Antisocial personality disorder, sometimes called sociopathy, is a mental health condition in which a person consistently shows no regard for right and wrong and ignores the rights and feelings of others. People with antisocial personality disorder tend to purposely make others angry or upset and manipulate or treat others harshly or with cruel indifference. They lack remorse or do not regret their behavior.
WARNING: MANIPULATION of emotion. Mild Physical hurt. Toji is mentally deranged and confused. Emotions shift every-time. Dead dove: do not read.
IT WAS supposed to be harmless.
Her childhood friend had come to visit, worried after hearing Saki was overworked. He brought snacks, teased her the way only an old friend could, and for the first time in weeks, Saki laughed freely.
But when she returned to Room 217, she felt it immediately—the air shifted, thick with something sharp and suffocating.
Seated in his usual spot by the window, but his posture was tense, his jaw set. His green eyes were darker than she had ever seen, burning like venom beneath the calm surface.
“Who was he?” His voice was low, steady, but carried the weight of restrained violence.
Saki’s stomach dropped. “He’s just… my friend.”
The patient stood, each step toward her measured and deliberate, a predator circling its prey. “A friend. A boy friend.”
Saki swallowed hard, forcing herself not to back away. “You’re overreacting—”
“Overreacting?” He cut her off, his hand slamming against the wall beside her head, caging her in. His body pressed too close, his breath hot against her cheek. “I’ve tolerated the nurses. The doctors. This place. But him—touching you, making you smile like that—”
His teeth clenched, voice breaking into a growl. “I won’t allow it.”
Her heart pounded, fear and heat twisting together. “You can’t control who I see outside of this room.”
His eyes narrowed, dangerous. “You think you can walk out there and belong to someone else? No. You’re mine, Saki. Mine.”
His fingers curled around her wrist, tight enough to hurt, yet his other hand cupped her face with startling gentleness, thumb brushing her cheek as if she were fragile glass.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered, voice trembling with something darker than rage. “If anyone tries to take you from me, I’ll destroy them. Even him. Especially him.”
Saki’s chest tightened, breath caught between fear and something else—because despite the threat in his voice, his touch on her skin was desperate, pleading, as though he feared losing her more than anything.
The night after the confrontation, Saki couldn’t shake the image of his face — the way his jaw locked, the tremor in his voice, the threat buried under his touch. She told herself he’d calm down, that it was just a moment of jealousy.
When she entered his room the next morning, he wasn’t sitting by the window like usual. He was pacing, his green eyes wild in a way she’d never seen before.
“You ignored my calls,” he said without looking at her. His voice was soft, but laced with something lethal. “You stayed with him, didn’t you?”
Saki’s stomach twisted. “He’s just a friend. You’re imagining things.”
In a blink he was in front of her, his hand gripping the back of her neck—it hurts, he hold her still, like a wolf pinning its prey. His forehead rested against hers, eyes burning.
“I’m not lying—” she began, but his voice cut her off, low and trembling.
“I could feel it. You smell like him. You smiled for him. You never smile for me like that.” His grip loosened just enough to slide to her waist, pulling her closer. “I’m the one who should make you smile. I’m the one who should be inside your head. Only me.”
Saki’s breath came fast, panic and heat twisting together. “You’re scaring me.”
At that, something flickered in his eyes. His grip faltered, his chest heaving as though he was fighting something inside himself. For a heartbeat, the predator cracked, showing the man beneath.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But when I think of him touching you… it kills me.”
He sank to his knees in front of her, hands sliding around her waist like a plea, head resting against her stomach. “Don’t make me lose you. Don’t let me break, Saki.”
Her heart ached. This was no longer just jealousy; it was a wound, raw and bleeding.
Toji knows, he wasn’t supposed to feel any anger, jealousy or even be afraid. He feels trapped, his breathing narrow and it becomes hard for him to think properly.
This feeling. He doesn’t want it. It’s suffocating, unfamiliar, scary.
Saki had been working nonstop, and the head nurse insisted she take a week off. “Go home, rest. You’ve earned it,” they said.
She agreed reluctantly, thinking of her wolf. He had grown so used to her presence—would he notice her absence? Or would he simply smirk and move on as he always did with people?
But when the first night without her came, something unexpected happened.
Room 217 was silent, darker than usual. He sat by the window, waiting as he always did. But the door never opened. Her footsteps never came.
At first, he told himself it didn’t matter. She was just another nurse. Another face. Another fleeting figure in a world he didn’t care for.
But as hours dragged on, his jaw clenched. His hands trembled. His chest tightened with something unfamiliar. Agitation.
By the second day, he was pacing. His thoughts circled endlessly, intrusive, gnawing: Where is she? Who is she with? Why hasn’t she come back?
On the third night, he stopped eating. The nurses whispered nervously outside his door, but he ignored them all. He only wanted her.
By the fourth day something terrible had taken root inside him — a cold, flowering thing that swallowed whatever softness she’d coaxed out of him. It turned vicious and immediate. The words crawled up from someplace dark and feral: “I’ll kill her.” Sharp, electric, and repeated until they felt less like a thought and more like a carved command.
“If you cannot stay here with me, then, I will end you”
The mantra rewired him; in that loop he was not the man she’d known but the person he’d been before she ever existed.
A hollow ache he didn’t understand. His hands gripped his hair as he growled into the empty room. “Why… what is this?”
He had never felt it before—not grief, not longing, not fear of loss. His world had always been flat, gray, unfeeling.
But Saki’s absence carved a hole inside him.
For the first time in his life, he was feeling. And he hated it.
The first time he felt it, he thought it was just agitation. The second time, when his chest clenched so tight he couldn’t breathe, he almost ripped his own skin just to make it stop.
When night finally fell and the ward sank into silence, Toji moved. The door to his room creaked open, the sound swallowed by the dark. His steps were quiet, precise—too precise. The air around him was cold, heavy with calculation.
He thought of leaving. Of finding her. But he couldn’t—not when her address remained hidden from him, a secret just out of reach.
The nurses’ lounge was dimly lit, the glow of a single lamp flickering against rows of files and patient charts. Toji’s eyes scanned them with the intensity of a predator tracking prey. His fingers trailed along the folders until he found one—her name printed neatly on the tab.
There it was. Her photo. Her resume. Her handwriting. Her life compressed into paper.
A slow grin tugged at his lips, hollow and wicked.
“Found you,” he murmured, the words slipping out like venom, quiet but dripping with satisfaction.
He didn’t move for a long time. He only stared at her picture, memorizing every line of her face, every curve of her handwriting on the forms. It was proof that she existed somewhere beyond these sterile walls—proof that the world still held her, while he did not.
He slipped the paper back into the folder, closing it with deliberate care. The calm that followed wasn’t peace. It was the stillness before a storm, the moment when obsession hardened into purpose.
Down the hall, a light flickered. A nurse coughed in her sleep.
Toji turned his head toward the sound, eyes flat, expression unreadable. Then he whispered to the darkness, almost gently:
“I know where to find you now.”
Saki couldn’t explain it, couldn’t pin it to a sound or a shape, but it sat heavy in the room like a shadow just out of sight.
Her gaze drifted to the door. The plain wooden panel suddenly seemed too thin, too fragile, as if at any moment someone — something uninvited might step through.
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. You’re imagining things, she told herself. It’s just nerves.
Turning back to the kitchen, she tried to anchor herself in the familiar. The soft hiss of the stove. The gentle swirl of steam curling up from her favorite pan. She plated her favorite meal, a small luxury after days of hospital food, and stirred her hot cocoa with deliberate care.
The rich scent of chocolate filled the air, warm and sweet. It should have calmed her. Instead, the hairs on the back of her neck rose.
A shiver rippled down her spine, sharp and electric.
A sound that didn’t belong in her quiet apartment, a sound that made the spoon tremble in her fingers and clatter softly against the mug.
She froze, breath caught halfway in her chest. The knock came again — deliberate, heavy, like a fist.
Somewhere deep inside her, the unease she’d been ignoring began to bloom into full-fledged dread.
The knock didn’t come again.
Just silence—thick, unnatural silence. The kind that fills every corner of a room until it presses against your skin.
Saki’s eyes stayed fixed on the door. The faint vibration of the last strike still seemed to echo through the floorboards. She waited, counting her breaths, trying to hear anything—footsteps, a voice, the scrape of shoes in the hallway—but there was nothing.
Her hand went to the countertop, fingers tightening around the handle of the spoon she’d dropped. The metal was still warm from the cocoa. It felt ridiculous, holding it like a weapon, yet she couldn’t set it down.
Another minute passed. Two.
Finally she exhaled, shaky, forcing a nervous laugh. “It’s probably just the delivery guy… wrong unit,” she whispered, though she hadn’t ordered anything.
Still, she moved toward the door slowly, every step cautious, bare feet whispering against the tile. The overhead light hummed faintly, the only sound in the apartment.
She stopped a meter away, listening. Her reflection stared back at her from the peephole’s dull brass ring—small, distorted, uncertain.
For a long moment she hovered there, torn between looking and pretending nothing had happened. Her pulse thudded against her ribs, a steady drumbeat that drowned out reason.
Then—softly, almost politely—came a new sound.
A single, deliberate brush against the door. Like fingertips.
Saki’s breath hitched. The spoon slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a faint metallic ring.
Her trembling fingers reached for the door. Stopped. Drew back. Then reached again.
Her heartbeat stuttered, irregular, loud in her ears. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
The figure moved again—slow, deliberate—
and the faintest whisper brushed through the crack beneath the door.
Her name. Barely audible. Too familiar.
Against her better judgment, she opens the door. A wrong move on her part. She didn’t expect to be met with such a storm. He grabbed her the moment the door opens. His eyes wild, voice raw.
“Where the hell were you?!” His voice cracked in a way she had never heard. “Why did you leave me?”
Saki froze, shocked—not at his anger, but at the tremor beneath it. It wasn’t just rage. It was fear. Confusion. Pain.
She had barely stepped out the room when he seized her by the wrist, dragging her inside and slamming the door shut.
His grip wasn’t calculated anymore; it was desperate, shaking.
“You left me,” he growled, his voice raw, almost breaking. “You vanished. Do you know what that did to me?”
Saki swallowed hard, her heart hammering. “It was just a vacation. I didn’t mean to—”
“Vacation?” His laugh was hollow, jagged. “You disappear for days and expect me to believe it’s nothing? Do you have any idea what I went through?”
He shoved her against the wall, caging her in. His forehead pressed to hers, but his eyes—those green, soulless eyes—were no longer empty. They were burning, flickering with something unstable.
He thought he could kill her. And end his confusion once and for all. But the moment he saw her again, smell her, feel her presence. It vanished.
And when his forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged, his voice fell to a whisper that terrified her more than his violence ever had.
“I don’t understand… What is this? What are you doing to me?”
For the first time, the wolf wasn’t dangerous because of his strength.
He was dangerous because he was learning how to feel.
And Saki realized, trembling in his arms, that she was the only one who could teach him.
“I don’t feel things. Ever.” His words came in a rush, like confession and threat tangled together. “People are faces. Shadows. Meat. I’ve never cared. I’ve never wanted. Until you.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
“I hate it,” he hissed. His hands trembled as they framed her face, gentle yet crushing. “I hate that you make me feel. You’re in my head, in my chest, in places I didn’t even know existed. You left and I—” his voice cracked, breaking into a whisper, “—I broke. Do you understand? I can’t survive without you anymore.”
Saki’s breath shuddered. He was unraveling, his control slipping into something dangerous. If she spoke the wrong word, he could snap.
And deep down, she knew: this wasn’t love in its pure form. It was possession born of fear, of confusion, of a monster learning emotions the way a wolf learns fire—recklessly, destructively.
The wolf wasn’t just hungry anymore.
And if she wasn’t careful, he would devour everything, even her sanity, until nothing of her was left but what he claimed as his.
“Be mine completely, Saki” a hushed.
His lips met hers — deep, desperate, and trembling with emotion he didn’t understand. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either; it carried the ache of someone torn between wanting to hold on and needing to let go.
Saki froze for a breath, her mind blank, her heart stumbling against her ribs. There was warmth, yes — but underneath it, something darker, something that felt like a plea.
When he drew her closer, she could feel the tremor in his hands. The kiss wasn’t just passion; it was confusion, fear, and loneliness colliding in one fragile moment.
She knew she should pull away.
Because for all the danger in his touch, there was also a sadness that made her heart ache — a silent cry she couldn’t turn away from.
His hand lingered on her skin, trailing down to her chest as he carefully unbuttoned her top. Her mind screamed for her to stop — warning that once she let him in, there would be no turning back.
She tried to push him away. “No—this is bad, I can’t,” she whispered, her voice trembling. But his lips followed hers like a magnet.
“No!” she shouted — not to stop him, but to stop herself. This was wrong. Tears began to form as she battled the storm of her own emotions. Conflicted. Terrified. Lost between what she felt and what she knew was right.
Toji’s demeanor shifted in an instant. The warmth in his expression drained away, leaving only an unsettling stillness. His mind, however, was far from still — thoughts spiraled, cold and deliberate, searching for a way to realign the situation in his favor.
He didn’t understand why she resisted, only that she did, and that meant something had to be fixed. Toji had never known remorse, only strategy. Every reaction, every word, could be reshaped, repurposed.
She’ll come around, he told himself, because people always did. They just needed the right words, the right tone, the right version of him.
It wasn’t love that guided him now — it was control disguised as affection, the same pattern he’d mastered long before he met her.
“Saki” he started. Green eyes settled on her face, assessing her. Calculating.
“Are you afraid of me? Do you not trust me?” His words weren’t just questions—they were weapons, slicing into her chest, drilling into her mind. Each syllable seemed to plant a seed of doubt, making her second-guess her own instincts.
Is she afraid? he wondered, his thoughts twisting. She shouldn’t be. She knows me. I wouldn’t hurt her… would I?
But the answer didn’t matter. His mind was already spinning, crafting a new script, a careful web to ensnare her. Every word, every glance, every subtle touch could be used to steer her, to confuse her, to make her yield. He analyzed her reactions with cold precision, anticipating her fears, her hesitations, her desires—and planning how to exploit them.
It wasn’t cruelty, not exactly. It was control, necessity, obsession.
And Toji had never been more alive than when he was shaping her thoughts like clay in his hands.
Saki’s chest tightened, a cold weight settling over her. Every word he spoke lingered longer than it should, echoing in her mind in a way that made her pulse quicken.
Her thoughts tangled. Am I overreacting? Is this really him?
Her heart is telling her that this was just concern, just his strange way of caring. She wanted to trust him. She needed to trust him.
“You promised, didn’t you, Saki?” he said, his voice calm but edged with something sharper. It wasn’t just a question — it was a trap, carefully laid. He knew exactly how to corner her, how to make her doubt herself. After all, the easiest way to her heart had always been through guilt, hadn’t it? He made her feel as if she had chosen this, engraving in her mind that it was her fault he was like this — obsessed, unrelenting, inescapable.
A slow, heavy ache that felt like it might crush her from the inside. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, to push back against the insidious weight of his words—but her voice faltered, stuck somewhere between reason and fear.
Promised? Her mind raced, searching for what he meant. Then a faint memory flickered … but no.. she didn’t- she knows she did not promised him.
I didn’t mean to… she thought, guilt crawling along her spine. But even as she tried to push the thought away, his gaze pinned her, precise and unyielding. Every subtle shift of his expression, every measured pause, made her question herself. Was she overreacting? Was she wrong?
Toji’s gaze held her captive, precise and unyielding. “You said it yourself,” he murmured, leaning just enough to make her flinch. “Forever. And yet… here you are, hesitating. You’re forgetting what you swore to me.”
The thought that she might disappoint him, even unintentionally, gnawed at her. The ache in her chest deepened, twisting into confusion, doubt, and an unwilling recognition: she was already responding to him, already bending in small ways, even as her mind screamed against it.
And he watched her carefully, silently, knowing exactly what he had done.
Because Toji didn’t need force. He didn’t need anger or threats. All he needed was subtlety, patience, and the quiet shaping of her thoughts and she was already slipping.
//: hopefully the next chap will be the last update.
