#actually bipolar

The silence of the mansion is heavy and suffocating. You move through the living room like a ghost.

You wipe a counter that is already spotless, your breath shallow. Every few seconds, your head tilts toward the door, your ears straining for the sound of a key in the lock or the distant hum of his car.

Then, the heavy thud of the front door echoing through the foyer.

Your shoulders hitch, locking into a rigid line. You don't move; you simply freeze, the microfiber cloth still pressed against the marble,—

"I'm home!"

The voice is bright, melodic, and brimming with a childish energy that would be endearing to anyone who didn't know the cost of it.

When he enters the room, he is a vision of effortless charm, his glasses perched on his nose, a wide, beaming smile stretching across his face.

"What're you doing?" he asks, his tone light and curious.

You swallow hard, your throat feeling as though it's lined with sandpaper. You don't look at him directly, keeping your gaze lowered.

"I… was just cleaning around the house," you whisper.

Satoru lets out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound airy and almost offended. "Babe... you don't have to!!!"

He draws out the word with an exaggerated, goofy lilt, his voice sliding into that playful, whining register he uses when he wants to be adored. "I'm here, aren't I? I'll do everyyyything!"

“Wait!” He reaches behind his back with a flourish, revealing a small shopping bag. With the excitement of a schoolboy, he pulls out a package of your favorite sweets—the exact brand, the exact flavor.

He knows every preference, every craving, every tiny detail of your palate.

"Look! I even bought your favorites," he chirps, holding them out to you. He is practically vibrating with a need for validation, his eyes searching yours for the praise he believes he deserves.

He leans closer, the scent of his expensive cologne filling your senses, invading your personal space.

"So... where's my kiss?" A pout forms on his lips. His bottom lip juts out, childish and exaggerated. He whines playfully, rocking on his heels.

"C'monnn, I went all the way to that little shop across town for these. You're gonna leave me hanging?"

You feel the corner of your mouth twitch—an attempt at a genuine response. It fails… you take the bag. Your fingers brush against his.

"Thank you..."

He doesn't seem to notice your stiffness. Or maybe he chooses not to. He leans in anyway, pressing a kiss to your forehead—warm, soft, domestic.

"There. Was that so hard?"

He pulls back, grinning. He's already moving past you into the kitchen, chattering about traffic, about a stupid joke someone told him at work, about how the weather was nice today.

You stand there, holding the sweets. The bag crinkles in your grip. Your forehead still tingles where his lips touched.

You wonder if he tasted your fear as well…

—

Later—

He's set the table himself—insisted on it, shooing you away with playful swats when you tried to help.

The plates are arranged with precision. Candles flicker in the center. Wine breathes in two glasses, though he knows you barely drink.

He sits across from you. Light from the chandelier catches the white of his hair, softening his features. He looks like a painting. Like something beautiful you're meant to admire but…

"Try the fish," he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. "I marinated it differently this time. Lighter soy, more citrus."

You lift a piece to your lips. It's good. Always. He's meticulous about everything.

"Good?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yes."

He beams. He launches into another story. His hands move animatedly as he speaks, chopsticks waving through the air for emphasis. He laughs at his own punchline before taking another bite, completely amused with himself.

You nod when you're supposed to. You hum in the right places. You take slow, careful bites.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he rests his chin in his palm. "Oh, right…"

He points his chopsticks at you with a grin. "I've gotta leave for a few days next week. Some boring work stuff."

He sighs dramatically before puffing out his cheeks.

"Sooo..." His smile turns teasing. "Are you gonna miss me?"

You pause halfway through another bite, slowly lifting your eyes to meet his. A small smile finds its way onto your lips—

"Yes... I..."

Mid-sentence—His eyes flicker. Just a fraction. The smile on his lips doesn't waver, but something behind his gaze goes flat.

"...will." You finish quietly. While he keeps smiling. Keeps looking at you.

“Hm..” He tilts his head. "...That took you a while.”

You immediately stiffen.

“...Huh—?”

SLAP.

You don't even register the pain immediately. Just the shock. The ringing. The way your head snaps to the side, your neck protesting the sudden movement. Your cheek burns where his palm connected.

You don't move. You don't speak. You don't dare breathe.

He exhales slowly. The cheerful mask has slipped entirely. His eyes are cold now—not furious, not explosive, just... irritated.

As though you're a misbehaving pet that's soiled the carpet one too many times.

He clicks his tongue almost immediately, voice is lower. "I know you're scared of me."

"But at least TRY TO HIDE IT, DAMMIT!"

He shoves his own plate away as he stands. The chair legs screech against the floor. He walks around the table. His footsteps are unhurried.

He stops beside you and looks down. Then he gestures—a lazy wave of his hand toward the room.

"You call THIS Cleaning?"

His voice drips with disdain. He points at the corner of the bookshelf. "Look over there."

You follow his finger. The shelf is pristine.

"And there."

A spot on the floor you can't see. It doesn't matter. He's not pointing at dust. He's pointing at control.

"This place is still a mess.”

He's not angry. That's the terrifying part. He's just clinical. Calm. Delivering criticism as though stating facts.

Then his hand moves. His fingers find your chin, gripping your jaw before you can flinch.

His thumb presses into the soft flesh beneath your cheekbone—the same cheek he struck seconds ago.

He forces your head up until you're looking directly into his icy blue eyes.

"You should be grateful I'm even letting you breathe the same air as me..." His thumb digs deeper. Pain radiates through your jaw.

"I expect you to stay in your lane."

Silence.

The seconds stretch. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You can hear your own blood rushing in your ears.

"...Yeah?" He repeats, voice is soft. Prompting.

You try to speak. Your throat closes. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your eyes begin to burn—tears threatening to spill over. Not sobbing. Just enough to blur his face.

His grip tightens. "Yeah?"

You force a nod. Barely. A fraction of movement. "Yes…-”

“Yes… understood… " The sound scrapes out of you. Raw. Broken.

He holds your jaw a moment longer. Then, abruptly, he releases it. The absence of his touch is almost as painful as the grip itself.

And then—As though someone flipped a switch—The smile returns.

"That's more like it."

He reaches toward the small plate sitting beside him, where he'd already arranged the sweets he'd brought home earlier. Taking one between his fingers, he carefully unwraps it before holding it to your lips.

"Open up."

“.......” You obey. The sugar hits your tongue. Sweet. Sticky. A kindness that tastes like poison.

He hums approvingly. He sits down beside you—pulling his chair close.

"Will you cuddle me tonight too?" His tone is playful. "Hm?" He tilts his head, waiting, while he pops another sweet into his mouth.

"You'll stay with me until I fall asleep?"

“......” You watch him. Your cheek still throbs. Your jaw aches where he gripped it. Your body remains rigid, coiled, ready to flinch at the next sudden movement.

But you nod. "Yes…"

“Ah hah!” He beams. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He feels warm.

You hate that your body still relaxes for a fraction of a second before remembering who is holding you.

You sit frozen in his embrace, swallowing tears you can't shed, because that might upset him.

—

The rest of the evening passes quietly. You clean the dishes. He hums to himself somewhere in the house as though nothing happened.

By the time you reach the bedroom, the sting in your cheek has faded into a dull ache.

"But.. you said we were going to sleep.."

Satoru’s gaze lifts to you, one eyebrow arched as he shrugs with that lazy grace, his long legs spread wider on the edge of the bed, the fabric of his pants stretched tight over the obvious bulge between them.

“I changed my mind. Any problem?”

".....—" You stammer, voice small, “No.. I didn’t mean that.”

"Yeah?" His tone drops, low and commanding. “Then come here and give me a nice head like you mean it.”

"......"

You step forward on shaky legs and sink to your knees between his spread thighs. He watches every movement, blue eyes sharp and expectant. When you hesitate, he clicks his tongue.

“Hurry.”

You lean in, lips parting around the thick head of his cock. The moment you take him into your mouth, he shudders hard, a sharp breath punching out of him as his head falls back.

"MhH..." A deep, throaty moan rolls from his chest. His fingers immediately fist in your hair, holding you steady while his hips roll forward in slow, controlled thrusts that push him deeper over your tongue.

The wet sounds of your mouth sliding up and down his length fill the room, mingling with his heavy breathing and the occasional soft grunt when you gag around him.

He keeps you pinned between his thighs, guiding your rhythm with firm tugs on your hair, never letting you pull back far.

Then his voice softens, sweet and coaxing even as he fucks your mouth. “Good girl… just like that, baby. Your mouth feels so warm and tight around me... uhg...”

You work him faster, saliva dripping down your chin, throat fluttering each time he pushes in. His thighs tense around your shoulders, muscles flexing as his breathing grows ragged. The grip on your hair tightens; his thrusts turn shorter, sharper.

He groans your name, hips jerking as he cums hard, thick pulses of cum flooding your throat. You choke and gag around the sudden rush, forced to swallow every hot spurt while he holds you down, refusing to let you up until he’s finished.

Only when the last twitch fades does he ease his grip slightly—still keeping his cock nestled deep in your mouth.

“Again.”

—

The next morning light filters softly through the curtains as you stand at the kitchen counter, dazed, the corner of your lips still faintly red and a little bruised from the night before.

Satoru remains asleep in the bedroom, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the stove and the memories that refuse to stay buried.

Your hands move on autopilot, cracking eggs into a pan, the familiar motions grounding you even as your mind drifts back.

You were happy. Really happy. Before the fights began.

They started as little things—your father’s voice rising an octave over dinner, your mother’s fork clattering against the plate.

You’d look up from your homework and see their faces, tight and strange, as if they’d forgotten you were there. Then they’d notice you, and the conversation would stop. Just stop.

They’d smile at you—thin, brittle smiles—and tell you to finish your food. But they wouldn’t look at each other.

You didn’t understand what changed so badly. What just happened. You were ten years back then, but old enough to know that something was wrong.

Something they wouldn’t name. They’d avoid you—not in obvious ways, not in ways you could point to and call cruel—but in the spaces between words.

In the way they’d leave a room when you entered. In the way your mother would stroke your hair and say nothing at all, her eyes fixed on something far away.

Then the accident. Just a year ago. Out of nowhere.

You got the news from others. From strangers with pity in their voices and nothing in their hands.

They told you you’d be alone now—so bad, so hard to survive—but when you actually needed someone, nobody stepped in.

You had run to see them, to hold their hands, to pretend it wasn’t real. But a nurse stopped you at the door. They said your parents had been taken to the postmortem room.

They were about to contact relatives. And when you said— "I'm their daughter," voice cracking, tears hot on your cheeks—something shifted in her eyes. Then she pointed down the corridor.

Straight to the morgue room.

The smell hit you first. Bleach and something deeper, something metallic. You stood outside the heavy door, hands shaking, and saw him.

A tall man. Huge. Broad shoulders, pale skin that seemed to absorb the fluorescent light. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with eyes that held no warmth.

“You the relative?”

You nodded.

“Good.” He straightened. “The examination’s halfway done. You pay everything yet?”

Your stomach dropped. “N-no… not yet. How much is it?”

He told you the number. It was too high...

Everything you had was in your bag—a few crumpled notes, a card with a limit you’d already hit.

You tried to explain. "I can pay, just give me time. Please. I’ll get it, I swear. I just need—"

Your voice broke. You pleaded. You felt yourself shatter, piece by piece, right there in the harsh light of the corridor.

You told him you’d give him everything you had. You begged him to help. You were alone, so alone, and no one else was coming.

He just watched.

Then his hand shot out, grabbed your wrist, and dragged you inside.

The door swung shut behind you with a heavy thunk. The room was cold—freezing cold, sterile, smelling of chemicals and something sweet underneath. Your eyes went straight to the two tables. Two bodies. Covered in white sheets.

He let go of your wrist. Walked to the nearest table. And pulled the sheet away.

You saw it. All of it.

The faces—half of them missing, the skull exposed, brain visible through a gap. The chests split wide, ribs splayed like fingers, the cavities inside dark and wet.

The stomachs cut open, intestines looped in loose coils, and the stitches—black thread, thick, uneven, most of them undone. Some were just hanging. Some left the flesh gaping.

Your vision swam. Your stomach heaved. You couldn’t recognize them. Couldn’t believe these were your mother and father. This couldn’t be them. This couldn’t be—

"Blehck-" You tried to look away. Tried to turn your head, but your body wouldn’t obey. Your hand flew to your mouth, but no sound came out. Just a choked, ragged breath.

The tall man pulled a chair from the corner and sat down. Sat down. He crossed one leg over the other, leaned back, and looked at you.

“You finish the stitches, and I’ll pay you instead.”

The air left your lungs. You stared at him, mouth open, unable to process. He looked down at you—a slow, deliberate gaze—then up again, as if measuring the distance between you.

“You think the system cares?” His voice was flat, almost bored. “How naive.”

A pause. His lips curled, not quite a smile.

“Well... understandable for someone as you.”

Your feet moved backward. One step then another. Your whole body screamed at you to run, but your legs felt like wet paper.

Meanwhile, he just sat there, watching, his eyes tracking your retreat with something like amusement.

The light buzzed above. The bodies lay open. The stench clung to your throat. You didn't think twice and ran.

The corridor blurred past you—white walls, flickering lights, the sound of your own footsteps echoing.

You burst through the double doors into the entrance area, where a few staff members were gathered at a desk, chatting, flipping through papers. You staggered toward them, gasping, words tumbling out—

“What… what is that guy doing in there?! Someone like him shouldn’t be—he’s not—you have to—!”

One of them looked up. A woman, maybe fifty, with tired eyes and a clipboard in her hand. She didn’t even flinch.

“Couldn’t do it?” She shrugged. “Then move along. We don’t have time for such.”

That was it. No question. No concern. No offer to call anyone, no look of shock or anger. Just dismissal. Move along.

You stood there, chest heaving, cold sweat on your back. And you understood.

The horror wasn’t just the man in the morgue—his cold calculation, his casual offer, the way he sat there like it was any other job. That was part of it. But the real horror was the silence around him.

The way no one questioned him. The way no one cared. The system was built for this. The system expected you to either take the deal or shut up and disappear…

—

You stand in the middle of the living room, the papers still clutched in your trembling hands. The official stamps are still fresh, the red seals gleaming under the pale afternoon light.

Eight hundred seventy-six million.

The numbers swim before your eyes, blurring and sharpening in waves as your brain refuses to accept them.

You read the same line four times. Five times. Each time hoping the digits rearrange themselves into something smaller.

Your fingers press into the paper so hard the edges begin to crease. A small sound escapes your throat—not quite a sob, not quite a word.

Your knees feel strange... you lower yourself onto the arm of the sofa. "No.."

The clock on the wall ticks. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. Your father's slippers are still by the entrance, placed neatly side by side the way he always left them.

Your mother's teacup sits in the drying rack, upside down, a few droplets clinging to the ceramic.

They were here...

Two days ago, they were here.

And now you're holding the evidence of a life they never explained to you. A life of numbers and signatures and obligations that somehow grew into something monstrous while you slept under their roof, ate their food, believed their silence meant safety.

Then why...?

Where did the money go? Who gave them that much? There has to be some misunderstanding!—

One of them—a man with wire-rimmed glasses and a voice like still water—simply slid another document across the coffee table. "Here."

A corporate seal. A signature from someone you've never met. But... everything is perfectly legal.

—

Time moves strangely after that.

You're standing on the pavement now, across the street from the house you grew up in, and the world is happening without your permission.

A bulldozer sits idle near the front gate, its engine rumbling low and patient. Men in hard hats carry lumber and tools toward the side of the house where the old wall used to stand.

You watch as a section of the roof—the part above your bedroom—is dismantled piece by piece. Tiles clatter to the ground.

It still looked like home. It just wasn't yours anymore.

Everything feels so wrong.

—

One moment the street is empty. The next, a long, polished sedan glides around the corner and pulls to a stop in front of the property.

The engine cuts off with a soft purr. The doors open in perfect synchrony.

Men in dark suits step out first.

Broad-shouldered. Expressionless. Their eyes scan the surroundings with practiced efficiency before one of them nods toward the car's rear door.

A second man—leaner, older, with grey-streaked hair and the bearing of someone used to being obeyed—steps out.

You don't know his name. You've never seen his face before. But the moment he straightens to his full height, adjusting the cuffs of his charcoal suit with a single, unhurried motion, the entire street changes.

The workers stop. Hammers freeze mid-swing. Conversations die.

The construction supervisor—a thick-necked man with calloused hands and a voice like gravel—practically sprints toward the sidewalk, his posture shifting from authority to submission in the span of three strides.

"Sir! Welcome, welcome—" His voice is syrupy, obsequious. The same man who snapped orders at his crew ten minutes ago is now bowing slightly, his hands clasped in front of him, his smile stretched wide and uncomfortable.

"We weren't expecting you today, but everything is on schedule. Right on schedule. The demolition's progressing beautifully—"

The older man doesn't interrupt.

He simply stands there, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly as he surveys the property.

The supervisor keeps talking, filling the silence with nervous praise.

"—absolutely top priority, sir, we made sure your people's instructions were followed to the letter. The new foundation will be laid within the week, and the structural changes you requested—"

He laughs. An ugly, ingratiating sound. "You'll definitely win this election, sir. No question about it. A man with your vision? Your resources? The people will line up to vote for you."

A politician...

The man's lips twitch. Something that doesn't reach his eyes.

He hums. A low, absent-minded sound, barely audible over the distant clatter of machinery. His gaze drifts across the property—the collapsing walls, the exposed beams—before it lands on you.

One second.

His eyes meet yours.

There is no recognition. No curiosity or sympathy. Only faint displeasure.

The crease between his brows deepens by a millimeter. As though your presence is an inconvenience.

And then he looks away. Returns his attention to the supervisor, who is already gesturing toward blueprints and babbling about timelines.

—

Your hands curl into fists.

A heat rises in your chest—sudden, sharp, blinding—and for a moment, you feel something other than numbness.

Rage.

Pure, incandescent rage. It screams at you to move. To walk forward. To grab that immaculate suit and shake him until he looks at you the way he looked at the property. With recognition. With acknowledgment.

Ask him. Ask him how he did it. Ask him why—

Your throat burns, feet shift on the pavement. But you don't move. Because by now—

By now, you understand.

Even if you walked up to him and screamed until your voice shattered, nothing would change.

Even if you demanded answers, he wouldn't give them. He would simply turn away, and his assistants would step forward, and the supervisor would call security, and you would be removed from this street like a piece of trash.

Even if you filed a case—

Well...

The law isn't blind. It's selective.

And it protects people like him before it protects people like you.

Power always shields power. And you have nothing. No money, no home, no leverage. No voice that anyone in that world would ever hear.

And then...

He appeared. Out of nowhere—as if he'd been waiting for the exact moment everything fell apart.

He said he'd help you. Said he'd pull you out of this mess. That he'd take care of everything.

At the time, it sounded impossible.

You knew nothing about him. Nothing beyond the image he presented.

The heavy gold chain resting against his collarbone. The rings decorating nearly every finger—his index, middle, and ring fingers catching the light whenever he moved.

The silver piercing through his right eyebrow. Another tucked into the corner of his lips.

And… the barbell through his tongue.

A detail you hadn't noticed until much later… until the first time he kissed you.

Even now, you still know almost nothing about him. Where he came from. What kind of life he lived before yours. Why he chose you.

Or why he was willing to spend such an impossible amount of money on a complete stranger.

The only thing you truly knew...

Was his name.

Satoru.

—

The knife slipped before you noticed the tremor in your fingers. A thin line of heat opened across your knuckle, and blood welled up, bright against the pale skin.

You stared at it for a second too long, the sting pulling you out of the fog that had settled behind your eyes.

Footsteps approach from the hallway. Satoru appears in the doorway wearing only black boxers, hair tousled, eyes still soft with sleep. He stops when he sees the blood.

"What’s wrong...?"

You tuck the hand behind your back on instinct. "It’s… it’s just a small cut."

He crosses the space between you without another word. His fingers close around your wrist, gentle but immovable, and he draws your hand forward.

The warmth of his mouth closes over the cut. He sucks once, slow, the wet heat of his tongue startling against the sting.

You feel the faint pull of suction, the careful press of his lips sealing around the wound. Memories of the night before flash behind your eyes—but his mouth now moves with a tenderness that refuses to match those images.

He releases your finger and studies the cut, thumb brushing once beneath the knuckle. "Wait here," he murmurs. "I’ll get the bandages."

Minutes later, he returns with the kit already open. Alcohol touches the slice and you flinch; he murmurs an automatic apology, voice low, and blows across the skin before wrapping it in clean white gauze.

When he finishes he nudges you toward a chair. "Sit. Don’t move."

"Yes.."

He takes your place at the counter. Eggs crack, butter melts, the pan hisses softly. He moves with the ease of routine—reaching for plates, flipping slices of bread, humming a fragment of melody under his breath.

Nothing in his posture acknowledges the hours that came before. The smell of toasted bread and coffee fills the kitchen, ordinary and grounding.

He sets a plate in front of you and pulls his own chair close. When your fork stays still, he spears a bite and lifts it to your lips without comment. You open your mouth. The food tastes normal. The silence stretches.

Your fingers tighten in your lap. The tremor starts small, then travels up your forearms. You wait until the words feel unavoidable.

"Hey…"

He keeps stirring sugar into his coffee.

"About… the promise."

The spoon taps once against ceramic. He lifts the cup, takes a slow sip, and sets it down again. Only then does he answer, still not looking at you.

"Hmm. Why should I?"

Your stomach drops. "B-but… you promised."

He glances over. The softness is gone; his eyes are flat, faintly disappointed. "But you aren’t doing what I asked you to do," he says quietly.

"You’re still acting like this."

He returns to the coffee as though the exchange never happened.

You hear yourself speaking faster, voice thin. "I… I won’t be anymore. Really."

Satoru shrugs, a small, almost fond smile touching his mouth. He takes another sip, then meets your eyes with light amusement.

"Hmm…”

"You see here?" Satoru’s voice drips with that lazy, cruel amusement he always has when he’s about to make you squirm.

He spreads his legs wider on the chair, just him in those loose boxers, and there it is. A thick, prominent line straining against the cotton, the head pushing out a dark shape.

He glances down at it, then back up at you, one eyebrow raised. "What do you call it? Hm?"

"......."

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, settle low in your belly. You know the answer. He’s drilled it into you—literally.

"M… morning wood," you mumble, the words familiar now, as natural as breathing when it comes to him.

"And… what do you do with it?" He palms himself slowly, deliberately, the fabric shifting as the thick line bulges, the tip reddening the cotton. A wet spot blooms.

He clicks his tongue. "C’mon…"

"I might even change my mind and actually 'help' you~." That last part is a purr, a promise that makes your thighs press together involuntarily.

You stand. Your legs are shaky, but you move between his thighs, knees hitting the floor. Your fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers and pull down.

His cock springs free and slaps against your lips—hard and heavy, the head smearing a bead of precum across your bottom lip.

Before you can even gasp, his hand tangles in your hair and shoves you down onto it. He groans low in his throat, a sound of pure, lazy satisfaction.

"Ahhh… yeah… good little cocksucker…" He doesn’t watch you—not yet. His other hand picks up his laptop from the table beside him.

Fingers start typing, keys clicking as you gag and suck, your tongue working the underside of his shaft, the thick vein pulsing against your palate.

He takes his time, occasionally shifting his hips to grind deeper into your throat, a soft grunt escaping when you don’t fight it.

But midway—after about fifteen minutes of you drooling and choking around him, your jaw aching—he stops typing. His hand yanks your head back by the hair, pulling you off with a wet pop.

A string of saliva and precum connects your lips to his cockhead. He looks down at you, his eyes glinting with that mischievous, dark light.

"Mm... bored of your mouth. Get up." He pushes his laptop aside, grabs your arm, and pulls you up. His hands go to your waistband, yanking your pants and panties down in one rough motion.

A wet string of your arousal stretches from your pussy to the fabric—proof of how desperately you want this. He laughs quietly, that breathy chuckle that makes your skin prickle.

"Ah~ pervert…" A grin stretches across his face, sharp and delighted. "Dripping like a whore just from sucking my cock, huh?"

He pulls you onto his lap, back first, so your spine presses against his bare chest. His arms wrap around you, locking you in place.

His cock is hot and rigid against the cleft of your ass, and he reaches down with one hand to spread your pussy lips apart, guiding the head to your entrance.

He doesn't ask—just pushes in, a single slow, deliberate thrust that makes both of you moan.

"Hah... Fuck… yeah…" He bites your earlobe, then drags his teeth down the side of your neck. "You’re so good like this, baby… you make me so happy~"

His voice is honey over gravel, sweet and terrifying. He starts pounding—mercilessly, his hips slamming up into you from below, each thrust deeper than the last.

His arms tighten around you like a vise, holding you impossibly close. He bites your neck, hard enough to leave a mark, then soothes it with his tongue.

One hand slides up to slap your left breast, then your right—each sharp, stinging impact making you jolt. Then he’s kneading both, squeezing roughly, pinching your nipples under the top between his fingers until you whimper.

"Can’t even think straight, can you?" His breath is hot in your ear, his pace brutal. "That’s right. Don’t think. Just take it. Take my cock like the good little slut I made you into."

He emphasizes each word with a snap of his hips, driving himself so deep you feel him in your throat.

He’s relentless, his mood shifts on a dime—one moment whispering "I love you, baby, you feel so fucking good," the next snarling "You’re mine, you’ll always be mine, I’ll FUCKING BREAK you if you EVER leave."

It only makes your pussy clench around him...

"Fuck… I’m close…" His rhythm stutters, but he doesn’t slow down. Instead, he grabs both your wrists, pins them behind your back, and forces you to stand on your trembling legs.

He stays seated, still inside you, using the leverage to pound even harder from below. "Stand. Fucking stand for me. Don’t you dare fall."

Your knees are jelly, your vision blurry, but you try. He drives into you, his balls slapping against your wet folds, and then he’s there—so close.

"Oww… FUCK…!!!" His roar is raw, animalistic. He buries himself to the hilt, and you feel his cum flooding your insides, hot and thick, pulse after pulse.

He holds you there for a second, panting, then lets go carelessly. You collapse forward onto the floor, your ass still high, still dripping his seed down your thighs.

He leans back in the chair, chest heaving, a lazy smirk on his lips as he watches you twitch and shudder on the ground. He doesn’t help you up. He just laughs softly, reaches for his laptop again, and types one-handed.

"Clean yourself up. I’m not done with you yet.”

—

Later that night, You stand at the counter once more, the cutting board before you a dull expanse of wood, the knife in your hand feeling heavier than it should.

Your legs tremble with each small shift, the ache in your muscles a reminder of the bruises that still bloom beneath your clothes.

A warm breath brushes against your neck before you even register the movement. Strong arms encircle your waist, pulling you back into a chest that radiates heat.

Satoru’s chin rests on your shoulder, his breath a soft puff against your ear.

“Still so pouty, baby?” he murmurs, voice light, teasing, as if the earlier storm had never existed. A laugh follows, low and amused.

“Even after I paid everything?”

Your hand freezes around the knife’s handle.

The words hang in the air, inert at first, then they click like a latch turning. Your eyes widen, heart stuttering against your ribs.

Did he... really? Is he serious?

You look up at him. His face is open, soft, almost boyish in the dim kitchen light. That crooked smile. Those bright eyes, gleaming with something that could be affection.

“What?” he asks, tone innocent. “You don’t believe me?”

You swallow. Your throat is dry. “No.” The word comes out too fast, too sharp. You shake your head, nerves spilling out before you can stop them. “No, I—I believe you.”

He hums, satisfied, and his fingers slip into your hair, stroking with a tenderness that feels almost paternal. "Good."

A pause stretches, thick with the scent of simmering sauce. “Don’t worry…” he whispers, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I paid half of it because of your obedience.”

His thumb brushes the line of your jaw, then trails back to your scalp, each movement deliberate, soothing. “Try being a good girl more often, yeah?” He grins, the expression boyish, almost goofy.

“Then you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

"......"

Did he really pay it? Half of it? How much? Was it a lie? A test? A manipulation?

You can’t ask. You know better than to ask. Asking means doubting, and doubting means punishment. So you stand there, knife in hand, trying to look grateful.

His gaze drops. He notices the knife. Then, without warning, he gently plucks it from your fingers. His head tilts dramatically, feigning surprise.

“Aw, baby… I didn’t even notice until now.” His eyes land on the bandage wrapped around your finger—the one from earlier, when you cut yourself washing a glass. His expression shifts to exaggerated pity. “Why are you using knives again? You just got hurt earlier, didn’t you?”

He sighs, shaking his head like a disappointed parent.

“You could’ve just told me instead.”

A gentle nudge against your hip. “Move. Lemme do it.”

He takes your place at the counter. His fingers wrap around the knife handle, and he begins chopping—effortlessly, rhythmically. He hums under his breath. A cheerful, aimless tune.

“Don’t overthink things anymore, okay? I’ll handle everything. I’ll protect you, I’ll keep every promise, I’ll take care of every problem.” The words spill out between chops, light and casual.

“Only if you listen to me, of course. That’s all I ask, baby. Just listen.”

“You can do that, right?”

You nod. Forcing a smile, you say, “Yes,” softly, just enough to keep him happy.

Inside, your mind races, a frantic loop of questions and fears. How do you verify his claim? How do you know if he’s telling the truth?

He'll get angry. Hurt you. And...

Your gaze drops. Just for a second. Down to the floor, to the tile, to a stray drop of water. A lapse in attention. A tiny fracture in your performance.

That’s all it takes.

His hand shoots out, closing around your injured wrist with a grip that bruises. Before you can flinch, he drags the same kitchen knife—still slick with vegetable juices—across the fresh bandage on your finger.

"AHHH!?!"

The sound seems to suck the air from the room. Your vision blurs, tears spilling over as you stare up at him.

His face is twisted with anger, his jaw tight, his breathing uneven. His eyes—those bright eyes—are now frighteningly intense, boring into you with a cold fury that steals the air from your lungs.

“Why…” His voice is low, grinding. “Why are you looking like that!? Huh!?”

His grip tightens. The knife presses harder against your finger. The pain spikes. Blood seeps through the bandage.

“You fucking think I’m lying!?”

He shoves the knife again—a sharp, deliberate push that reopens the wound completely. The pain spreads through your entire hand, up your wrist, a fiery ache that makes your vision blur.

He shouts now, his voice cracking with rage.

“You fucking don’t trust me!? Why the fuck are you hesitant, bitch!?”

His breathing grows heavier. His knuckles are white around the knife handle. The pressure increases until your other fingers begin to ache from the force of his grip.

You can’t pull away. You can’t struggle. Every instinct screams that resistance will only make it worse—that he’s waiting for an excuse to break something.

Tears spill uncontrollably down your cheeks. Your voice breaks into desperate, ragged pleas.

“It’s not—it’s not true—I TRUST you—I TRUST YOU more than anything—”

You repeat it, over and over, through sobs, through the pain, through the terror thickening your throat. You say whatever you think will make him stop. You beg. You promise. You swear.

“PLEASE—PLEASE, I believe you—I’m SORRY—I’M SORRY—”

"......."

Satoru simply stares at you. His face is unreadable—a mask of cold stone, no flicker of emotion.

The seconds stretch into an eternity. The only sound is your ragged breathing, the drip of blood onto the tile.

Then—as abruptly as the rage appeared—it disappears.

Without another word, he eases the pressure, withdraws the knife from your hand, and turns back toward the counter. He resumes chopping as though nothing happened.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

"......" Your hand throbs. Your tears are still wet on your face. You stand frozen, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to breathe without feeling the phantom edge of that knife against your skin.

And you know—with a certainty that settles like ice in your stomach—that he could snap again at any moment. For any reason. For no reason at all.

—

You've returned upstairs to your room, sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully unwrapping the blood-soaked bandage from your injured hand.

Your entire body is still shaking from what happened downstairs. You keep hiccuping from crying so hard earlier.

Every tiny sound outside the bedroom makes your shoulders tense.

You're painfully aware that Satoru is still somewhere in the house. You don't know what mood he'll be in next. You don't know if he'll suddenly walk in angry again.

You're trying your hardest not to make any noise while replacing the bandage yourself. Every shaky breath threatens to become another muffled sob, and you bite your lip to keep yourself quiet.

Then—

The bedroom door quietly opens.

Satoru stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from the hallway. His face is unreadable.

No smile. No teasing. No anger. Just a quiet, neutral stillness that is somehow more frightening than his rage.

He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a soft thud.

Your hand freezes mid-motion. The bandage dangles from your fingers. Your heart hammers against your ribs, erratic and loud.

He crosses the room slowly, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. His eyes are fixed on your wounded hand. He says nothing.

He simply sits beside you on the bed—close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

The silence stretches. Seconds become an eternity. He stares at your hand. Then his own hands curl into fists on his own thighs.

His jaw tightens. A muscle twitches beneath his eye. For a moment, you think the rage is returning—that he's about to grab your hand again, to press another knife into the wound, to demand why you're still shaking, why you still look afraid.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he reaches over. Slowly. Gently. His fingers brush against yours, and he takes the roll of bandage from your trembling grip. His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Almost soft.

"Let me."

You don't hesitate. You let go immediately. Not because you want his help—but because you're terrified of refusing him. Because every instinct screams that compliance is survival.

You sit perfectly still, offering your injured hand, and let him do whatever he wants.

He begins wrapping the fresh bandage around your finger. His movements are careful, deliberate. His fingertips brush against your skin with surprising gentleness.

He aligns the gauze perfectly, winding it around the wound with practiced ease. The pressure is firm but not painful. He doesn't tug. He doesn't squeeze.

He doesn't apologize. Doesn't acknowledge your tears are still wet on your cheeks.

You stare at his hands. At the way his fingers move with such care. You don't understand. You can't understand. There is no logic to him, no pattern you can predict.

He hurts you. He holds you. He kisses you. He cuts you. He bandages you.

And between each act, he offers no explanation, no bridge between the two.

After a long silence, he speaks. His voice is calm, almost conversational.

"You almost did it."

He finishes wrapping another layer around your finger. "Who taught you?"

The question catches you completely off guard. Your mind goes blank for a second—then scrambles, reaching for an answer that won't upset him.

The words leave your mouth before you can think them through.

"My father..."

You say it instinctively, without meaning to. The memory surfaces briefly.

Satoru glances toward you. Just briefly. His expression doesn't change. Then he returns his attention to your hand, letting out a small hum—low and thoughtful.

He finishes tying the bandage neatly. A small, precise knot. Then he gently pats the back of your hand.

"Alright. All done."

His thumb brushes over the fresh bandage. Almost absentmindedly. The touch is featherlight, almost tender. His voice softens.

"I think I've still got some painkillers left..." A tiny smile curves his lips. "Just for you."

His fingertips stroke the back of your bandaged hand, tracing slow, soothing circles. Then, almost casually, he asks,

"Well..."

"[Name]..."

"Is there anything you're scared of?"

Silence...

Your thoughts immediately spiral.

Why? Why is he asking that? Did you answer something wrong? Is this another test? Is there a right answer? Is there a wrong one? What is he thinking? What does he want from you?

You can't read him anymore. Maybe you never could. His smile is soft, warm, inviting—but you've seen that same smile twist into fury in the span of a heartbeat.

You've seen his eyes go cold. You've felt the steel of a blade against your bones.

You stay silent too long.

His smile stretches just a little wider. Still soft. Still warm. Still impossible to trust. He tilts his head, the motion slow and deliberate.

"Hm?"

The single sound makes panic bloom inside your chest. A hot, suffocating wave that tightens your throat and makes your palms slick with sweat.

You need to answer. You need to say something. Anything. Something harmless. Something ordinary. Something that won't upset him.

Your voice comes out stammering, too fast. "Ah—me, I'm..." You scramble for the safest lie you can find.

"I'm scared of insects."

A nervous laugh escapes you—high and brittle, almost a giggle.

"Yeah... bugs... I don't like bugs."

Satoru blinks. One eyebrow lifts ever so slightly. For a fraction of a second, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—amusement? Suspicion?

Then he chuckles.

Soft, natural and, so normal...

For a brief moment, you almost forget. Almost. You remember why people fall for him so easily. How handsome he is. How gentle he can seem. How effortless his smile looks. How his laugh can sound so genuine, so warm, so inviting.

Until you remember everything else.

Still smiling, he says, "Aw... Insects, huh?" Another quiet chuckle.

"Guess that's pretty common among girls."

The conversation ends as abruptly as it began. He stands, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt with a casual motion. His tone shifts to something practical, almost distant.

"Well... Go to sleep." A pause.

"I need to leave now."

Your eyes lift toward him. Leave? You remember him mentioning a trip earlier during the other day. But now? This late at night?

You realize, with a sudden, hollow clarity, that you don't actually know what he does. Where he goes. Who he meets. What kind of work keeps him away for days.

You've lived beside him. Shared meals. Shared a bed. Shared every terrifying, breathless, impossible day. Yet you know almost nothing about his life.

The curiosity lingers only for a moment before you force it down.

Satoru quietly lays you down on the bed. His hand settles on your shoulder, turning your body, steering you toward the pillows. He waits until you've pulled the covers up to your chin.

He watches as you close your eyes. He doesn't move. He waits—as though making sure you're truly staying there, that you're not going to bolt the second he turns his back.

Only then does he lean down.

His lips press against your forehead. A soft, lingering kiss. Then another against your lips—gentle, unhurried, almost tender. Silent.

Without another word, he straightens. Walks toward the bedroom door. The door clicks open, then quietly shuts behind him.

The room falls into silence.

You open your eyes. Your hand still throbs beneath the fresh bandage. Your thoughts are a tangled knot of fear and confusion.

And one thought crosses your mind, quietly, as you lie there in the dark.

Maybe... maybe he'll be gone for two... three days.

—

You don't remember the moment consciousness slipped away. One moment you were lying in the dark, your bandaged hand throbbing, your mind still replaying everything, the way his voice shredded through your skull. The next moment, there is nothing.

But it doesn't last.

Something is wrong.

At first, it's barely perceptible—a faint tickle against your forearm, light as a whisper. Your sleeping mind tries to dismiss it. A loose thread. A strand of hair. The brush of a blanket.

Then another tickle. On your neck. Your ankle. The back of your hand.

Your dream shifts uneasily. Shadows coil and writhe. You feel something moving beneath the sheets, a subtle undulation against your thigh, and your stomach lurches with a nameless dread.

Your eyes snap open.

The bedroom is completely dark. Silent. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums, thick and suffocating.

You lie frozen, your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your temples.

Nothing moves.

You sit up slowly. The blankets rustle. Your eyes strain against the blackness, searching for shapes, for movement, for anything that might explain the crawling sensation that still lingers on your skin like a ghost touch.

Nothing...

You exhale. A shaky, relieved breath. Just a dream. Just a dream, yeah. You're safe. You're—

You place one hand back onto the plush bedding to steady yourself.

And you touch something.

Something cold and alive.

"—!?" Your hand recoils as if burned. The thing—whatever it is—squirms away beneath your fingertips, a wet, writhing motion that leaves a trail of horror imprinted on your palm.

Before you can even process what you touched, something small and dark suddenly launches itself from the darkness toward your face.

You scream.

The sound rips from your throat, raw and instinctive, as your entire body jerks violently backward.

You throw yourself off the bed, kicking away the blankets, wildly swatting at the air around your head, desperately trying to shield your face from an attack you can't see. Your feet tangle in the sheets. You stumble, catch yourself against the wall, and fumble blindly for the light switch.

Your fingers scrape against the plastic. You slam it on. The room floods with harsh, yellow light. And then you see them.

Not one or two bugs.

Too many.

Cockroaches crawl across the floor in waves—brown, glistening bodies moving in a slow, coordinated drift, their antennae twitching, their legs scuttling over the carpet fibers.

Some are large, almost obscenely so.

Spiders hang from the ceiling. Not just one or two. Dozens. They're suspended from invisible threads, dangling at various heights, their long legs curled and waiting.

Earthworms writhe across the carpet. Some are long and thick, coiling over each other in slow, wet knots. Others are thin as thread, barely visible until they catch the light.

They're everywhere—beneath your feet, beneath the bed, beneath the dresser, sliding out from under the door.

The furniture is covered. Your nightstand hosts a congregation of small, brown beetles. The dresser drawers have centipedes emerging from the gaps—dozens of legs rippling in unison.

The pillows on your bed are speckled with black ants, crawling in erratic lines, disappearing into the folds of fabric. The blankets are no longer safe; slugs cling to the hem, their mucus-slick bodies leaving silver trails across the cotton.

Everything moves.

Your mind stops working.

Your breathing becomes ragged. Short, sharp gasps that don't reach the bottom of your lungs.

Your skin crawls—you can feel them even when they're not touching you yet.

Your legs give out. You don't fall, but you stagger—one hand grasping the wall, your knuckles white, your nails scraping against the paint.

Your eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for a safe spot, a clean spot, somewhere your feet can rest without touching something alive.

But, they're everywhere.

On every surface. In every shadow. Crawling over your shoes by the door. Climbing the legs of the chair in the corner. Nesting in the folds of the curtains.

The curtains. The windows.

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, and you see them.

The curtains are no longer fabric. They're a surface. A writhing, shifting surface of clustered insects—flies, moths, beetles, earwigs—all pressed together, clinging to the cloth, crawling over each other in a dense, living tapestry.

Every possible escape route is blocked by the very thing you fear most.

The bedroom door is the only way out.

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You sprint across the room, your feet landing on carpet that squirms and crunches beneath you.

You grab the handle. Twist. Pull.

But, nothing...

The door is steel—solid, unyielding, impossible to break. You rattle the handle again and again, the metal clattering uselessly in the silence.

Panic detonates inside your chest.

You slam both fists against the door. The impact jars your arms, sends pain shooting through your injured hand, but you don't care.

You can't care. You pound against the steel until your palms sting, until your knuckles split, until the fresh bandage on your finger turns red again.

You scream. The sound tears out of you, raw and desperate, your voice cracking and breaking.

"SATORU!!"