#matenme

The rain beat against the car’s glass, forming small streams that slowly slid down the windshield as the wipers brushed them away to keep the road in sight. The vehicle moved at a cautious speed along the wet highway, while the landscape glided past your eyes. The sky, meanwhile, was painted in shades of gray and blue; the wind shook the branches and leaves of the trees, making it clear that the weather was freezing. However, inside the car, the atmosphere was different: the warm air from the heater kept the interior at the perfect, comfortable temperature so that you wouldn’t worry about the cold. Beside you, focused on the steering wheel, was your husband: Rohan Kishibe.

The two of you were returning to Morioh once again, after your honeymoon. You could have stayed a few more days at the place where you had been lodging, but… the constant calls hadn’t let you enjoy your time together. The phone rang at least once a week. It was always you that he was after: a man with a heavy voice, spitting obscenities at you. No matter how many times you blocked him, he always found a way back, either with another number or through nearby phones.

....

As you gazed at the horizon, your thoughts drifted to the past, to that day when you first met him. The memory was so vivid that you could almost hear again the deep voice of the presenter, an elderly man who welcomed the audience from the stage. The crowd erupted into cheers, the excitement of people gathered there for one great reason: to meet their favorite creators. Yet, deep down, everyone knew who the true star of the event was—Rohan Kishibe, the most famous mangaka in the world.

However, there were also those who had come for you. Your gothic horror novels had caused quite a stir among readers. Dark, morbid, and fascinating, they had carved out a place in the hearts of the public—though not without controversy. You remembered the letters from outraged parents accusing you of corrupting the youth with your disturbing tales. You, on the other hand, had always answered calmly: it was not your responsibility to decide what other people’s children read.

Despite those controversies, your career had also given you good moments. Among them, the most important of all: meeting the man who now sat driving at your side—your beloved husband.

When you and Rohan first met, it was because he had taken the first step. After reading one of your novels, he was captivated. He could not bear the curiosity; he wanted to see you, to hear you, to confirm with his own eyes the existence of the person who had consumed his thoughts. Your stories had marked him in a strange, almost dangerous way. He had never read anything so alive. Your way of narrating, of dragging the reader into the tale, made anyone shudder and feel in their own flesh what your protagonists endured.

Suddenly, the sound of your phone shattered the steady murmur of the rain. The screen lit up the inside of the car, revealing a message from an unknown number: “When you get to Morioh, watch the local news.”

Before you could answer, the call ended abruptly, leaving behind a strange silence—almost uncomfortable.

“Such ridiculous persistence…” murmured Rohan, without taking his eyes off the road. His tone was calm, yet laced with that sharp irony so characteristic of him. “Do you think it deserves our attention… or am I just letting myself be carried away by boredom?”

You nodded slowly, still staring at the screen.

“Yes… but this time it was different. He asked us to watch the local news,” you said softly, sliding your finger across the screen before turning the phone off.

You lifted your gaze back to the road, and something caught your attention immediately. A dark, motionless shape stood out at the side of the road. The reflection of the headlights gave it a strange, almost unsettling outline.

“Rohan… wait,” you asked, your eyes fixed on the thing lying by the roadside. “Stop the car. There’s a bundle… right there.”

He slowed down without asking questions, with that controlled precision he always displayed, and pulled over to the side of the road. The rain drummed against the roof of the vehicle as you opened the door and stepped out, the cold air striking your face at once.

You walked toward the bundle, the wet pavement soaking the soles of your shoes. Your eyes fixed on the drenched figure. Behind you, you heard the driver’s door close softly. Rohan was following, though with less haste than you; he was pulling out his camera, as if he had already foreseen that this might become material worth capturing.

The bundle remained there, motionless, waiting under the rain.

A pitiful whimper broke the tension of the moment. The two of you exchanged a quick glance before stepping closer. When you lit it up with your phone’s flashlight, the truth revealed itself: it wasn’t trash, nor some discarded object… it was a puppy.

The little animal trembled, its leg twisted at an impossible angle. It breathed with difficulty, its tongue lolling between ragged pants, while small, heartbreaking cries slipped from its throat.

“Poor angel…” you whispered tenderly, leaning down to examine it with care. You extended your hand slowly, trying to soothe the creature that could barely move without trembling and howling in pain.

Rohan, on the other hand, didn’t share your instinct for immediate compassion. He had crouched down as well, but what he held in his hands wasn’t anything meant to help—it was his camera. The click of the shutter cut through the strained atmosphere.

“Interesting…” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the wound. “The leg is broken at an impossible angle. This wasn’t a natural accident. It was dragged… or deliberately run over.”

You frowned, pressing your lips together. “Do you think someone abandoned it here? There’s nothing around… just trees and road.”

“It would seem so,” he replied with cold logic, adjusting the lens of his camera. “Move it a little. I need to capture the perspective of the wound. Every detail matters for my manga.”

“Of course.” With great care, you lifted the puppy and shifted it just enough for Rohan to take another shot. The camera’s flash briefly lit up the rain, like an artificial lightning bolt.

When the two of you were done, you didn’t hesitate to cradle the puppy in your arms. The animal whimpered softly, then nestled against your chest, seeking refuge in your warmth. Rohan put away his camera, returned to the car, and soon was back at the wheel, while you, in the passenger seat, held the little dog carefully, as if it were something fragile.

And yet, even as the tenderness of the moment occupied you, your mind inevitably drifted back to that call. That voice. That invisible intruder who had been haunting your life for the past two months. It wasn’t the first time, and you were certain it wouldn’t be the last.

You remembered clearly his obscene words, the disturbing comments in which he described, with sickening precision, what he would do to Rohan if he could have him in front of him. Each call was a poison seeping into your peace, a constant harassment that had become unbearable.

“I’ll lock you in a cage… and I’ll torture Rohan right in front of you, at least that way you’ll have inspiration for your next book.”

But you had sworn that would never happen. You had sworn to protect your husband, even if it meant getting your hands dirty to do it.

You knew the stalker was in the same town where Rohan had spent his childhood. Morioh—the same place where you had ended Kira Yoshikage’s life.

The violet ropes glinting, tightening between your fingers like puppet strings. The paramedic stepping back, confused, thinking he acted of his own volition. And then, the dull impact, the wet crunch. The ambulance reversing, crushing Kira’s head against the asphalt. No one ever knew it was you.

And just as it had been with Kira… it would be the same with this disgusting stalker, who dared to shatter the fragile peace you and Rohan had maintained.

That despicable being would learn the mistake of interfering in their lives. And when they finally caught him, he would regret having been born. That would be their promise, their sentence

(...)

Upon arriving at Rohan’s house, you followed to the letter what the mysterious voice on the phone had instructed: you turned on the television and put on the news. On the table, you improvised a small first-aid kit: disinfectant, gauze, bandages. With steady but careful hands, you cleaned the paw and immobilized it with a small homemade splint. The puppy trembled, but under your touch, it began to relax.

Just as you finished adjusting the bandage on its injured paw and placed it in a safe corner, a sound from the television in the room caught your attention. The presenter’s voice carried through the walls, but you couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. You stood up, wiping your hands on a cloth, and walked toward the television.

The screen cast a bluish glow across the room, illuminating your face as you approached. There was the presenter, serious, his voice heavy with urgency:

“And in other breaking news… a body has been reported inside the storage area of a local school. So far, no suspects have been identified. Witnesses and experts suggest that this macabre incident may have been inspired by the famous psychological horror novel by author (Your Name) Kishibe, whose story is also set in a high school. What we can say with certainty is that this case is capturing the attention of the entire community, and investigations are ongoing…”

The rest of the sentence was lost to you. Everything around you began to fade. The presenter’s voice turned into a blurred murmur, as if coming from far away. Your vision narrowed into a dark tunnel, and the ground beneath your feet seemed to sway like the deck of a ship in the middle of the sea.

How did he know? With what intentions had he done this? What was he trying to do? Get your attention? This man knew what you were doing; he was watching you in some way. You thought there was a high probability that this man was a Stand user. What chilled you to the bone was the way he seemed to anticipate every single one of your steps.

A torrent of rage coursed through your body. You clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug into your palms. You kept pressing until you felt the sharp pain, until the skin tore beneath your nails. Blood began to trickle slowly, sliding down your hands in thick drops that fell to the floor, staining it a dark red. Each drop was a silent vow of what you would do to him when you finally found him.

Your mind went to that chapter of your book—the scene where the killer stuffed the victim into the theater workshop storage to “hide” the crime, or rather, to mock the police. He passed the corpse off as a mere mannequin. The fiction you had once created now seemed to bleed into reality, and the world, all at once…

Strangely, the idea that someone was bringing your book to life did not terrify you. No, what truly ignited your thoughts was the intrusion into your territory, the direct threat to the safety and peace of Rohan… and yours. The thought of confronting anyone who dared to reproduce your story in flesh and bone did not fill you with fear; it sent a delicious, sadistic shiver down your spine.

If anyone thought they could threaten Rohan, they were playing with fire. And you already knew what to do. Because protecting him was not just instinct… it was a work of art in itself, perfect and as calculated as any plot from your darkest, most bizarre novels.

You startled as firm hands settled on your shoulders, but when you turned, the tension melted immediately: it was Rohan. You sighed with relief and wrapped your arms around him, resting your forehead against his chest.

Rohan tilted his face and buried his head in the hollow of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, as if he wanted to memorize it in silence. His warm breath brushed against your skin, while his hands touched your waist, pulling you closer. It was a possessive, intense embrace—so unmistakably his.

“When we catch that depraved man,” he murmured in a low voice, yet laden with a coldness that contrasted with the warmth of his touch, “believe me, when I catch him, there will be nowhere for him to hide from what’s waiting. Every disgusting word, every attempt to bother… I’ll make him pay. And I’m not talking about a simple scolding.”

It was the kind of declaration only Rohan could make: brutal in content, yet inexplicably reassuring coming from him.

Rohan didn’t respond with words. He simply tilted his face and sought your lips. The kiss started gentle but soon became more intense, a passionate surrender where every touch and every sigh proved how deeply connected you were.

But then Rohan noticed your wounded hands.

He took your hand and frowned at the sight of the injuries. “Tch… careless,” he muttered. “Wait a moment.”

He searched the room for a sheet of paper, and when he couldn’t find one at hand, he gently tugged you toward his study.

“Place your hand on the desk,” he ordered as he turned on the work lamp.

He retrieved a blank sheet and, without asking further permission, began moving his pencil across the paper swiftly.

“Before I treat this… I need to capture it. The texture of your injured skin, the contrast… it would be a waste not to record it.”

(...)

The sun barely filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting golden lines that sliced through the gloom in thin rays across the floor and walls of the house. The light delicately illuminated every corner, yet it failed to dispel the tension hanging in the air: a palpable, almost electric tension. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint scent of the breakfast you had prepared, but neither the smell nor the routine could soothe the restlessness coursing through you from head to toe.

In the kitchen, you and Rohan were surrounded by stacks of papers, printed photographs, open folders, and a whiteboard propped on a chair, covered with notes and diagrams illegible to any casual observer.

All morning, you had worked without pause, trying to decipher the identity of that mysterious stalker. Every photograph, every news clipping, and every note on the whiteboard was a piece of a puzzle that seemed to shift shape as you assembled it.

And as your hands moved over the papers, a memory resurfaced, so vivid you could almost hear it: the calls. That perverse voice, describing with sickening precision what they would do to Rohan if they ever had him in front of them. Their words were filled with contempt, yet also carried an unsettling knowledge of your routine. They said disgusting things, insults aimed directly at you, as if they knew your mind as well as the palm of their hand.

You laughed, because you were not someone who feared. Quite the opposite: you felt a cold delight imagining what would await that miserable person if they ever dared to cross the line.

Rohan, meanwhile, maintained the calm characteristic of his personality, his sharp gaze analyzing every photograph, every corner of the apartment, while adjusting the angle of his camera or jotting notes on the whiteboard. Despite his apparent serenity, you could feel his contained tension. And that pleased you. Because while he planned with surgical precision how to unmask the stalker, you planned what you would do when you finally caught them.

And you, holding your cup of coffee and leaning against the table, couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of satisfaction. Every move the stalker made, every disturbing call, every attempt at intimidation… only brought you closer to the catharsis you were destined to deliver.

(...)

A few days had passed. You were in the kitchen, preparing tea for yourself and Rohan. You picked up some chamomile sprigs between your delicate fingers; the sound of the water boiling in the kettle filled the room with a soft, rhythmic whistle. You carefully placed the sprigs in the infuser, and little by little, they began to release their fragrance, filling the kitchen with a warm, comforting aroma.

As the tea steeped, your mind wandered. On your way to the station, you had seen a dead bird; surely tomorrow you would collect it to dissect. It was a habit of yours: learning from every small corpse you found, opening it with surgical precision and studying it, analyzing its composition and anatomy. A routine that brought you peace while simultaneously awakening a curious fascination with the fragility of life.

When the tea was ready, you poured it at the table. Rohan was seated, absorbed in a geology book; according to him, the knowledge would be useful for his manga. You both held your cups carefully, inhaling the aroma before taking a sip, and briefly discussed the situation with the stalker who had been bothering you.

“I need to go to the library to find a specific book… will you come with me?” Rohan asked, without lifting his eyes from his reading.

You nodded, placing your cup on the table. It was then, as you took a sip, that you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. You pulled it out and saw it was an unknown number. Almost automatically, you answered, bringing it to your ear—and heard that voice again: a slow, heavy, deliberate breathing that ran along the line like a chill.

“Good afternoon, (Name). Are you alone?”

You excused yourself to Rohan, stood up from the table, and moved to a secluded spot. “Yes, I am.”

“Great… You see, I’d like to propose a deal. Look, I’ve been a fan of yours since you started publishing your books… I’ve bought every single one, followed you from the very beginning, even before you met… Kishibe Rohan.”

“My husband.”

“Yes…”

“Get to the point.”

“I propose to return peace to both of you, but in exchange… I want you to come with me somewhere, just to talk in person.”

“Can you tell me why?”

(...)

Both of you left the house, the afternoon breeze gently moving your hair as you walked toward the library. For a moment, everything seemed calm. Until you heard voices approaching on the sidewalk.

“Miss (your name), how are you? It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Okuyasu said with a casual smile, but his tone was far too familiar for your liking. You immediately felt the tension rise around you, but you stayed composed and gave him a smile. “Yes, very well, and yes, it is a lovely day.”

Rohan frowned as he saw him; it was clear he didn’t like their presence. He looked away. “Just great… that idiot Okuyasu and that brute Josuke…” he thought. “Good afternoon,” he said aloud.

“Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Rohan. How’s the manga coming along?” said Okuyasu.

“Fine.” Rohan turned to look at Josuke, who was staring elsewhere, hands in his pockets, ignoring him as if he were a professional rival.

“Although I doubt you understand my work,” Rohan added in a contemptuous tone, still staring at Josuke. “It’s not exactly for simple minds.”

Rohan crossed his arms, watching Josuke, waiting for him to say something. “Aren’t you going to greet me?”

Josuke cleared his throat. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on, Higashikata… you know very well. But I don’t need details. I just hoped your courtesy wasn’t as dysfunctional as your sense of style.”

“Whatever you say, Rohan. Surely you’re too ‘deep’ for anyone normal to understand you, right?” Josuke looked at Rohan with a challenging smile.

Rohan raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Higashikata? Is the hair salon closed? Your hairstyle looks even more ridiculous than usual.”

Josuke clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking under the pressure. For a moment, his Stand seemed to appear. “What did you just say…?”

The air turned tense. Okuyasu took a step back, not wanting to get involved in this charged moment, recognizing the dangerous aura that usually precedes a disaster he wanted to avoid today.

But then Josuke glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. A fleeting memory crossed his mind: your serene, icy smile, your fingers moving as if you were a puppeteer… and the burning pain of that beating he still couldn’t forget. It stayed in his mind as if it were a trauma—an unforgettable experience.

Josuke sighed, looking away. “…Forget it. I’m not getting into trouble with you today, Rohan.”

“Thought so. At least you have some sense,” Rohan replied.

Josuke spun around sharply and pulled Okuyasu along to continue on their way.

Okuyasu followed Josuke, somewhat confused and uncomfortable. “Uh… well, see you then. Goodbye, Miss (your name)!”

And so, with the tension still lingering in the air, the three went their separate ways.

(...)

After your visit to the library and returning home, you didn’t tell Rohan about the stalker; you didn’t want to worry him. That morning, you had already noticed him stressed: his editor had made changes to his manga without notifying him, and they had argued for a while before reaching an agreement. That meant he would have to review and edit the dialogues again.

You watched him for a few minutes before leaving the house, working in a hurry, scribbling endlessly. Nothing too serious, really. It’s not like the whole universe was going to restart or something.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t help Rohan for now. But it didn’t matter—you would pay a visit to the editor later…

…

A message arrived with an address on the outskirts of Morioh, almost at the edge of the forest. You arrived at exactly ten o'clock. Nothing in your expression betrayed nervousness; rather, there was a sickly calm.

You reached the agreed-upon location by car. The streetlight illuminated the entrance to a half-empty warehouse. Inside, the man waited, shifting nervously, wearing an uneasy smile.

“I’m glad you came…” he said, in a tone meant to sound confident but that faltered at times. “I thought you might be scared.”

You simply stared at him in silence. Your gaze was so cold that the stalker grew uncomfortable, swallowing hard.

“You’re not going to speak… huh?” he continued. “Look, I just want you to understand one thing. I love you and I could be better than Rohan in many ways, if you give me the chance to prove it… you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

You made a gesture with your hand, signaling him to shut up. “I’m not interested in what you’re capable of.” Your voice was soft but concealed a cold, deadly irritation. “I didn’t come here for that.”

The stalker blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

You stepped closer, and in that instant, the fine violet strands of your Stand began to manifest, barely visible in the darkness, like puppet strings.

“You called me, gave me this address, threatened me,” you pressed a finger against his chest with an almost delicate motion. “In reality, you just handed me the perfect stage.”

“Stage? What are you—”

The stalker hesitated as he saw the fine violet threads spreading around his body, barely visible in the shadows. He tried to move, but his feet felt glued to the ground, as if the strings held him firmly in place. And suddenly, he lost awareness of what he was doing…

Your voice rose, soft, calm, like a lethal whisper: “Remember when I said death could be an art?” You placed a finger on your chin and looked away thoughtfully. “I think I said it in an interview. You should know… you’re my biggest fan. Remember? Today, you’ll see one of my stories… live.”

As you spoke, one of the strings of your Stand, I Monster, wrapped around his wrist, another around his neck. You could feel the man’s racing pulse, his eyes wide, filled with terror, not understanding what was happening…

“Let’s see…” you murmured, “…how my favorite character ends.”

His movements became clumsy and grotesque. Your invisible threads forced him to lift a pencil that lay in the pocket of his coat. His hands, still believing they acted of their own volition, obeyed your commands. With a shuddering tremor, he brought the pencil toward his eye, his fingers shaking as the pain began.

“As I said in the book…” you continued, while his flesh yielded to the pressure of the sharp object, “…every heartbeat counts when life slowly fades away.”

The pencil pierced, penetrating the eyeball, and the man screamed instinctively in agony.

“Silence… listen to me.”

You silenced him with a single movement of your fingers. Your partial control prevented him from moving, leaving him only to writhe in indescribable pain. The muffled screams filled the warehouse, but there was no one to come to his aid. Every movement was dictated by your threads, torturing his body as if he were a puppet.

As the blood flowed, hot and thick, you observed every gesture of agony. His face contorted, his pale lips trembled, and the intact eye frantically followed you. Without stopping your observation, you narrated in detail: “…and so, on the last page, his bleeding eye reflected the betrayal of his own arrogance. Despair was his only gift, pain his eternity.”

The man finally collapsed to the ground, the pencil still embedded, groaning as his blood painted a crimson map across the concrete. His labored breathing and the metallic scent filled the space. There was no escape. I Monster maintained every muscle under your command, every spasm of pain, every groan of horror.

But you didn’t let him die… that would have been too easy, too indulgent for what he truly deserved. Your mind had already decided the next step. With a cold and precise movement, you dragged the trembling body to the car; the man could barely stay conscious, but his fear became part of your control. You threw him forcefully into the trunk, and the impact caused the vehicle to jerk, a metallic shudder echoing in your ears.

You got into the car and started the engine. As you drove home, his restrained breathing and weak pleas accompanied you, reminding you that the danger he posed to Rohan had been contained.

You already knew what to do… and you and Rohan could finally relax and put your new test subject to good use… your stalker had gone from a man to a test subject.

…

No one missed him, no one looked for him, no one thought of him… He had been a lonely man who had found a faint warm light in your novels, a sick obsession with understanding you, with wanting to be part of your world. And he did… but not in the way he expected. By attempting to threaten the stability you shared with your husband, he only brought about his own end.

Today, he could say goodbye to the world in the most painful way imaginable… or perhaps tomorrow—everything would depend on how long the torture he brought upon himself lasted.

This is the end. Honestly, I was already eager to finish it. It was tough having to redo everything I had — the sketches, the notes, the timelines. I ended up having to cut the story down a lot, otherwise I never would’ve finished it haha.

Si conocen ese video no??? Espero y si. Por cierto, estoy en el hospital mientras escribo esto. Me acaban de sacar sangre, así que mi brazo duele (T△T)