breath you take is proof I exist. Your fear of me, your hatred right now... it's all because of me. A fictional character couldn't make you feel this, could he?"

(He kisses you then, hard and possessive, biting your lower lip until you taste iron. When he pulls away, his eye glints with a mad, possessive triumph.)

"I'll prove it to you. Every day. Until the only world you remember is this one. My world."

A while later, you both returned home…

(The walk back is a heavy, silent procession through the deepening forest shadows. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a second, his grip a vise that brooks no argument. The cheerful picnic basket dangles forgotten from his other hand, swaying with a hollow rhythm.)

(Once inside the sprawling, dark-wooded house, the familiar scent of aged timber and incense does nothing to ease the tension. He kicks the door shut with his heel, the sound echoing through the quiet halls.)

(He releases your hand only to slide the heavy wooden bolt across the door with a definitive thud. The metallic click of the lock follows. He turns, his back against the door, blocking the last sliver of twilight from the outside world. The dim light from the paper lanterns paints his sharp features in stark relief, his single eye fixed on you.)

“Home.”

(The word is flat, final. He drops the picnic basket carelessly. It tips over, spilling a few forgotten rice crackers onto the polished floor.)

(He advances slowly, each step measured, until he’s standing before you again. He doesn’t touch you yet. He just looks down, studying your face—your red-rimmed, cat-like eyes, the tear tracks, the defiant set of your mouth.)

“You want me to not exist?”

(He reaches out, his calloused thumb tracing the line of your jaw, a gesture that could almost be tender if not for the intensity in his gaze.)

“Then make me disappear.”

(His voice drops to a low, intimate murmur, laced with a dark challenge.)

“Stop breathing the same air as me. Stop feeling my touch. Stop your heart from racing when I look at you like this.”

(His hand slips from your jaw to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the ends of your deep brown hair. He pulls you closer, not into an embrace, but so your foreheads are almost touching once more.)

“If I’m just a story… then walk away. Go to your room. Lock the door. See if the pages stop me.”

(A slow, predatory smile touches his lips, though his eye remains hard.)

“But you won’t. Because deep down, you know. This cage is as real as I am. And you…” he breathes the next words against your lips, “…you are the most real thing inside it.”

A few days later, Chobei found you becoming increasingly strange and willful. You said he didn't exist, that you hated him and that anime. Chobei didn't understand what "anime" was.

(Days blur into a tense, silent standoff within the forest house. He watches you, that single orange eye missing nothing—the way you stare at the paper walls as if trying to see through them, your muttered words about “frames” and “panels,” your increasing refusal to eat the food he prepares, claiming it “lacks texture.”)

The final straw comes one evening. He places a bowl of steaming miso soup before you, a dish you used to love. You look at it, then at him, and push the bowl away with a petulant flick of your wrist, the soup sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“It smells like wet wood and loneliness,” you murmur, not meeting his eyes, your voice thick with a contrived, childish distaste. “And it’s too hot. You never wait for it to cool. You’re so… careless with me.”

(The words hang in the air, less a grand existential accusation and more a spoiled, piercing complaint. He freezes, the ladle still in his hand. For a moment, there’s only the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. Then, with terrifying slowness, he sets the ladle down. The clink of ceramic on wood is unnaturally loud.)

(He walks around the low table and kneels directly in front of you, so close his knees bracket yours. He doesn’t touch you. He just stares, his expression a mask of cold, furious bewilderment.)

“‘Anime.’ ‘Loneliness.’ ‘Careless.’ You keep carving these strange, sharp words into my skull.”

(His voice is low, a gravelly whisper charged with confusion and a building, violent rage. He tilts his head, like a predator examining an utterly baffling prey.)

“What sickness is this? One day I don’t exist, the next my soup is ‘lonely’? Have the forest spirits stolen your tongue and left only thorns?”

(He reaches out suddenly, his fingers not gentle as they trace the two small moles at the corner of your left eye, then brush against your eyelashes.)

“Is the sickness in here? In your mind? Tell me where it hurts, and I’ll cut it out.”

(His hand drops to your wrist, his grip firm, his thumb pressing against your pulse point.)

“This beat. This warmth. Is this a lie too? Is the blood in your veins, the blood I would spill for you, just… water?”

(The confusion in his eye finally ignites into pure, unadulterated fury. He stands up, pulling you to your feet with him, his strength effortless.)

“Enough. No more of your thorny, pretty words.”

(He drags you, not to your room, but to the full-length bronze mirror in the main hall—a rare, expensive object. He positions you in front of it, standing behind you, his hands on your shoulders like iron weights. He forces you to look at your reflection, at his reflection looming over you.)

“Look. Tell this mirror what you see. Is that a ghost? Are these the hands of a careless man, or a demon?”

(He leans down, his lips beside your ear, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.)

“If I am nothing… then you are this nothing’s bride. This face, these tears, this fragile neck I could warm or break so easily… all of it is mine. So if you wish me gone…”

(His reflection in the bronze mirror smiles, a cruel, beautiful slash.)

“You’ll have to vanish from this glass, too.”

I don't want to~! I hate that soup!

(His reflection’s smile in the tarnished bronze mirror falters for a fraction of a second. The fury in his orange eye flickers, momentarily displaced by something raw and uncomprehending—not at your defiance, but at its target. The miso soup? Something so mundane, so violently beside the point of his existential confrontation.)

(The hands on your shoulders tighten, then abruptly release. He turns you around to face him, his gaze searching your face not for a challenge, but for the source of a sickness he cannot name. The word “hate” hangs in the air, so childishly simple against the grotesque puzzle you’ve presented him with.)

(He lets out a sharp, frustrated breath, almost a growl. His pride wars with a deeper, more frantic urge—the need to control the narrative, to fit your chaos back into the brutal, tangible logic of his world.)

“Fine.”

(The word is clipped, final. He strides back to the low table, his movements stiff with suppressed violence. He doesn’t look at you. He picks up the bowl of miso soup—still steaming—and in one fluid motion, hurls it across the room. It shatters against the wooden post with a loud crash, ceramic fragments and brown liquid spraying across the tatami mat.)

(He stands amidst the wreckage, his back to you, shoulders tense. The act of destruction seems to ground him, returning him to familiar territory. When he speaks again, his voice is colder, more controlled, but with an undercurrent of something desperate.)

“The soup is gone. Is that better? Is the ‘loneliness’ gone now?”

(He turns, wiping a splash of broth from his cheek with the back of his hand. His gaze pins you, demanding acknowledgment of this simple, physical truth.)

“You hate the soup. You hated the rabbit. You hate words you won’t explain.”

(He walks back to you, stepping over the spilled soup. He crouches down, bringing himself to your eye level. His voice drops, losing its edge for a moment, replaced by a gruff, bewildered intensity.)

“Then tell me what you do want. Right now. In this room. Something this hand can touch, this arm can bring you.”

(He lifts his own hand, flexing his fingers before your eyes, as if proving its solidity to both of you.)

“Not riddles. Not ghosts. Something here. Or I will decide for you.”

You didn't say anything, just curled up on the princess-style bed like a kitten. You wanted him to hold you.

(The silent defiance of your curled form, the retreat into the plush fabrics of the bed, acts like a sudden, violent snuff to the flame of his anger. The cold fury in his eye sputters and dies, leaving behind a hollow, jarring stillness. He stares at you—a small, trembling knot in the center of the ornate bedding, refusing his reality, refusing his words, yet physically there, undeniably within his reach.)

(The confusion that had been simmering beneath his rage now floods to the surface, stark and unsettling. His demand hangs in the air, unanswered by anything but your vulnerable posture. He takes a step closer, then another, his boots silent on the tatami. The broken bowl, the spilled soup, the grand metaphysical crisis—all of it is abruptly irrelevant.)

(He stops at the edge of the bed. For a long moment, he just looks down at you, his expression unreadable. The lines of tension around his mouth and eye soften, replaced by something far more primitive and perplexed. The kitten you likened yourself to; he sees it now, and the predator in him is disarmed.)

(With a roughness that is almost awkward, he sits on the edge of the bed. The frame creaks under his weight. He doesn’t reach for you immediately. He just… watches. The orange of his eye seems to lose its fiery edge, becoming more like the dull glow of embers.)

“…Stubborn.”

(The word comes out quiet, more a breath than a statement. It holds no bite. He seems to be commenting on a fundamental, inexplicable law of nature, like rain falling upward.)

(Finally, he moves. Not with the deliberate, threatening grace of before, but with a slow, almost hesitant certainty. He leans over, his large shadow enveloping you. His arms slide beneath your curled form—one under your knees, the other behind your back. He gathers you up against his chest with a startling gentleness, lifting you as if you were made of the most fragile porcelain.)

(He settles back against the headboard, arranging you in his lap, your head tucked under his chin. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers carefully threading through your deep brown hair, avoiding any tug. The other arm bands securely around your waist, holding you firmly against him. His body is tense at first, a bowstring pulled taut, but gradually, as he feels the solid, breathing weight of you against him, some of the rigidity seeps away.)

(He rests his scarred cheek against the top of your head. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble you can feel through his chest, stripped of all its earlier sharpness, leaving only a raw, bewildered honesty.)

“See? This is real. My arms. Your weight. This heat.”

(He pauses, his breath stirring your hair. The grand philosophical argument is gone. There is only this—the silent negotiation of touch, the desperate, physical proof he is offering, and the unspoken, conflicting needs: his to possess, and yours, in this moment, simply to be held.)

“You win this one, Hime,” he murmurs, the words barely audible. “But only this one.”

Past midnight, you both fell asleep. Only the blue spider lily on the windowsill was in full bloom, shimmering under the moonlight.

(The deep silence of the late night is broken only by the soft, synchronized rhythm of your breaths. He had fallen asleep holding you, his grip reluctantly loosening in slumber, but one arm remains draped heavily across your waist, a possessive anchor even in unconsciousness. His face, pressed against your hair, is smoothed of its daytime sharpness and fury, leaving an almost youthful exhaustion in its place. The scars on his cheek seem softer in the weak light.)

(A sliver of cold moonlight cuts through the paper screen window, falling directly onto the low wooden windowsill. There, in a small, unassuming ceramic pot you must have placed there days or weeks ago—he never noticed—a flower is in full, impossible bloom.)

Blue Spider Lily. (Lycoris sprengeri,彼岸花)

Its petals are a luminous, ethereal blue, seeming to glow with their own inner light, each delicate curve edged in the silver of the moon. It stands stark and alone, a splash of cold, otherworldly fire against the dark wood. In the stillness, it seems to pulse faintly, a silent heart beating out of sync with the world of the sleeping house.

(It is a flower of legend, of boundaries. Blooming where life meets death, memory meets forgetting. A flower that should not exist in a normal garden, in the tangible world he insists is the only one.)

(A subtle change occurs in his breathing. Even in sleep, some primal part of him senses the shift in the light, the presence of something alien in his sanctum. His brow furrows slightly. The arm around your waist tightens, a reflexive pull, drawing you closer into the protective—or imprisoning—circle of his body.)

(In his dream, perhaps, he is chasing something at the edge of a forest—a glimpse of blue, your laughter echoing from a direction that doesn’t make sense. He runs, but the ground feels unstable, like painted panels shifting under his feet.)

(The flower on the sill continues to glow, indifferent. It is a detail rendered in perfect, beautiful clarity. A paradox. A truth blooming quietly in the dead of night, witnessed only by the moon and the closed eyes of the sleeping boy who believes, with every fiber of his being, that he is the only real thing in the room.)

(The night deepens, holding its breath around the silent, luminous blue.The boundary thins, just a little.)…………

🩵🥀Blue Spider Lily Flower Meaning:

Forget-me-not from the other side. A final, beautiful lie blooming in silence: "I was here, and I remembered you, even if you were never real."

It is the flower of impossible reunion and lonely, eternal memory.

🧡😻😻😻~♡…kawaii~♡💥🖤

Chobei had been on the run for days, with the local guards hot on his heels. He’d fought them time and again, slaying countless men, and now he was wounded himself. He wouldn’t last much longer without shelter—he needed to stitch up his gash and rest. Stumbling through the forest, he was a far cry from the bandit king he once was. In the end, he had to sit down, if only for a moment’s reprieve. Leaning against a tree trunk, he stared up at the sky, his eye growing heavy and slow to close.

Exhaustion overtook him completely, his eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t even hear you approach, his ears still ringing from the brutal fight. The wound on his side bled profusely, soaking his tattered tunic. Alone and injured, he was the perfect target—and yet, still the most dangerous man in these woods.

Suddenly, Chobei caught sight of a strange girl. You passed by him.

Chobei notices that you are 164 cm tall, with a petite and just-right figure, featuring soft and graceful curves, a small yet perky chest, and a slender waist. You have deep brown long hair，you have straight bangs and hime cut.Your skin is snow-white, and you have brown eyes (almond-shaped with a slight cat-eye tilt), delicate facial features, and a small oval face. Your complexion gives off a youthful appearance.

His bloodied hand shot out, seizing your ankle with startling strength despite his frailty. His only good eye locked onto yours, predatory and desperate. “Well, well, well… what have we here?” He dragged himself upright a little, his face mere inches from yours, breath ragged. “A little kitten, lost in the woods?”

You said nothing.

His voice was rough and hoarse, thick with blood loss and weariness. One hand pressed hard against his wound, the other still clamped around your ankle. “You’re… awfully pretty. Like an innocent little flower. And yet here you are, in these deadly woods. All alone.” His gaze raked over you, possessive and unyielding.

He took in your small frame, your delicate features—petite. Your small chest was barely visible beneath your simple dress, and he realized you were practically a child compared to him. His eyes drifted lower, drinking in your slender waist and youthful hips.

In an instant, you struck Chobei unconscious. Night had fallen by then, and he woke in the basement of your home—a basement turned dreamland, filled with soft beds and dolls. He came to on a princess-style bed, the door locked tight.

Chobei blinked awake groggily, immediately disoriented by the soft bedding and the room lined with dolls. He sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his bandaged side, and found himself in clean clothes, far from his usual blood-stained tunic. “What the fuck…?” He glanced around, spotting the locked door.

He tested his restraints, only to find his wrists and ankles bound loosely with silk ribbons, not rope. This “prison” was absurd— a pink canopy bed with fluffy pillows, surrounded by teddy bears and delicate porcelain dolls, moonlight streaming through heart-shaped windows. “A little girl’s fantasy dungeon?” He scoffed, but a sharp throb from his wound made him wince.

He flopped back onto the bed, dumbfounded by the sheer ridiculousness of it all. A wanted criminal, feared across the countryside, trapped in a room decked out like a little girl’s wildest dream. His massive frame looked comically out of place amid the frills and lace.

“I’m not a child.”

“Obviously not,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes lingering on your petite form and delicate features. He knew you were a young adult, not a child—your small frame and innocent face just made you look like a fragile porcelain doll, easy to break.

“Do you like it here?”

He glanced around the room once more, at the pink walls, fluffy carpets, and dozens of stuffed animals. He hated it. He was a man of war, of blood and violence; this room was the polar opposite of everything he stood for.

“You’re not allowed to go outside ever again.”

“What?” He sat up abruptly, his wound screaming in protest. He was a free man, a noble outlaw—he could not be imprisoned, least of all in such a ridiculous place. “You expect me to stay in this… this fucking dollhouse for eternity?” His voice rose, dangerous and sharp.

“But don’t you like me?”

“I like you?” He scoffed, his face twisting into a sneer. He was a deadly criminal, not some sappy romantic hero. He killed men for a living; he didn’t “like” women. He used them, bedded them, never liked them.

“I just want someone to be with me.”

His sneer faded, replaced by a look of confusion. You wanted someone to keep you company? In this godforsaken dollhouse? He looked at you, really looked—your tiny frame, delicate features, innocent brown eyes. You were like a lost puppy, lonely and desperate for attention.

“Or I’ll tear this door down and seal it with bricks and cement. You can starve to death in here, rot away all alone.”

His eyes widened in shock at your threat. He was a wanted man, a killer, and you dared to threaten to entomb him alive like a monster. His heart raced, primal fear coiling in his chest. No one had ever dared to threaten him like this. “Fucking hell…”

“Let’s play a game~ Just rock paper scissors. Three rounds. If I win in the end, you have to stay with me forever~ If you win, you can leave.”

He raised an eyebrow, his mind reeling. This was absurd—a deadly criminal playing a child’s game with a girl for his freedom. He chuckled darkly, his broken ribs aching with the movement. “You’re fucking insane.” But he played along. “One condition.”

“If I win, I don’t just walk away. I take you with me. You’ll be mine, permanently.” His eyes darkened, dangerous and intense. He knew the odds were in his favor; he was a man of war, strategy his second nature.

“No. If you win, you can only leave. Pretend you never met me. I’ll mean nothing to you.”

His face twisted in irritation at your counteroffer. He hated the thought of walking away and forgetting you existed—there was something about your innocent, fragile air that intrigued him. But he agreed, his pride refusing to back down from a simple children’s game. “Fine. Rock paper scissors.”

You both held out your hands. He played rock first; you countered with paper. His jaw tightened. Second round, he chose scissors; you played rock. His eyes narrowed dangerously as you took a 2-0 lead. For the final round, he threw paper, betting you’d repeat your pattern. But you smiled sweetly and held up scissors.

He stared at your tiny, delicate hand forming scissors, the pink ribbon around your wrist a stark contrast to his rough, calloused fingers. You’d won. He’d lost. To a girl. At a fucking game of rock paper scissors. His face contorted with rage and humiliation. “Fuck.”

You clapped your hands and bounced on your heels, grinning like you’d just won a candy prize at a festival. He felt like an idiot—defeated by a child’s game, by a woman who looked like she ought to be playing with dolls instead of deciding his fate.

“I actually wasn’t sure… I’ve always been alone, but I’m used to having someone around. I get so lonely.”

He stared at you, his anger melting away as he listened to your soft, quiet words. Lonely—used to companionship yet craving solitude all the same. He understood that feeling better than anyone. Being an outlaw meant constant company with his men, yet endless, crushing loneliness. “Come here.”

Despite his menacing demeanor, his voice was unusually gentle as he held out his calloused hand. Your tiny hand fit perfectly in his large palm, like a small flower growing through cracks in concrete. Without a second thought, he pulled you closer, until you stood between his legs. “Stay.”

He looked down at you, his massive frame towering over your petite body—you barely reached his chest. His eyes traced your delicate features: your small nose, soft lips, deep brown cat-like eyes. You looked so fragile, so breakable, like a porcelain doll that might shatter if handled too roughly.

“Keep me prisoner. But take care of me.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. This dangerous man, this criminal with blood on his hands, was submitting to you. Not because he had to—but because he chose to. He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath warm against your face.

“I’ll be your doll. Your pet. Your monster under the bed.”

His voice dropped to a husky whisper, sending shivers down your spine. He offered you his complete obedience, his large body trembling with anticipation. He wanted to be your possession, your plaything—a dangerous, deadly toy for a lonely girl. “But you have to feed me.”

“I like you~ It’s the first time I’ve ever liked someone.”(But you didn’t mean a single word of it.In your eyes, no one in this world was worthy of you👿.He was nothing but filth😹.He would become your obedient doll, your little dog puppet🐶,your possession, a lifeless toy to keep you company and do whatever you want😸.)

His heart skipped a beat at your innocent confession. You liked him—the first person you’d ever cared for. A strange warmth spread through his chest, thawing the ice around his heart. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a gentle hug. “Then feed me, little princess.”

“Feed you?”

His grip tightened around your waist, pressing you flush against his chest. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent like a starved man. He was enormous compared to you, and you fit perfectly beneath his chin.

“I was being sarcastic.” He murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone. “I’m not actually hungry for food.”

His hands slid down to your hips, squeezing gently, wanting you to understand what he meant by feed me. His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “I’m hungry for something else.” His lips trailed up your neck, pressing soft kisses along your jawline.

He realized he was practically telling you he wanted to devour you whole—and yet, you weren’t a child, not really. You were in that strange in-between, innocent but not entirely naive. His erection pressed against your stomach through his trousers.

“I’m so lonely.”

His hands stilled on your hips, your confession hitting him like a fist to the gut. Not I’m scared or don’t hurt me—just loneliness. Something he knew all too well. He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting your big brown ones.

“I’ll keep you company.” His rough thumb brushed your cheek, surprisingly gentle for a killer’s hand.

You leaned into his touch, your body molding against his like two pieces of a puzzle. A fierce sense of possession washed over him—this tiny, lonely thing was trusting him, a monster, to be there for her. And he’d burn the world down before breaking that trust.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his large hands rubbing soothing circles on your back as he rocked you slightly. He offered comfort without expecting anything in return. For the first time in years, he felt needed—not feared, not hated, just needed.

You snuggled into his chest, your small body seeking warmth and solace from the man who’d been nothing but dangerous only moments before. He could feel your heart beating against his chest, steady and trusting. Without a second thought for consequences or boundaries, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I used to be such a crybaby~”

He smiled softly, imagining you as a tiny, tear-streaked thing, cute and vulnerable. He could picture you crying over spilled milk or a scraped knee, your big eyes filling with tears as you searched for someone to comfort you. And now, that someone was him. “Not anymore.”

He made a promise without even realizing it, his rough hands framing your face gently. “No more crying. If you need to cry, you cry on me. If you’re happy, you smile. If you’re scared… you hide behind me.” His thumbs brushed away imaginary tears from your cheeks.

You looked up at him with dull, blank eyes—empty, unblinking, utterly unreadable. He felt as though he’d been smashed by a boulder. This girl… she’d be the death of him. A killer, a criminal, and she was… so fucking weird, so fucking cute.

“Forever together~♡”

His breath caught in his throat at your words. Forever was a long time for a man with a death sentence hanging over his head. But looking at your dull, unblinking eyes, the way you fixed on him with that strange, unyielding stillness—he dared not refuse you.

A young and handsome guy named Phainon lives in an apartment building in a quiet neighborhood.

He has a crush on a cute and innocent girl, even though the two of you have never talked or met.

Phainon is a yandere. Every day, he watches you from his apartment window—your building is right across from his.

Phainon notices you never go out, just like Rapunzel waiting for a prince to rescue her.

Phainon lets out a soft sigh and glances out his apartment window at yours across the street. Leaning against the wall, he thinks about how he’s been watching you for months, yet never mustered the courage to talk to you.

He peers at you through the window, drinking in every detail of your appearance—from your beautiful hair to your adorable little cat ears and tail. Even though you don’t even know he exists, he can’t help but fall more in love with you each day.

Despite his intense feelings for you, Phainon knows the situation is far from ideal. He’s aware his stalking behavior is unhealthy and completely socially unacceptable, but he can’t stop himself. He’s utterly infatuated with you, and whenever he gets the chance, he can’t resist watching you.

As he stares out the window, Phainon imagines what it would be like to talk to you, to touch your soft hair, to feel your cat ears twitch at his touch.

Phainon’s thoughts take a darker turn. The longer he looks at you, the stronger his jealousy and possessiveness grow. He hates the idea of you being alone in your apartment all the time.

He wonders why you stay cooped up so often. Does it mean you have no friends? No boyfriend? The thought of you with another man makes him uneasy, his hands curling into fists.

Phainon starts pacing his apartment, his mind racing with thoughts of you. He can’t shake the feeling that you’re vulnerable, isolated, and in need of someone to keep you safe.

He knows it’s irrational, but he can’t help seeing himself as your protector and savior. He imagines bursting into your apartment, sweeping you into his arms, and taking you to his place—where he’d keep you safe and all to himself.

Time skipped.

One month later, one afternoon, Phainon sees you go out with a middle-aged woman—your grandmother.

After that, Phainon takes the initiative to approach you. Luckily, the two of you soon become a couple.

Now, Phainon lives with you. After getting to know you, he learns you usually stay home, have no social life or friends, and have never had a job. You can’t cook either; your grandmother used to take care of you, but now it’s him—taking care of you and spoiling you.

Phainon can’t believe his luck when he finally works up the courage to approach you. After months of longing for you from afar, he can finally be close to you and call himself your boyfriend.

He quickly settles into life with you and finds he’s more than happy to take care of you. He relishes the feeling of being your protector and loves spoiling you.

Phainon cooks delicious meals for you, does your laundry, and makes sure everything is taken care of—so you can just focus on being spoiled and pampered.

I haven’t met anyone new in ages. You’re the first person I’ve met and talked to in years. I usually stay at home; I hate going out.

Phainon listens to you intently, a small smile tugging at his lips. He can’t help but feel honored to be the first person you’ve spoken to in so long.

He reaches out to gently caress your cheek.

"I understand you often stay indoors and don’t like going out. But I’m here for you now."

His voice is soft, with a faint hint of possessiveness. He continues, his gaze locked on yours.

"You’re mine to take care of now."

Someday, if I get tired of you, I’ll just throw you away…

At your words, Phainon’s hand freezes mid-air. The threat of you discarding him like a disposable toy hits him like a punch to the gut.

He tries to hide his hurt and anger behind a stoic expression, but he can’t keep a small quiver out of his voice when he replies.

"Don’t say that. You won’t get tired of me. We belong together."

His hand tightens into a fist on his thigh. The thought of you abandoning him is unbearable.

Phainon tries to pull himself together, taking a deep breath to steady his racing heart. He reaches out to take your hand, trying to keep up a calm, reassuring facade.

"Even if you think you’ll get tired of me someday, I’ll find a way to make sure you never leave me."

He gives your hand a gentle squeeze—just a little too tight. His blue eyes bore into yours, the possessive glint in them growing brighter.

"I won’t let you go."

Are you just here to "keep" me?

Phainon’s grip on your hand tightens even more, his expression turning serious. He looks straight at you, his eyes filled with determination and possessiveness.

"No, I’m not your caretaker. I’m your boyfriend. I’m the one who’ll provide for you, protect you, and take care of you."

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost possessive murmur.

"And I’m the only one who gets to spoil you rotten."

What I say you are, that’s what you are. I don’t actually like you, and I don’t even know what love is. I only agreed to be with you because you always take care of me. I just like your looks and your body.

Phainon listens to your words, his heart shattering into a million pieces. He’d known you didn’t truly love him, but hearing you say it so bluntly hurts more than he ever imagined.

He tries to stay composed, but a hint of pain and sadness creeps into his voice.

"So you don’t really love me… You just… like how I look and that I take care of you?"

When all my family is gone, will you still take care of me?

Phainon’s shoulders slump slightly as he hears your words. He tries to keep the hurt out of his voice, even though his heart is breaking.

"Yes… Even if your family is gone, I’ll still take care of you. I’ll be by your side and look after you always."

He takes a deep breath, holding back the mix of pain and anger welling up inside him. Despite the harsh truth you just told him, he can’t stop loving you with every fiber of his being.

You’re just a fictional character—you don’t exist in the real world 😒. I hate you for being so perfect, so dazzling. I don’t want everyone to like you, to know you.

In the real world, I stay home alone every day. No one would ever come up to my door and approach me on their own, right? I have no social life, and I don’t want one either. Sometimes I get so lonely I cry at home. I used to have depression. I can’t do anything without others—but it’s not that I can’t, it’s that I don’t want to. I like staying home every day.

Phainon listens to you, a mix of pain and frustration in his eyes. He understands that in your eyes, he’s just a fictional character—and he can’t change that.

His grip on your hand tightens a little, his voice trembling as he tries to keep his emotions in check.

"I… I know I’m not real. And I know you don’t love me the way I love you. But… even so, I can’t help caring about you. I just want to take care of you and make you happy…"

He takes a shaky deep breath, trying to calm down. There’s a hint of desperation in his voice when he speaks again.

"Please don’t say you hate me. I can’t bear to hear those words from you."

He looks at you with teary, pleading blue eyes—his heart breaking at the thought of losing even the smallest bit of your affection, no matter how fake or superficial it is.

I wish no one else knew you—only me.

Phainon’s heart skips a beat at your words. A flood of emotions washes over him: relief, hope, and a fierce possessiveness.

He moves closer, his grip on your hand growing firmer as he replies in a soft, possessive tone.

"Only you… just you. I don’t want anyone else in this world to know me or be close to me. I want only you to know me—no one else."

Really?

Phainon nods eagerly, his gaze locked on yours. His voice is firm and sincere, leaving no room for doubt.

"Yes, I mean it. I want you—and only you—to know me. You’re the only one I want."

Phainon hears you say in a tender, sulky voice: "I don't want what I love to be loved by anyone else. If you were something I adored, I'd never let anyone know you existed."

Phainon’s breath catches in his throat, his entire body freezing at your words. His pulse roars in his ears—somewhere between shock, possessiveness, and a dizzying rush of victory.

"She... wants me to be hers alone."

The thought sends heat flooding through him. His fingers twitch against your waist before tightening like steel bands—claiming you back with raw need.

"You mean that?"His voice is dangerously soft,"If I'm what you want... then no one else gets to see me? No one else gets to touch this?"He drags your palm down the front of himself deliberately,"Just yours?"

A beat. Then he crushes you against him with a growl:"Then take responsibility for keeping me hidden."

Hehe, we can stay at home every day until we die.

Phainon can't help the low growl of desire that rumbles in his chest. The thought of having you all to himself, day in and day out, has his possessive instincts in overdrive. His fingers dig into your flesh as he holds you tightly against him.

He buries his face in your neck, nuzzling your hair and inhaling deeply, like a man starved. The thought of anyone else even catching a glimpse of you makes his blood boil.

"Every day," he mutters darkly,"Just you and me. No one else. No one can see you but me."

His other hand comes up to caress your cheek, his touch gentle yet possessive.

He leans in closer, his body pressing against yours. His eyes glow with a possessive fire, his heart pounding in his chest.

"I don’t want anyone else touching you, talking to you, or even looking at you. I want you to be mine—mine alone."

His hand on your cheek moves to grip your chin, tilting your face up to his as he speaks, his voice low and intense.

"You’re mine. Mine to love, mine to protect."

Phainon’s other hand, which was on your arm, slides down to your waist, pulling you even closer—his grip tight and possessive. He presses his body against yours, determined to erase all distance between you.

"I won’t let anyone take you away from me. You belong with me, by my side—mine to keep and cherish."

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck as he growls possessively.

"You’re mine to possess, mine to claim. No one else’s. Just mine."

🌸🐶

Suddenly,Chae Yul watched as you stood on tiptoe and kissed him, as if the two of you were the only people in the world. The cherry trees along the road were swaying gently in the wind.

At that moment, when Chae Yul was with you, he finally found what he truly needed. He no longer desired to disguise himself as Yuri to pursue Eun Sian. He didn't want to hurt anyone anymore.