#vertigo

You blinked again. Ten more times for good measure. He stood at the table. Setting down items you couldn't see because of his broad figure. Head hung. Not in his jacket. But that was his white hair. The back of his blindfold. His voice.

Satoru. Your husband.

Tension drained from your shoulders. You sigh. Relieved. Then hitch— confused.

Why were you bound?

"Toru? What's going on?" You tugged on the restraints, pouted. "These are tight. What're you up to now?"

You were surprised. But you couldn't really be surprised at that. You signed up for a life full of uncertainties when you married the man, the maniac: Gojo Satoru. 'Always expect the unexpected' was surely in your wedding vows. Probably in fine print on your marriage certificate.

Was he trying something new? Some more kinky shit that he's always on about? You did say you wanted to try something new. Last thing you expected was for him to take it in a: lemme abduct my wife from the grocery store and lock her in a dingy basement kind of way, though.

Odd choice. Considering you've been dealing with kidnappings and ransoms since you slipped his pretty silver and sapphire ring on your finger.

"You know," you mumbled, tugging on your wrists again. "When I said something new, I was talking wax or something. Temperature play y'know?"

He chuckled. Deep and rich.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhhm. But roleplay's fine too I guess. Just loosen this up a bit?"

It's your husband.

It's your husband.

It's your husband and his extraordinaire personality. Your husband and his knack for swiping the rug from beneath your feet.

So why were the hairs on your neck still standing?

He turned around. Something in hands. Small and black. You were flushing before you had the chance to shoot him something coy. Knees pressing together the way they always did when his lips set in that thin line. When from even beneath his blindfold you knew his eyes were serious. That rare firmness that had you gripping the sheets and tossing your head back into the pillow.

He approached. Lifted your face. The callouses kissed your jawline. His hands felt rougher. Your thighs quaked.

A thumb and forefinger grasped your chin. His touch felt warmer as he tilted your head. Side to side. Pale brow arched and lips set thinner.

He muttered something. You didn't hear. You were too focused on the item in his hand and his thumb that swiped to the base.

Click.

Your knees pressed tighter. Tummy looping. You anticipated buzzing.

Buzzing.

Where was the buzzing?

You flinched. Aching eyes screeching at the burst of light shone directly onto them. He pinched the item in his large hand and brought it to your eyes. Only then did you realise it was a torch.

"Uhm—" you winced again. His grip tightened. Holding you steady as he observed your constricting pupils.

"Satoru? What're you—"

"Don't worry your pretty little head 'bout it. Just making sure you don't have any brain damage."

"I— what?"

Brain damage? Why would your husband need to search you for that?

The answer throbbed from the back of your skull. Dull and aching. It only confused you more. Did he hit you? Hell— weren't you at the grocery store?

Did he.

Did Satoru fucking knock you out?

"Satoru— what the fuck is going on?"

Excitement bled into something darker. Something colder. The flutter in your tummy twisted. On instinct you tugged on the binds again.

He switched the torch off, but didn't answer.

"Satoru, this isn't funny." You tried to harden your voice. Your stare. In that way that always told him his joke was going too far. Or that your patience was running thin.

But your eyes quivered. Your heart stuttered. Hell— sprinted. A race off with your mind as you scrambled for answers. Tried to shove away anxieties and the growing fear gnawing at the back of your skull.

He only stared. Crooked his head. Silent.

Too silent for Satoru.

"Let me go— untie me." You repeated, brows pinched, fingers clenched. "This isn't funny. Untie—"

The chair rocked.

His hand shot to the back of it. Shoved it. So the front legs lifted off and your legs dangled in the air. Your yelp choked through the dark room and your body braced for the cold floor instinctively. Eyes squeezed shut. Shoulders squared.

It never came.

His long fingers curled around the backrest. Gripped it tight. Supporting the chair so that it dangled on its hind legs. So that your body limped back and cowered against it. Helpless. More helpless than you already were.

"Jumpy little thing, aren't you?"

He crooned. Velvet smoothed over a rasp from the back of his throat. He stared you down. The kind of stare that pinned you in place. The kind of stare that husbands don't look at their wives with.

"Wh-What're you—" you croaked, confusion drowning in your gaped eyes. "Satoru. Please. I'm scared."

He was silent again. Silent in the way that wasn't your husband. A quiet that pinched on your growing anxiety and weaved it into fear. Something rational. Real.

Easily, he brought the chair back. Smoothly resting it on the floor.

"Ouch. So he really hasn't talked about me, huh?"

He? Who's he?

Your frantic eyes glued to him as he withdrew and rounded back to the table. Setting down the torch and running a finger over the other items. Now that your eyes weren't bleary with sleep— you could see them clearly.

Blades.

Blades. A nail clipper. Was that a wooden rod? A bucket?

Your breath thinned. Heart lunged into your throat. Knees quaking— and not in the way they once were. When you thought this was all some kinky foreplay from your husband who took your suggestion into consideration.

"I. . ." you tried to find the words, the questions, anything but the fear weighing on the back of your tongue. "What's. . . What's going on? Where am I? Why are you—"

"So many questions. You talk this much to all your kidnappers or am I just special?"

You watched closely. Anxiously. As he swiped up one of the tools. A blade. A dagger to be precise. Unsheathed and narrowed at the tip. He tilted it in his hand. The steel glinted back into your eye.

Only then did you see the dangling lamp above your head. Dull like the rest of the room. Not enough to see where you were— but enough to see your body. To see him. See whatever he planned to do to you.

"Quite the hefty bounty on your head, y'know." He raised the knife, idly observing and fiddling with it. "Bigger than most. You must be one special girl, huh?"

He turned. Leaned back on the table with one hand on the edge as the other tipped the razed blade in your direction. "A shame, really. A waste of a pretty face."

The blade glinted your fate. Hanging from his hand like an extra limb rather than a weapon. As if his hands were sharper than steel. His fingers loaded with bullets.

Or maybe that was his tongue?

"So tell me. Does he always let you get caught up in his mess?"

There it was again. He. Who the hell was he talking about?

Your fingers curled deep in your palms. Wrists tight. Like your jaw. Like your heart. As you stared at the man that wore your husband's skin.

He sounded like your husband.

Looked like your husband.

Tall as him. The same fluffy white hair. The same black blindfold. Grinned with the same teeth as him.

Hell— joked like him too. Quick and crude. Sharp like a scalpel.

But you knew. Irrevocably. Unfathomably. The answer pulsed through your pumping veins and buzzed in the dizziness of your head. Soured in the nausea on your tongue.

This man— this thing— this creature in black that approached you with a blade in his hand rather than the beautiful bouquets you were so used to.

This wasn't your husband.

"Satoru."

You still called for him like it was. Like the name alone would save you. Soft and scared. Shaking as he loomed over you.

Maybe it was an act.

Maybe it was a joke.

Maybe he was really committed to the bit.

Maybe he'd laugh when he saw your tears and pull you into his arms.

Maybe he'd assure you that it was just a cruel trick. An early April fool's prank.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.

Your head inched away. Pressing further into the wooden chair that bit back in splinters through your clothes. "I. . . why— why are you acting like this? I'm scared."

He stopped in front of you. The phantom of your beloved. The nightmare that wore his skin and dared to try and charm you with his grin.

"Well maybe," he hummed. Leaning over you. Looming. His presence stabbing into you more than the binds did.

He raised a hand—

You flinched.

— and pinched at the corner of his blindfold.

Then peeled it back. Lifting one edge to his brow to reveal the same pale skin you'd kiss goodnight. The same blue eyes you'd wake up to every morning.

Beautiful. Brutal.

With a scar cleaved over one. Ugly. Violent.

Etched with years and carnage.

He leaned in. Close. Too close. To give you a better look. To burn it in your memory. "Cause I'm not your Satoru."

His head tilted. Like it was nothing. Like he was telling you about the weather.

"Make sense?" He crooned. Patted your cheek with the flat of his hand.

He didn't care for your shock nor your terror. Barely blinked at your gaped eyes and your parted mouth.

He just withdrew. His face at least, as he observed your stare. Brow arched. Lip quirked. "What? Think I'm pretty?"

"Who. . ." You quivered. "Are you?"

The cold dagger pressed smooth beneath your chin and nudged it. Tilting your head to him as he hummed.

"Gojo Satoshi."

.

.

.

What?

"I know. Real original." He rolled his eyes, sharp teeth peeking from his grin. "People hear 'twins' and go crazy with the names."

"Twins? What do you mean tw—"

"My brother's keeping you all pretty and dumb, huh?"

If you weren't so bewildered, you might have been offended.

Instead, you scrunched your brows. A hundred questions and a thousand theories racing through your panicked mind. The man before you looked like your husband. Sounded like your husband. Grinned and joked exactly like the man whose ring was on your finger.

He stood before you not as a curse. Not as something wearing Satoru's skin.

But as his twin. A twin you knew nothing about.

"I don't understand," you said, the crick in your neck tensing. "Satoru has a twin? He never told me."

"Course he didn't, dollface. I'm his dirty little secret."

Satoshi sighed, theatrical, as he withdrew the knife.

Then snapped! his arm. Fast. Too fast for you to react. Your flinch and yelp were delayed.

Thud!

The blade ripped into the wall behind you. Taking with it just a few strands of your hair. It barely grazed your cheek. But your heart still pounded. Eyes still glazed.

Despite it all, you managed to ask, "what do you want with me?"

Breathy, shaky, a hint of praying hope. As you hesitated to look up at him while he slipped the blindfold back over his eye. Hiding away the only thing that distinguished him from his twin.

"It's not you I want," he hummed, stepping away. Yet his stare lingered. Raking over every inch of you in a way that told you something else.

"Like I said, you got a nice price over your head. And Satoru's stupid enough to let a pretty thing like you walk around alone."

Turning his back to you, he stretched his long arms above his head with a long sigh. "You see, my brother and I have some unfinished business. And unfortunately for him, he's got a weak spot now."

His head turned. Glancing at you from over his shoulder. There's that fucking grin again. That one that looked too much like the Satoru you knew and loved.

"So, enjoy your stay~"

Singing. He was singing as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked to the door. Pushing it open and ignoring your protests together with the harsh scratching of rope.

"What does that even mean! Hey! Wait get back here— I have questions!"

"Same here. I mean, wax?"

You flushed. Growing stiff the second he decided to pick on your careless words from earlier. "That—"

His grin only grew. Head curving back to you once more. With his brow arched and his teeth glinting in the dim light.

"What? Embarrassed?" He cooed. "Not to worry. I won't tell Satoru a thing when he comes to get you."

"What so you're banking on that?"

"But of course."

He kicked the door wider. Revealing a staircase that he trekked up. Leaving you behind in the dark basement with questions etched into all four walls. Still tugging on your restraints and thrashing in the chair.

Until he called back down to you. Stiffening you in cold sweat. His voice echoed. Casual. Too casual for a statement so weaved in hatred.

"How else am I gonna kill the bastard?"

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/_teaforgods (ig).

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