summary ;; Your boyfriend disappeared nights ago, leaving behind nothing but a chilling silence. So… who is answering the texts from his phone? When a grotesque photograph confirms your worst fears, your only ally is a wary detective who seems to find the tragedy a little too "artistic"—and who might just like you a little too much.
pairings ;; serialkiller! gojo x reader
warnings ;; MDNI, yandere!gojo lowk, UNRELIABLE NARRATOR!!, toxic relationship, dark romance (?), more like psychological thriller but oh well, blood, heavily described crime scene and dead body, stalking, grieving, alcohol and smoking, swearing, intoxicated makeout sesh, weird sexual fantasies, guns, angst w no comfort lowk, gojo is cray cray in this one dont say i didnt warn you
a/n ;; have been working on this 3 nights in a row my eyes BURN. lowk wanted to try something new, and since im really into psychological thriller i though hmm why not give it a try, hope you guys like it too <3
as always, dont forget to subscribe, comment (your feedback is greatly appreciated), reblog and like or wtvr those youtubers say now xx
if you like reading with music on, give this playlist i made specifically for this fanfiction a try! maybe you'd like it
art creds @/_3aem on X ; headers @/suupersonic
Being in a serious relationship by the time you were twenty-five was one of those quiet dreams you kept tucked away. You never expected much from life. You’d understood from a young age that love shouldn’t be like the movies. It wasn’t about grand gestures or rain-soaked confessions. It was something comfortable—the sound of coffee brewing in silence after a grueling night of overtime, or someone knowing your McDonald’s order by heart when you muttered that you "deserved a treat." It was the simple, bone-deep security of knowing your bed wouldn't be cold, and that there would be a warm body to pull you into sleep.
That was what Kento Nanami taught you for almost a year now.
Being with Kento wasn’t "crazy." You didn’t have sex in his office (even though it was a secret fantasy of his) and there wasn't some funny "How I Met Your Mother" story behind your union you could tell at parties. You were just two colleagues who hit it off at a local bar after work and decided to give it a shot.
Sometimes, he felt more like a roommate you could kiss and sleep with, but you never complained. He was a pillar. He let you badmouth the idiots in accounting while he calmly peeled an orange, his only response being a low, "Don't pay them so much attention, [Y/N]. They aren't worth the gray hairs."
You remembered one Saturday particularly well. You’d been sobbing over the ending of Titanic for the fifth time that month, your face a blotchy mess of tears and smeared mascara. Kento hadn't teased you. He hadn't even looked up from the financial report he was reading, but he had reached out, his large, warm hand finding yours on the sofa. He squeezed it once—briefly, firmly—before getting up to refill your water glass.
"Hydrate, [Y/N]," he had said, setting the glass down. "You're going to have a headache in the morning if you keep this up."
And, without fail, he bought you your favorite Starbucks every morning. An iced coffee with exactly two pumps of vanilla, one you bought at your first date ever. He remembered. Not one, not three. He was a man of precision.
But precision came with a temper—or rather, a coldness. Of course, you fought. And by "fight," it usually meant you yelling until your throat was raw while he stood there like a stone wall, refusing to give you the satisfaction of an outburst. When the tension peaked, he’d pack a small bag and head to a motel for a night or two to "cool off." He claimed the distance prevented him from saying things he’d regret. You knew which motel it was, the one three blocks down with the decent Wi-Fi. You knew he’d be back when the dust settled.
So, when you had that explosive argument over the misplaced quarterly documents last night, you didn't even flinch when the front door clicked shut. You didn't think twice when you woke up to an empty apartment. You knew he’d come around eventually. You even felt a petty sort of satisfaction thinking about him sitting in a cramped motel room while you had the bed to yourself.
He was such a jerk sometimes. So rigid. So stubborn.
But you also knew your cup of iced coffee would be sitting nicely next to your laptop as soon as you sat down at your desk the next morning. With the plastic straw (he knew how much you hated the paper ones once they get soggy), and two pumps of vanilla.
But as soon as you arrived at work, much to your susrprise, the desk was empty. There was no condensation on the wood; no scent of vanilla in the air.
You glanced over at his cubicle. It was dark. Nanami was never late. Which meant he was absent. Your heart gave a small, confused thrum. Clocking in late meant working overtime to make up for the lost minutes, and if there was one thing Nanami Kento hated with every fiber of his being, it was working a single second past 5:00 PM.
You sat down, staring at your blank monitor. You swore the fight wasn't that bad. Had he actually overslept? No, Nanami’s internal clock was more reliable than the Japanese rail system.
Biting your lip, you pulled out your phone. The anger from last night was being rapidly crowded out by a nagging, cold itch in your chest.
I’m at my desk. Where are you? If you're trying to punish me by skipping coffee, it’s working. I’m grumpy. Come to work.
You expected him to let the message sit. You expected him to ignore you for at least an hour to maintain his "cool-off" period.
Instead, your phone vibrated almost instantly.
I’m sorry about the coffee, babe. I’m just feeling a bit under the weather today. I decided to stay at the motel a bit longer to rest. I’ll make it up to you.
You stared at the screen. He had answered within seconds. And he called you "babe." Nanami rarely used pet names in writing, he found them "inefficient."
You’re sick? Do you need me to bring you something? Medicine? Soup? I can come by during my lunch break.
The reply came back before you could even set the phone down.
No, don’t do that. I’m just going to sleep it off. I don’t want you catching anything. Just stay at the office and have a productive day. I’ll text you later. Love you.
You leaned back in your chair, frowning at the screen. Love you. The words looked right, but the timing felt wrong. Nanami was usually a man of few words, especially when he was supposedly "resting."
But then again, maybe the fight had scared him into being more affectionate. Maybe he was finally learning how to apologize. You sighed, forcing yourself to open a spreadsheet, trying to ignore the way the "Kento" at the top of your chat felt just a little bit like a stranger.
Nanami didnt come home that night. Nor the day after.
Concern was eating you alive. It was true that Kento was a man who preferred to carry the world on his shoulders without a groan of complaint, but you had spent the last year slowly dismantling those walls. But since you’d been together, you had slowly taught him how to open up, that being "efficient" didn't mean being alone. You took pride in taking care of him, especially when he was vulnerable.
Being alone in the quiet apartment reminded you of that day in late November. You had been together for well over six months by then, and he had just officially moved in. He’d claimed your apartment was more "logistically sound" due to its proximity to the office, but you knew it was because he liked waking up next to you. However, the move-in day had been brutal; the autumn rain had hammered down on him as he hauled his luggage up the stairs, soaking him to the bone.
It had started with a subtle deepening of his voice and a stubborn refusal to eat his dinner. By midnight, Nanami was a furnace, his skin radiating a heat so intense it made you recoil when you touched his shoulder.
"Kento, you’re burning up," you had whispered, reaching to peel back the heavy duvet.
"I’m fine," he’d grunted, eyes squeezed shut, his jaw locked in that rigid, professional line even in his delirium. "It’s just a seasonal bug. I have a report due at eight."
"You aren't going anywhere," you countered, pushing him back down.
You spent the night hovering over him like a guardian. You pressed cool washcloths to his forehead, ignoring his grumpy, muffled protests that you were "wasting your sleep cycle." You forced him to sip lukewarm ginger tea, and when the fever finally broke his resolve, he had curled his large frame around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"You're too kind," he had murmured, his voice thick and scratchy against your skin. "It's illogical to stay awake for me."
"Shut up and sleep, Kento."
Of course, your care came at a price. Three days later, the fever broke for him, only to settle deep in your own lungs. You had woken up shivering, unable to even lift your head from the pillow. Nanami, still pale but functional, spent his entire weekend off—time he usually guarded with his life—tending to you.
He had been a clumsy but devoted nurse, bringing you toast that was slightly too burnt and tucking in blankets so tightly you could barely move, but he stayed. You ended up tangled together on the sofa, surrounded by mountains of tissues and half-empty Pocari Sweat bottles. Both of you miserable, sneezing in sync, and yet, completely at peace.
"We look pathetic," he’d noted, his voice a dry rasp as he meticulously adjusted your wool socks.
"We look like a couple," you’d countered.
He hadn't argued then. He had just pulled you closer.
Now, you sat on that very same sofa, clutching your phone to your chest as you bit at the skin around your nails, a habit Nanami hated and constantly encouraged you to break. The lights were all off, save for the soft, rosy glow of the strawberry lamp on the coffee table. You had insisted on buying it, and though he’d argued it wasn't a "necessity," he’d eventually carried the box to the car with a quiet, fond sigh.
The strawberry light felt mocking now, casting long, distorted shadows across the room.
You tried calling him again. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.
Your texts remained unanswered. Some were marked with the heart-sinking blue of a read receipt, proving he was looking at them and choosing silence. But the last three? They remained on "Delivered."
The silence of the apartment was broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic thumping of your own heart. You looked at the "Delivered" status of your last message. Please just tell me you're okay, you thought to yourself.
Suddenly, the status changed.
Your breath hitched. You waited for the typing bubbles, for an explanation, for an apology. Instead, your phone vibrated with an incoming photo.
The thumbnail was dark. You tapped it, your blood turning to ice. It was a photo of your apartment building, taken from the street below. Specifically, it was a photo of your living room window—the one you were sitting next to right now—with the distinct red glow of the strawberry lamp visible through the glass.
The lamp looks nice from out here. Happy we bought it.
Your heart plummeted. Nanami never talked like that. He was a man of few words. And more importantly, Nanami would have just walked through the front door.
You almost tripped on the carpet, your phone hitting the floor with a thud as you sprinted toward the balcony doors. Ripping them open, the biting night air slammed into your chest, stealing your breath. You leaned over the railing, eyes scanning the pavement below.
The street was a graveyard of parked cars and empty sidewalks. Not a single soul was standing under the streetlamp. Where was he? Was he hiding in the shadows of the alley? Did he think this was a joke?
No. Nanami would never do that. He was a man who measured his words and his actions with surgical precision. He found "pranks" to be a monumental waste of time and an insult to one's intelligence. He would never play with your heart this way.
Your hand flew to your mouth, teeth tearing at the raw skin of your cuticles until you tasted the metallic tang of blood. What the hell was happening? Were you even texting your boyfriend anymore?
The sudden blare of your ringtone made you jump, the sound echoing off the balcony glass like a cruel laugh. It was his favorite song. The screen lit up, displaying a photo you’d taken on Miyako Island during your first vacation together—Nanami looking away from the camera, a rare, microscopic soften to his lips while you beamed beside him.
Everything you owned, every safety net you had built, was tied to this man. And now, the tether was fraying.
As you picked up the device from the carpet, the name on the screen made your stomach drop through the floor.
Incoming Call: Kento’s Mother.
She never called you. She was a sweetheart, always sending cards for the holidays, but you were never close enough for one-on-one conversations. Certainly not for a call at midnight on a weekday.
The realization hit you like a physical blow: he wasn’t answering her, either.
With trembling fingers, you swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Dear?" Her voice was thin, vibrating with a frequency of panic you had never heard from her before. "I'm so sorry to call so late. I... I can't get a hold of Kento. I've called ten times. Is he with you? Is he alright?"
Your throat closed up. You looked back at the phone in your other hand—the one that had just sent you a photo of your own window. The one that was currently marked as Online.
"He's... he's not here, Mrs. Nanami," you whispered, your eyes darting back to the empty street. "We, uh.. we had a fight a few days ago—"
"Oh, heavens," she breathed, a sob breaking through. "The police called me, dear. They found his car. They found his car near the docks, but... but the blood, they said there was so much—"
The line went static. Or maybe it was just the blood rushing to your ears.
Your phone vibrated against your ear. A new message.
Don’t listen to them, babe. They’re just trying to upset you.
You stared at the screen, your breath hitching in a throat that felt like it was filled with glass. The "Kento" at the top of the screen stayed Online.
I’m right outside the door. I forgot my keys. Let me in?
Through the receiver, you could hear the muffled, frantic sounds of a household collapsing in real-time. A chair scraping harshly against a floor, the heavy, staggered breathing of Kento’s father, and then a sudden, sharp cry.
"Minako! Minako, look at the screen!" his father’s voice boomed in the background, cracked and unrecognizable. "Turn it up! Turn it up right now!"
"What is it? Takehiko, what are you—"
The phone was dropped; you heard it hit a hard surface, but the line remained open. The audio was a chaotic blur of sobbing and the distant, clinical hum of a television news broadcast. You stood paralyzed in the center of your living room, the pink glow of the strawberry lamp casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach for your ankles.
"...repeating our top story," the news anchor’s voice was a low drone coming through the phone. "...the body discovered in the early hours near the Harumi waterfront has been identified as 28-year-old Kento Nanami. Authorities are warning the public to remain vigilant, as the scene suggests a level of premeditated brutality rarely seen—"
A shriek tore through the phone. A raw, guttural sound of a mother’s soul breaking in half. It was a sound so jagged it felt like it was physically cutting your skin. He’s dead? He can;t be, he just texted you a few seconds ago. Were you hallucinating? He’s not dead. He’s at your door. You should open up and hug him. Tell him you were dumb. That you misplaced those fucking documents. Apologize and tell him it won’t happen again—
Your own phone, still clutched in your other hand, vibrated with a violent intensity.
Don’t listen to her, honey. You know how she overreacts.
Your eyes darted to the screen. The "Online" status glowed like a radioactive coal. Your thumb hovered over the glass, shaking so hard you could barely aim it. Whoever you were talking to was not your Kento. You knew that. But you couldn’t understand it. You didn’t want to understand it. He’s at your door..
Where are you? Who is this?
The reply was instantaneous. No bubbles. No delay.
I’m right outside. I told you, I forgot my keys because I was in such a rush to see you. My hands are full, too. Can you be a good girl and open up?
A cold, paralyzing dread washed over you. The silence of your apartment felt predatory. Slowly, your head turned toward the front door. The heavy oak was bolted, the chain was on, but it felt as thin as paper.
It wasn't a knock. It was the rhythmic, playful clicking of a fingernail against the wood.
I know you're home. I saw the strawberry light on, babe. Open the door, and let's have that coffee. Two pumps of vanilla, right?
You stared at the door handle as you approached the front door. It didn't move. Behind you, the television in your own bedroom—which you were certain was turned off—suddenly flared to life, the blue light spilling into the hall like a ghost.
The news anchor's voice began to fill your own home, echoing the one on the phone, creating a horrific, stereophonic loop of your boyfriend's death.
"Kento?" you whispered, your voice failing you.
From the other side of the door, a muffled chuckle vibrated through the wood. It wasn't Kento’s deep, rumbling baritone. It was lighter. Airy. Like someone who had just heard a very funny joke.
Read receipts are on, babe. I know you're seeing this. Don't make me come in through the balcony.
Your breath hitched, coming in shallow, jagged gasps that burned your throat. Your thumb scrambled over the screen of the phone that was still connected to Kento’s mother, but the line was a graveyard of static and distant wailing. You hung up, your fingers slick with sweat and the blood from your chewed cuticles, and dialed three digits that felt like a lifetime to input.
"Emergency services, how may i help?"
"Please," you whispered, backing away from the front door, your eyes fixed on the sliver of space between the floor and the wood. "Someone is at my door. My boyfriend... the news says he’s dead, but someone has his phone. They’re texting me. They’re outside."
"Ma'am, I need you to stay calm. I need you to tell me the address of your location,” and after you told the dispatched, it took a few seconds before he talked again, ” i’m dispatching officers to your address now. Are you in a secure room?"
"I'm in the living room," you choked out, retreating until your back hit the glass of the balcony doors you had left wide open. The cold air licked at your neck. "Please, just hurry. He says he can see me."
"I have help on the way. Do not hang up the phone. Is the door locked?"
Your phone vibrated. A new notification from "Kento" slid down from the top of the screen, partially obscuring the call timer with the dispatcher.
Calling the police? That’s not very "comfortable," is it? After all the time we spent together you’re scared of me.
The dispatcher’s voice continued in your ear, a tiny drone of instructions you could no longer process. Your gaze was glued to the door. The tapping had stopped. The silence that followed was worse—a heavy, suffocating pressure that made the air feel like lead.
Then, the door handle turned.
The metal groaned under the pressure, the lock straining against a force that shouldn't have been there. You watched, paralyzed, as the deadbolt began to creak, the wood around it splintering with a sickening, slow-motion crack.
"Ma'am? Are you still there?" the dispatcher barked.
You couldn't answer. You were watching a slip of white paper being slid under the door. It wasn't a note. It was a polaroid.
You lunged forward, driven by a morbid, terrifying compulsion to see. You picked it up.
The chemical smell of the developing film hit you first, sharp and acrid, but it couldn't mask the visual horror. It was a high-contrast, flash-burnt image of the motel room. Nanami was seated in the floral armchair, but he had been turned into a gruesome piece of performance art.
His throat had been opened—not a clean cut, but a jagged, wide grin of red that exposed the pale rings of his windpipe. To keep his head from lolling forward and ruining the "pose," his own signature cheetah print necktie (one that you gifted on his birthday) had been threaded through the wound and tied tightly to the back of the chair, hoisting his chin up at a mocking, jaunty angle. The background was the worst part. The beige floral wallpaper was completely obscured by thick, arterial spray.
I did put up a fight, you see..
You dropped the polaroid as if it had burned your fingers. The image of Kento—so still, so hollow—seemed to pulse under the flickering light of the hallway. Your knees gave out, and you hit the floor, the dispatcher’s voice now just a frantic, distant buzzing in your ear.
"Ma'am! I need you to stay with me! Officers are two minutes out! Can you hear me?"
You couldn't answer. You were staring at the gap beneath the door.
The tapping had stopped. The playful, terrifying clicking of a fingernail against wood was gone. In its place was a heavy, suffocating silence that felt like the world had held its breath. No handle turning. No splintering wood. Just... nothing.
Then, a soft thud sounded from the other side of the door. The sound of plastic hitting the floorboards.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. You waited for the door to burst open, for the "Kento" on the other side to finish the job. But the silence stretched, long and agonizing, until the far-off wail of sirens began to cut through the night. You couldn't even scream, the air just rattled in your chest. The sirens were deafening now, blue and red lights strobing against your ceiling like a frantic heartbeat.
"Ma'am? The officers are pulling up. Can you unlock the door for them?"
You didn't move. Not until you heard the heavy thud of boots in the hallway and the authoritative shout of "Police! Open up!"
With trembling hands, you reached up and slid the chain back, fumbling with the deadbolt. When the door finally swung open, you didn't see a monster. You saw two officers with their guns drawn, their flashlights cutting through the dark. And there, sitting perfectly centered on your "Welcome" mat, was a single Starbucks cup. The plastic was stained with red, sticky fingerprints. Inside, the coffee was light, creamy with milk—but as the flashlight hit it, you saw something dark and solid swirling at the bottom among the ice cubes.
Your phone buzzed in your limp hand. One last notification.
I saved the best part for the bottom of the cup. It’s the part that saw you the most.
The condensation was still fresh, beads of water rolling down the plastic.
One of the officers kept his weapon raised, clearing the kitchen, while the other knelt beside you. "Are you hurt? Is anyone else in the apartment?"
You couldn't speak. You just pointed at the cup.
The officer frowned, leaning in to look at the label printed on the side.
Order: Iced Coffee Add-ons: 2 Pumps Vanilla Name: Kento
You looked past the officers, down the long, empty apartment corridor. There was no one there. No shadow, no killer. Just the lingering, cloying scent of expensive cologne and the fading light of your strawberry lamp, blinking out for the final time.
The fluorescent lights of the station hummed with a low, irritating buzz that vibrated in the base of your skull. You sat on a hard plastic chair in a corner of the precinct, feeling smaller than you ever had in your life. The scratchy wool blanket draped over your shoulders felt heavy and smelled of mothballs and stale coffee, but you clutched the edges of it until your knuckles turned white. It was the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.
The night had been a blur of flashing lights, gloved hands bagging evidence, and the cold, clinical voices of detectives.
"Exsanguination," one of them had muttered nearby, not realizing you could hear. "Abdominal cavity was opened wide, and the carotid was severed. He didn't have a prayer."
You squeezed your eyes shut, but the image from the Polaroid was burned into your retinas. The coffee cup you had seen on your doorstep sat in a clear plastic evidence bag in an interview room, the dark, solid mass at the bottom now confirmed to be Kento’s left eye. The "part that saw you the most."
A detective with tired eyes and a wrinkled suit crouched in front of you, offering a paper cup of water. "We’re still working on the phone, ma’am. The GPS pings for Kento’s device went dead the second the sirens hit your street. He’s ghosting us."
You took the water, your hands trembling so violently that the surface rippled. "He was right there," you whispered, your voice sounding like someone else's. "He was at the door."
"We know. We found the... residue on the mat." The detective sighed, looking at your hands. "He's sophisticated. No prints on the cup, no DNA at your house. Even the coffee was paid for in cash three districts away."
They had taken your phone, too. It was sitting in a forensics lab, being picked apart for digital breadcrumbs that you knew deep down wouldn't be there.
As the detective walked away to consult with a colleague, the station doors swung open, letting in a gust of that same cold night air from your balcony. You flinched, pulling the old blanket tighter. You were safe here, surrounded by armed officers and cameras, yet every time a phone rang in the office or a printer whirred to life, you jumped.
You couldn't help but stare at the evidence locker down the hall. You knew the killer had turned the phone off. You knew he was gone. But in the silence of the station, you could still feel the phantom vibration of a notification against your chest.
The sky over the cemetery was a bruised, heavy grey, as if the world itself had lost its color along with Kento. The service was a blur of black umbrellas and the stifling scent of lilies. A cloying, sweet decay that made you want to gag. You stood by the open grave, shivering next to the closed casket. It had been an explicit request from the Nanami family; his death was so gruesome they couldn’t fathom seeing their son’s body in such a mutilated state.
You felt like a ghost among the living. Every time a distant relative squeezed your hand or whispered a hollow condolence, a surge of nausea rolled through you. They didn’t know. They hadn't seen the Polaroid, or the way the blood had dried into a dark crust around the rim of your favorite coffee cup.
The burial felt final, but the horror felt ongoing. Every shovelful of dirt hitting the wood sounded like that rhythmic tap-tap-tap on your front door, a dull thud marking the end of the only man who ever made you feel safe.
Kento’s mother was a shell of a woman, supported on either side by relatives, her weeping the only sound in the oppressive silence. You wanted to comfort her, but you couldn't move. You felt like you were made of glass—one wrong step and you would shatter into a thousand jagged pieces.
"A closed casket is a mercy," a voice spoke up, slicing through the heavy air.
You flinched, your head snapping to the side. Standing a few feet away, leaning against a weathered headstone, was a man who didn't fit the somber, broken atmosphere of the cemetery. He was tall (impossibly so) and dressed in a black suit that looked custom-tailored to his lean, athletic frame.
A pair of dark, round sunglasses sat on the bridge of his nose, masking his eyes. Even through the tinted lenses, you felt the weight of his gaze, sharp and analytical, stripping you bare.
"Though, for someone like Nanami," the man continued, pushing off the headstone and walking toward you with a predatory grace, "mercy was never really part of the equation, was it?"
"Who are you?" you asked, your voice a raspy shadow of its former self.
He stopped just inches from you, tall enough that you had to crane your neck to look at him. He reached into his inner pocket and produced a leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal a badge.
Special Investigations. Satoru Gojo.
"I'm the one handling Kento’s... paperwork."
Behind the glass, his eyes were a startling, electric blue. So bright they seemed to catch the gray light of the afternoon and amplify it. They were beautiful, but they were devoid of the pity everyone else had been drowning you in.
"I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours looking at the things he left for you," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. "The coffee. I’ve read the messages. Most detectives would call it a crime scene. I call it an obsession."
"The police station is full of bureaucratic idiots, [F/N]. They think this is about a murder. But you and I know the truth," He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low hum that stayed between the two of you. "I know you're holding onto that Polaroid," he whispered, his expression hardening into something professional and dangerous. " If you want to find the person who turned your life into a horror movie, you’re going to have to stop acting like a victim and start acting like a witness. Meet me at the station at midnight. Don't let anyone follow you."
You shivered, a cold sweat breaking out on your neck. "You're supposed to help me."
"Oh, I am," Gojo smirked, a flash of brilliant white teeth that felt more like a threat than a comfort. "I’m going to be your shadow. I’ll be the one checking your phone, the one standing outside your door, the one watching your every move so he can't get close."
He turned to leave, but as he walked toward the cemetery gates, your phone buzzed in your pocket. Your heart plummeted. With shaking hands, you pulled it out.
He's much taller than Kento, isn't he? Do you think he'll look as good as Kento did in a Polaroid?
The cold night air bit deep, settling right into your bones with a cruel, aching persistence. You probably looked like a woman possessed, your head snapping left, then right, then over your shoulder until your neck felt strained. Every shadow cast by the skeletal trees seemed to move, stretching toward you like grasping fingers. You were convinced you were next in line. It was a logical progression, wasn’t it? First Kento, then the person who found what was left of him.
Working with a detective in the dead of night felt like walking into a trap, but you had nowhere else to turn. The killer was probably out there right now, lurking in the blind spots of the streetlamps, laughing his ass off while he watched you deliver yourself on a silver platter.
You didn’t know why you had agreed to meet him at midnight. It felt illicit, like a betrayal of the very justice you were seeking. Maybe it had been a mistake to withhold the Polaroid that night when the uniformed officers were swarming the scene, their radios crackling and their faces bored. But how could you have handed it over? To them, it would just be "Exhibit A," a piece of glossy paper to be tossed into a plastic bin. They would never understand that the photo was a personal mockery—a jagged, visual scream intended for your eyes only. You hadn't told a soul. Not the family, not the first responders. No one.
Shuddering, you sat down on the frigid concrete stairs of the precinct, the dampness of the stone seeping through your clothes. Your fingers shook so badly you could barely grip the pack of cigarettes in your bag. You lit one, the flame of the lighter dancing wildly in the wind, a tiny spark in the vast, oppressive dark. You had promised Kento you’d never smoke again, but Kento wasn’t here to nag you about the consequences. He wasn't here to gently take the pack away and replace it with a lecture on lung health.
As you exhaled a cloud of grey smoke, your eyes began to water. It wasn't the sting of the black tobacco, rather it was the crushing, suffocating realization that he was truly dead. There would be no more nagging. No more him. Just the cold, and the fear, and the silence.
"Better chew on a lollipop."
The cigarette was snatched from between your lips before you could even register the movement. In its place, the hard, sweet sphere of a strawberry-flavored candy was shoved into your mouth.
"I’m trying to quit, too," Gojo murmured, his towering figure casting a long, distorted shadow that seemed to swallow yours whole. He leaned against the stone railing, casually flicking your lit cigarette into the gutter where it hissed and died. "Don't make it harder for me."
He sat down on the step above you, his knees nearly brushing your shoulders. Even in the dark, he seemed to radiate a strange, restless energy that made the hair on your arms stand up. He had ditched the formal suit jacket from the funeral. He was in a black tactical turtleneck that made his white hair look like a fallen snow. Those dark glasses were pushed up into his hair, revealing eyes that were far too bright, and entirely too focused on you.
"You're twitching," he observed, his voice dropping into a low, smooth register that vibrated through the concrete steps. "Looking for someone?"
"The killer is still out there," you whispered, the candy clicking against your teeth. "He knows I have it. He knows I saw."
Gojo tilted his head, a slow, predatory movement. "And yet, you didn't give it to the boys in blue inside. Why is that? Afraid they’d lose it? Or afraid they’d see what I see?"
You gripped your bag until your knuckles turned white. "They wouldn't look at it the right way. They’d just see a body. They wouldn't see the... message."
"Smart girl," Gojo said, his expression hardening into something unreadable. He leaned down, his face inches from yours. The scent hit you again—lilies. It wasn't just a faint whiff; it was an overwhelming, cloying sweetness, the kind that fills a room where a casket has been open too long. It was the smell of the funeral, sticking to him like a second skin.
"The other cops don't know about this, do they? Just you. And now, me."
Slowly, you reached into your bag. Your hand was trembling so violently that the Polaroid fluttered like a dying bird as you pulled it out. Gojo took it from you, his fingers unnervingly cold where they brushed your skin.
He held the photo up to the dim, sickly yellow light of the streetlamp. He didn't flinch. He didn't show horror or disgust. Instead, he studied the grotesque mutilation of Kento’s body with a terrifying, clinical fascination.
"Look at the way the light hits the incisions," Gojo whispered, pointing a finger to a dark corner of the image. "It’s intentional. The killer wanted to create a specific silhouette. It’s almost... artistic. A masterpiece of grief."
He looked at you then, a faint, sharp smile playing on his lips—a smile that didn't reach his glacial eyes.
"You did the right thing bringing this only to me. If the department saw this, they’d have to follow protocol. They’d have to ask questions you aren't ready to answer." He slid the photo into his inner pocket, patting the fabric. "I'll keep it hidden. No one else will ever see what he did to him. I’ll make sure this stays our little secret."
He stood up and offered you a hand. His grip was firm, inescapable.
"The station is empty tonight. By the way, the hallway cameras are disabled for 'maintenance,' so you can cry without the fear they’ll capture your tears on the CCTV" he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "Come inside. I have the actual crime scene files in my office, the ones the public isn't allowed to see. Let's see if your little picture matches the rest of my collection."
The heavy iron doors of the precinct hissed shut behind you, sealing out the wind but trapping you in a silence that felt heavy, almost pressurized. The hallway was a long, sterile throat of flickering fluorescent lights and linoleum that squeaked under Gojo’s expensive shoes. He didn’t lead you toward the main desks or the bustling dispatch center. Instead, he steered you toward the "Special Investigations" wing, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. It was a protective gesture, yet his palm felt unnaturally cold through your coat.
"My office is more... private," he murmured, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls. "The detectives upstairs? They’re good at filing taxes and catching shoplifters. But they don't have the stomach for what you’re carrying."
When he opened the door to his office, the air hit you with a strange, confusing sweetness. It was thick with the scent of those lilies again, perhaps a stray bouquet left over from the precinct’s memorial for Kento, or maybe just the lingering ghost of the cemetery. He didn't turn on the overhead lights, choosing to only click on a small desk lamp that cast a warm, narrow amber glow.
"Sit," he urged, his voice softening as he guided you into a leather chair that swallowed you whole.
He didn't sit across from you. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the desk, towering over you, his silhouette cutting a sharp line through the amber light. He watched you chew on the lollipop for a moment, his eyes tracking the slight movement of your jaw with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
"So," he began, his voice light but his gaze heavy. "Let’s talk about the last time you saw him alive. The neighbors mentioned a bit of a... vocal disagreement. Care to elaborate?"
You swallowed hard, the strawberry flavor of the candy turning bitter. "The quarterly documents. I... I misplaced them. He was stressed. He was always stressed about work, but that night, it was different. He snapped."
"He snapped," Gojo repeated, his tone soft, almost sympathetic. He leaned forward, his face dipping into the light. "And what did he say? Did he look at you with that cold, salaryman stare? The one that makes you feel like an unfinished task?"
"He told me I was irresponsible," you whispered, your voice cracking.
"The official report says Kento was at that motel for a 'business stay.' But the motel was three blocks from your apartment," Gojo said, his voice losing its playful edge. It was cold now. Professional. "Men like Nanami don't pay for a room with thin walls and bedbugs unless they’re running from something. Or someone."
"He said he couldn't think straight with me around that night. He grabbed his keys... he said he was going to a motel just to get some peace. He always went there after we had a more.. aggressive fight. I knew the motel, it was close to my home, so I payed no mind to it."
Gojo’s pen paused, the tip hovering just above the paper as he hummed a low, discordant note. The strawberry candy in your mouth felt like a stone, making it hard to swallow, though you couldn’t tell if you were choking on the sugar or the thick, suffocating tension vibrating between the four walls of his office.
"I tried to text him the next morning," you continued, your voice trembling as you forced the words past the lump in your throat. "He didn't show up for work at his usual time, and for Kento... that was impossible. He’s never even been a minute late."
Gojo didn't look up, but his hand began to move again, the scratching of the pen sounding like claws on parchment.
"He answered immediately," you whispered, shivering despite the heat of the room. "The bubbles popped up the second I hit send. He told me he was feeling sick. That he was staying in bed at the motel to sleep it off."
"So," Gojo continued, his gaze dropping to your bag where your phone lay hidden. "Someone sat in that room with his body, watched his phone light up with your name, and decided to have a conversation with you. They played 'Kento' for eight hours just to keep you away from that motel room while they... finished their work."
He stood up, the movement fluid and predatory, and walked toward you until he was looming over your chair. He held out a hand, palm up.
"Give it to me," he commanded.
"The texts. I want to see exactly how this person mimicked him. I want to see the specific words they used to keep you from checking on him."
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of those funeral lilies cloying and thick again.
"Because if they were texting you from his phone while you were waiting for an apology, it means they weren't just watching him. They’ve been watching you. They know how you fight. They know how to make you stay put."
His fingers brushed yours as he reached for the device, his touch a startling contrast of ice-cold skin and burning intensity.
"Let’s see how well this killer knows your relationship, [F/N]. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like they were invited into your life long before that night at the motel."
You didn’t hand it over immediately. Your fingers locked around the smooth casing of the phone inside your bag, a primal instinct screaming at you to keep the last "conversation" you had with Kento to yourself, even if it was a lie.
Gojo didn’t lose patience. He didn't pull away. Instead, he simply waited, his hand still outstretched, his crystalline eyes tracking the frantic pulse jumping in your throat.
"It’s not him," Gojo reminded you, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a caress and a blade all at once. "The person who sent those texts... they were probably touching his hair while they typed. Maybe they were using his own thumb to unlock the screen. Every second you hold onto that phone like it's a memento, you’re letting that person sit in your lap."
That did it. The bile rose in your throat, and you jerked the phone out, thrusting it into his palm as if it had suddenly turned red-hot.
Gojo took it, his thumb sliding across the glass. The light of the screen reflected in his glasses, dancing across those unnerving blue irises. He scrolled slowly, his expression shifting from clinical interest to a dark, amused twist of his lips.
"’I’m just feeling a bit under the weather today. I decided to stay at the motel a bit longer to rest. '" Gojo read the message aloud, mimicking Kento’s clipped, efficient tone with haunting accuracy. He clicked his tongue. "He even used the correct punctuation. No emojis. Proper capitalization. They weren't just guessing. They were studying him. They knew his syntax."
He started pacing the small office again, the phone looking like a toy in his large hand. He stopped at the window, looking out at the rain-slicked streets of the city.
"You said you fought about the documents. The quarterly reports. Tell me, did you find them before or after the 'sick' text?"
"After," you choked out, your hands twisting in your lap. "I found them tucked into the side of the recliner. I was so relieved... I texted him to tell him. I told him I’d bring them over with some soup to make him feel better."
"And what did 'Kento' say to that?"
"He told me... he told me to stay home and eat the soup myself. That he’d see me at the office the next day." You closed your eyes, the memory of that mundane, domestic rejection now feeling like a death sentence. "I felt so hurt. I thought he was still just punishing me for being messy."
Gojo turned around, his silhouette framed by the harsh, artificial light of the precinct hallway. He walked back to you and leaned against the desk, right in your personal space. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw—a gesture that should have been comforting, but felt like a predator marking its territory.
"He didn't want you at that motel because he wasn't done yet," Gojo murmured. "The coroner's report... there were things done to him that take time. Precision. Whoever did this is a craftsman. They needed those eight hours of silence you gave them. They used your guilt as a padlock on that motel door."
He leaned down further, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, revealing the full, electric intensity of his gaze.
"They know you, [F/N]. They knew exactly which buttons to push to make you retreat. They knew that if 'Kento' acted cold, you’d give him space. They killed him and they used your relationship as a weapon to buy themselves a head start."
He straightened up, sliding your phone into his pocket alongside the Polaroid.
"The station is a tomb tonight, but I can feel someone’s eyes on the back of my neck. We aren't staying here." He grabbed his coat, his movements sudden and sharp. "We're going to your apartment. If they’ve been watching you, they’ve been inside. I want to see what else they’ve 'misplaced' in your home."
Gojo’s car was a sleek, obsidian beast that looked far too expensive for a detective’s salary. It sat idling in the precinct’s restricted lot, a low hum vibrating through the asphalt. He didn't open the door for you. Instead, he watched with a detached, clinical curiosity as you climbed into the leather interior, which smelled of expensive tobacco and that same chilling, lingering scent of lilies.
As he pulled out of the lot, the city of Tokyo blurred into a streak of neon smear and rain-slicked concrete. Gojo drove with a reckless, terrifying sort of grace, one hand draped over the steering wheel while the other remained dangerously close to the phone he had confiscated from you.
"You’re shaking again," he noted, his voice cutting through the soft jazz playing on the radio. He didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on the road, yet you felt the weight of his attention like a physical pressure. "Is it the cold, or is it the realization that your 'safe' space isn't actually yours anymore?"
"I don't know," you whispered, pulling your coat tighter around your chest. The heater was blasting, but you couldn't stop the tremors. "I keep thinking about the documents. If I hadn't lost them... if I hadn't started that fight... he wouldn't have been at that motel. He’d have been on the couch. He’d be alive."
Gojo let out a sharp, dry laugh that lacked any warmth. "Guilt is such a boring emotion, [F/N]. It’s a waste of energy. The killer didn't wait for a fight; they waited for an opportunity. If it wasn't the motel, it would have been the grocery store, or the walk home from the station. They wanted him in a box, and they wanted you to be the one to close the lid."
He swerved around a slow-moving taxi, the tires chirping against the wet pavement.
"Think back," he commanded, his tone shifting back to that of an interrogator. "The week before he died. Did anything feel... off? A misplaced set of keys? A window you were sure you’d locked but found ajar? A scent in the hallway that didn't belong to either of you?"
You stared out the window, trying to piece together the fragments of a life that had felt so stable only days ago. "Kento complained about his dry cleaning," you said slowly. "He thought the shop had swapped his shirts because they smelled like a different detergent. He was... he was very particular about his scent. He hated floral smells. He said they were distracting."
Gojo’s grip on the wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. "Floral. Like lilies?"
The blood drained from your face. "Yes. Exactly like lilies."
"Interesting," he murmured, a dark spark igniting in his eyes. "So they weren't just watching. They were nesting. They were moving through your life, sampling the air, trying on his clothes, perhaps even watching you sleep while he was working late at the office."
The car turned onto your street, a quiet row of brownstones that now looked like a lineup of tombstones under the sickly orange glow of the streetlamps. Your apartment was on the third floor—the windows were dark, staring down at you like hollow eye sockets.
"Stay behind me," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum as he killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening. He didn't reach for a service weapon; instead, he adjusted his glasses and stepped out into the rain, his tall frame cutting a jagged silhouette against the darkness.
As you followed him toward the entrance, the air felt thick, charged with the same ozone-scent you’d smelled at the precinct. He paused at the heavy oak door of your building, his hand hovering over the handle. He wasn't looking at the lock. He was looking at a tiny, almost invisible smear of damp earth on the brass—the same grey mud from the cemetery.
"He’s been here today," Gojo whispered, a jagged, terrifying smile spreading across his face. "He went to the funeral to watch you cry, and then he came here to wait for you to come home and do it again. He’s a romantic, isn't he?"
Your hands shook so violently the keys clattered against the lock, a frantic metallic weeping in the quiet hallway. As the door swung open, the intimacy of the moment hit you. A suffocating realization that the only man to cross this threshold besides family was Kento. Now, he was in the earth, and you were inviting a stranger into the vacuum he left behind.
You flicked the switch, bracing for a slaughterhouse. But the living room was a portrait of mocking normalcy. The air still carried the sugary, artificial notes of the vanilla perfume you’d applied hours ago. Everything sat exactly as you’d left it: the discarded book on the armchair, the half-empty water glass.
Then you saw the coffee table.
Resting with agonizing precision next to your whimsical strawberry lamp was Kento’s cheetah-print necktie. It was smoothed out, perfectly centered, as if prepared for a morning meeting. But the silk was stiff, matted with a dark, rusted crust of dried blood.
"He was here," you choked out, the vanilla scent suddenly turning cloying, like a shroud.
Gojo didn't offer comfort. He moved past you, his tall frame cutting through the pinkish glow of the lamp. He leaned over the tie, his nose inches from the blood.
"The mud outside was a distraction," Gojo murmured, his eyes tracking a path you hadn't seen. "He wanted you to look at the floor so you wouldn't notice the change in the air."
He straightened up, his blue eyes flashing with a predatory brilliance.
"Can't you smell it under the vanilla? It’s not just blood."
You stepped forward and inhaled. Beneath the sweetness was the heavy, suffocating scent of funeral lilies. The killer just left a souvenir and he had re-scented your home with the smell of the cemetery. How nice of him.
"He's been watching how you live," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous hum. He pointed toward your bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar. "The tie is a bridge. He’s inviting us to see what he did to the one place you thought was private."
The sight of the tie—the very one you had watched Kento dimple with practiced, steady fingers a thousand times—was the final thread to snap. The horrific contrast of his professional dignity lying matted with gore next to your silly strawberry lamp was too much.
The air felt like it was being sucked out of the room. Your knees buckled, the strength leaving your legs as if your bones had turned to water. You didn’t just cry; you broke. A jagged, strangled sob ripped from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated grief that seemed to echo off the walls of the apartment that was no longer a home, but a crime scene.
"I can't... I can't do this," you gasped, burying your face in your hands. The vanilla perfume, the lilies, the blood—it all swirled into a nauseating cocktail that made your head spin. "He was just here. He was supposed to come back and yell at me about the documents. He wasn't supposed to be... a message."
You felt a shadow fall over you, blocking out the light of the lamp. You expected Gojo to remain clinical, to keep his distance and analyze the salt content of your tears.
Instead, you felt the heavy, solid weight of his hands on your shoulders. He dropped down to his haunches, bringing himself level with you on the floor. With a firm but surprisingly gentle tug, he pulled you forward until your forehead rested against the soft, dark fabric of his turtleneck.
"Let it out," he murmured. His voice wasn't the sharp, teasing baritone from the car. it was low, grounding, and oddly rhythmic. "Breath, [F/N]. Just breathe. I’ve got the room. I’ve got the door. Nothing is touching you tonight."
He didn't hug you in a traditional sense, rather he held you like a shield. One of his large hands moved to the back of your head, his long fingers sifting through your hair, a gesture that was terrifyingly intimate for a man you’d known for less than a day.
"They want you to feel small," he whispered against the crown of your head, his eyes—those electric, crystalline blue eyes—fixed unblinkingly on the darkened hallway. "The person who left that tie wants you to curl up and disappear so they can finish the set. But I don't like it when people touch my things. And right now? You’re my only lead."
It was a cold comfort—typical of him—but the sheer, immovable strength of his body gave you something to tether yourself to. You clutched at his sleeves, your tears dampening the black fabric.
"He’s going to kill me, isn't he?" you sobbed into his chest. "what more does he want from me?! He took him away, and now he’s after me. He has to be, right, Gojo?"
Gojo’s hand stilled in your hair for a fraction of a second. He leaned back just enough to look you in the face, his dark glasses discarded on the floor. Up close, his eyes were almost blinding, glowing with a fierce, protective arrogance. "Say something, jerk. Dont look at me like im fucking crazy."
"You’re angry, [F/N]. It’s normal. Dont worry, he'd have to get through me first," Gojo said, his lips curling into a sharp, dangerous smile that promised violence rather than peace. "And I'm very, very difficult to get through. Now, wipe your face. We aren't sleeping in this tomb. You're packing a bag, and you're coming with me."
He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek, his touch surprisingly warm despite the icy aura he usually projected.
"Don't look at the tie again," he commanded softly. "Look at me. Only me. We’re leaving the ghosts behind for tonight."
The following nights were a hollow, sleepless void. How could you close your eyes? You were huddled in a bed in a sterile motel room—the same kind of liminal, cheap space where Kento had met his gruesome end. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a threat. Outside your door, in the adjoining room, the detective sat awake, the blue light of his laptop illuminating his sharp features as he deciphered the cryptic messages left by a man who wanted your blood on his hands.
Returning to the office after your brief bereavement leave felt like a chore, a heavy performance you weren't ready to give. Your boss had been kind, his voice hushed and eyes pitying when he granted you afew weeks off, but being back was worse. The building felt like a tomb. There were no jokes in the breakroom, no humming by the copier—only muted greetings and heavy, lingering condolences. You felt like a walking bruise, wondering if you were the one filling the halls with this suffocating grief.
Now, you sat on the edge of the company roof during your lunch break. The wind whipped at your hair, and a cigarette trembled between your fingers. You held your phone to your ear, the line crackling with Gojo’s voice as he yapped incessantly about security protocols. Your eyes were unfocused, trailing the tiny, ant-like people on the street below.
"I'm telling you, he’s almost certainly using Nanami’s keys," Gojo said, his tone authoritative yet strangely casual. "You need to change those locks today. Not tomorrow. Today. Who knows what that fucker did for the past weeks when you weren’t home."
The silence of the rooftop was a relief compared to the stifling pity of the office downstairs. You took a long drag of the cigarette, the smoke burning your throat—a welcome distraction from the phantom scent of lilies that still seemed to cling to your skin.
"Are you even listening to me, [F/N]?" Gojo’s voice sharpened through the speaker. "Or are you doing that thing where you stare into the middle distance and pretend the world isn't trying to eat you alive?"
"I'm listening," you lied, your voice sounding thin and brittle even to your own ears.
"No, you aren't. If you were, you’d be panicking about the fact that your front door is basically an open invitation right now," he sighed, and you could practically hear him leaning back in his chair, feet likely propped up on a desk covered in crime scene photos. "Remember, the killer didn't just take his life. He took his pockets. His wallet, his phone, and his keys. He’s playing house with you, [F/N]."
You watched a black car pull up to the curb five stories down. For a second, you wondered if he was in there. Watching.
"I changed the locks once already, Gojo," you whispered, ash falling onto your lap. "It didn't stop him from leaving the tie."
"Because he didn't use the door that time, sweetheart," Gojo replied, his tone dropping into that low, predatory hum that always made your heart skip. "He wants you to think he’s a ghost, but he’s just a man. A man with a very specific, very ugly obsession. I’ve been looking at the quarterly documents you found. There’s something coded in the margins; dates, times, locations. All places you’ve been."
You froze, the cigarette halfway to your lips. "What?"
"He wasn't just tracking Nanami. He was using Nanami’s work to track you," Gojo said. You heard the flick of a lighter on his end. "Get off the roof. Go back inside where there are people and cameras. I’m picking you up at five. And for heaven's sake, put out the cigarette."
He hung up before you could protest, leaving you with nothing but the hum of the city and the terrifying realization that your grief wasn't just a consequence—it was the killer's intended destination.
You stared at the dead screen of your phone, the wind on the rooftop suddenly feeling less like a breeze and more like a cold hand on your neck. Places I've been, he had said. If the killer had been tracking your locations through Nanami’s work, why hadn't Gojo mentioned it at the precinct? Why wait until you were alone on a roof to tell you that your every move was a documented map?
You crushed the cigarette butt under your heel and headed for the stairwell. As you descended back into the muffled silence of the office, you couldn't shake the way Gojo had said "Get off the roof." He hadn't sounded worried. He had sounded impatient. Like a director waiting for his lead actress to get back on her mark.
The black car was idling at the curb exactly as the clock struck five. Gojo didn't get out. He simply leaned over and pushed the door open from the inside.
"You're three minutes late," he said as you slid into the leather seat. He wasn't wearing his glasses now. His eyes were startlingly clear, his gaze sweeping over you with a terrifying, clinical hunger. "I almost thought you’d decided to go for a stroll. That would have been... unwise."
"The elevator was under maintanance," you murmured, reaching for your seatbelt. „had to take the stairs,” Your hand brushed his as you reached for the buckle, but you didnt move. It felt nice to feel another hand. You missed human connection.
"You look like you're waiting for a death sentence, [F/N]," he said softly, his eyes fixed on the road. "Relax. Your shoulders are up to your ears."
"It's been a long day," you whispered, clutching your bag. "And being back at the office... everyone looks at me like I’m already a ghost."
Gojo reached out, his long fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. "People are tedious. They mourn because it makes them feel alive, not because they care about the dead. But we’ve been at this for nearly a month now, haven't we? Through the precinct, the motel, the funeral..."
He paused, casting a brief, sidelong glance at you. Without his glasses, his blue eyes seemed to occupy more space than they should.
"It feels a bit stiff, don't you think? Calling me 'Detective' or 'Gojo' while we’re middle-of-the-night confidants. Call me Satoru. I think I’d like to hear you say it."
The sudden drop in formality felt like a trap. "I... I don't know if that's professional."
"Professionalism died with Kento," he said, his voice dropping to that low, honeyed register. "And in exchange, may I use yours? Just '[Y/N]'? It makes the darkness feel a little less crowded."
You nodded slowly, unable to find the words to refuse. "Okay... Satoru."
A small, satisfied smile played on his lips. "Perfect. See? You’re already breathing easier.”
The ride with Goj… Satoru was surprisingly relaxing, the calm before the eventual storm. Returning to work meant facing colleagues with a grieving heart, but the true sting awaited at his desk. You expected to see his cubicle dark and empty; instead, those jerks had already replaced him. To them, he was merely a headcount. Easily swapped, quickly forgotten.
The guilt gnawed at you. If only you hadn't fought with him that night, maybe he’d still be occupying that space. Maybe you wouldn't be paralyzed by fear in your own bed, longing for his warmth instead of the memory of his cold, mutilated body in that Polaroid. That image was a ghost that refused to leave.
Lost in the suffocating spiral of those thoughts, your hand drifted to your mouth, and you began nervously chewing your nails. You didn’t even realize you were doing it until a large, warm hand enveloped yours, gently firm as it pulled your fingers away from your lips.
You looked up, startled. Satoru was smiling, but it wasn't his usual boisterous grin; it was softer, meant to ground you. As the car drifted to a halt at a red light, he shifted in his seat to face you fully, his thumb tracing a small, comforting arc over your knuckles.
"I have some good news," Satoru said, though his voice carried a strange, heavy undertone you hadn't heard before. "We found a lead," he continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial hum. "Geto Suguru, twenty-seven years old. Word from the precinct is that they spotted him on one of the CCTVs near the docks on the night of the murder. They even found a few strands of his hair at the motel crime scene."
Satoru tapped the screen of his phone, zooming in on a blurry figure with long, dark hair. "He’s a former associate. A real piece of work. The kind of guy who thinks he’s an artist when he’s really just a butcher."
You stared at the image, your breath hitching. It felt too easy. After weeks of dead ends, a name and a face had just... appeared?
"Wait," you whispered, squinting at the screen. "If they found hair at the scene, why did it take a month for the lab to report it? You said the first responders didn't find anything."
Satoru just leaned back, his long fingers drumming a rhythmic, hypnotic beat against the leather steering wheel. "The police department is a circus, [Y/N]. They lose files, they contaminate samples... I had to do a little 'private' digging to get the lab to prioritize the right evidence."
He reached over, his hand lingering just a second too long on your knee as he took his phone back.
"Don't worry about the logistics," he murmured, the light turning green. "Just know that we’re closing in. He’s the one who’s been following you. He’s the one who left the tie. And now that I have a name, I can make sure he never touches you again."
"Good news?" you repeated, your voice trembling, but this time with rage instead of fear. "You think a name is good news?"
Satoru’s smile faltered, his head tilting in confusion. "I mean, we're closing the case, [Y/N]. This is what we wanted, right?"
"What we wanted?" You turned in your seat, ignoring the seatbelt cutting into your shoulder. "Kento is in a box in the ground, Satoru! He’s gone! There is no 'good news' in a world where he was butchered like an animal! You’re talking about CCTV footage and hair samples like we’re playing a game of Clue!"
You slammed your hand against the dashboard, the sound echoing in the confined space.
"Don't you get it? Every time you 'detective' your way through this, you’re acting like his death is just a puzzle for you to solve! You didn't see him! You didn't feel his skin when it was cold! You just want to catch a 'butcher' so you can feel like a hero!"
Satoru flinched at your outburst. But he didn't even look angry. He just watched you with a terrifying, calm detachment, his blue eyes tracking the way your pupils shake and analyzing the rage on your face.
"I'm trying to protect you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, icy register that made your blood run cold. "I’m the only reason you aren't sitting in a precinct being interrogated by idiots who think you did it because of that fight. I’m the one keeping the ghosts away."
"Then maybe you should stop!" you hissed, your chest heaving. "Maybe I'd rather deal with the ghosts than with you treating my life like a goddamn hobby!"
The light turned green. Satoru didn't move. The cars behind you began to honk, a cacophony of noise that felt like it was inside your skull. He reached out, his hand moving slow and deliberate, and gripped your chin. He forced you to look at him, his fingers cold—so cold—against your skin.
"Be careful, [Y/N]," he whispered, the scent of lilies suddenly thick and suffocating in the car. "Anger makes people careless. And when you’re careless, you start looking for monsters in the wrong places. Now, sit back. We’re going to dinner— matter of fact, i know you’ve been neglecting yourself, and you’re going to act like the grateful woman I’ve spent a month keeping alive."
At that, you were practically fuming. The air in the car felt thick, like it had been replaced by his ego and that sickeningly sweet smell of death. You slapped his hand off your face with a sharp crack (more force than you’d ever used in your life) and the sting on your palm only fueled your fire.
Before he could react, you unbuckled your seatbelt in one frantic motion and shoved the door open.
"I’ll go home by bus, I’ll eat dinner by myself, and you can go fuck yourself, Satoru!"
You scrambled out, your heels hitting the pavement with a jarring thud. Horns immediately erupted behind you, a chorus of impatient swears for the black car to move. You didn’t look back. You slammed the door shut and bolted for the sidewalk, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The cold evening air hit your face, and for the first time in weeks, it felt clean. No lilies. No vanilla. Just the grit and exhaust of the city. You shoved your way through a crowd of commuters, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to let fall in front of him again.
Behind you, Satoru didn't move the car. He sat perfectly still despite the symphony of honking vehicles. Through the tinted rear window, he watched your retreating figure. He didn't look angry, he looked amused.
He reached into the passenger seat and picked up the silk handkerchief you left at home. The one that smelled of the cemetery and your sweet vanilla perfume. He pressed it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief, ecstatic second.
"Spicy," he whispered to the empty cabin. "I like it when they fight back. It makes the breaking part so much more rewarding."
The following week was a dull, agonizing crawl. Work, home, grocery store, home. That was your entire world for seven days. Satoru hadn't called, and you weren't about to be the one to break the silence. Your pride was too fragile, and even though a small, nagging part of you felt guilty for snapping at him (after all, he was the only one who seemed to care about finding Kento’s killer) you remained stubborn. You were determined to reclaim some semblance of the "comfortable" life you once had, even if that life now felt like a poorly fitting costume.
Saturday night arrived, and you decided to treat yourself. You were still in your work clothes; a charcoal pencil skirt and a pair of black tights that featured a jagged run down the left calf. You’d meant to replace them, but the unplanned nights at the motel had drained your savings, forcing you to stretch every yen until the next paycheck.
The sizzle of a fifty-percent-off steak filled your small kitchen, a lonely sound in the quiet apartment. You leaned against the counter, swirling a glass of grocery-store wine. As you sipped the cheap, acidic liquid, you caught your reflection in the window. Your eyes had lost their spark, a light that felt buried deep in the damp earth alongside Kento and the comfortable, predictable life you once knew.
By the time the steak was half-eaten, the bottle of wine was more than half-gone. The warmth of the alcohol began to blur the sharp edges of your grief, replacing your caution with a dangerous, lightheaded bravado.
Then, the phone on the counter buzzed.
You stared at his name for three long rings before sliding the bar to answer. You didn't say hello.
"You took your sweet time," you drawled, your voice sounding silkier and slower than usual. You took another gulp of wine, leaning back until your head hit the cool wall. "I thought you’d finally realized I’m a lost cause and went to find a prettier victim to 'protect.'"
There was a pause on the other end, then a low, vibrating chuckle that sent a localized shiver straight down your spine.
"Victim? Is that what we’re calling you now, [Y/N]?" Satoru’s voice was like velvet over gravel. "I prefer the term 'person of interest.' And for the record, I’ve looked—there isn't anyone prettier."
You giggled, a loose, airy sound. "Liar. You just miss having someone to boss around. You miss telling me to put out my cigarettes and change my locks." You swirled the wine, watching the dark liquid stain the glass. "Admit it, Satoru. You’re bored without me."
The line crackled with a sudden, heavy stillness. On the other end, Satoru’s breathing hitched—a tiny, almost imperceptible break in his usual composure. He was used to being the one in control, the one tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him. Your sudden, wine-soaked boldness seemed to have knocked him off his axis.
"You’re drunk, [Y/N]," he finally realised, his voice unusually strained. "You’re talking nonsense. You should probably put the glass down and go to bed."
"Don't be a bore, Satoru," you giggled, sliding down the wall until you were sitting on the cold linoleum floor. "You're always so... intense. Kento wasn't like that. Kento was... safe."
You took another sip, the wine tasting like iron and cheap grapes. "Did you know we had a schedule? Every Tuesday was pasta. Every Friday was a movie he’d already seen. He’d fall asleep ten minutes in, and I’d just... sit there. Listening to him breathe."
"He cared about you," Satoru said, his voice tight.
"I know he did," you whispered, leaning your head against the kitchen cabinet. "And I stayed because it was comfortable. It was like a warm blanket that was just a little too short, you know? My toes were always cold, but the rest of me was fine. It was boring, Satoru. God, it was so boring. But it didn't hurt. Not like this."
The silence on the other end of the line stretched thin, humming with a tension that the cheap wine couldn't quite dull. You could almost hear the gears turning in Satoru’s head, that clinical, detective side of him warring with the dark spark that ignited every time you challenged him.
"Safety is overrated when it's built on a lie," Satoru finally said, his voice dropping an octave. There was no teasing left in it, only a jagged, cold edge. "But since you’re so fond of the truth tonight, here’s a piece of it: Geto Suguru is a ghost. I’ve spent the last week tearing through every database from here to Kyoto, and it’s a dead end. His files are scrubbed. Not just deleted—scrubbed."
You blinked, the kitchen light suddenly feeling too bright, too clinical. "What do you mean? You saw him on the CCTV. You found his hair..."
"I mean someone went through the system with a blowtorch and left nothing but ash," he interrupted, and you heard the distinct sound of a lighter flicking open, then a sharp, impatient exhale. "I can't track a man who doesn't officially exist. There are no recent bank statements, no medical records, nothing for over a year. He’s gone off the grid completely."
You leaned your head back against the cabinet, the wood hard against your skull. The wine made your thoughts feel like they were swimming through honey. "So... he's a ghost? That's why he can get into my apartment? That's why he could kill Kento without anyone seeing him?"
"He’s a ghost who knows how to haunt," Satoru replied. You could hear him shifting, the sound of fabric rustling. "If I can’t find him in the files, it’s because he’s already inside the perimeter. He’s not a lead anymore, [Y/N]. He’s an apex predator who has successfully erased his own trail."
"Is that why you didn't call?" you whispered, a sudden, sharp spike of vulnerability piercing through your liquid courage. "Because you were afraid you couldn't catch him?"
"I didn't call because I was busy trying to find a reason to keep my distance," he admitted, his voice barely a breath against the receiver. "But you just told me you're tired of being comfortable. And since Geto has effectively vanished from the face of the earth, there’s no one left to pretend this is a standard investigation."
The floor felt colder beneath you. You looked at the shadow of your own hand on the linoleum, trembling just slightly. You didn't know that Geto’s files were scrubbed because Satoru had scrubbed them himself. You didn't know the reason there were no records for the past year was because Geto was rotting in a shallow, unmarked grave Satoru had dug with his own two hands.
"You’re sitting on the floor, aren't you?" Satoru’s voice had shifted. The clinical distance of a detective was gone, replaced by something dark, thick, and demanding.
"Maybe," you whispered, the wine-warmth humming in your ears. "It’s cold. I like the cold. It reminds me I’m still awake."
"Stay there," he commanded. It wasn't a suggestion. "I’m ten minutes away. If you’re going to unravel, [Y/N], you aren't going to do it alone."
The click of the line was the only warning you had. True to his word, ten minutes later, the heavy thud of the knocker vibrated through the wood of your front door. You scrambled to your feet, your charcoal skirt twisting around your hips, the run in your tights feeling like a jagged scar against your skin. When you pulled the door open, Satoru was leaning against the frame, his white hair wind-riffled. He held a bottle, something far more expensive than the acidic swill sitting on your counter.
"You look like a disaster," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled form with a look that was decidedly not professional.
"And you look like you’re about to tell me more bad news," you retorted, stepping back to let him in. "I see you didn’t come empty handed?"
"It’s an apology for the silence," he said, moving past you into the small kitchen. He didn't ask where the glasses were, he simply found them. He poured two deep, violet-red glasses of a heavy Bordeaux, the scent of oak and dark fruit immediately masking the smell of your burnt steak.
He sat on the small kitchen stool, his long legs taking up nearly all the space in the cramped room. You sat opposite him, the proximity making the air feel thick. As you drank, the conversation about Geto became a background hum. Satoru talked about "erased fingerprints" and "shadow networks," but your focus was on the way his throat moved when he swallowed, and the way his large, elegant hands toyed with the stem of his glass.
The "bravado" from earlier returned, amplified by the superior vintage. "You never answered me, Satoru," you said, your voice leaning into that silky, slow drawl. "About the 'prettier victim.' Is that why you're here? To make sure your favorite specimen hasn't completely spoiled?"
Satoru set his glass down with a controlled deliberate click. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, bringing his face inches from yours. The scent of him, cold air and something expensive, overwhelmed the wine.
"I told you," he whispered, his voice vibrating in your chest. "There isn't anyone else. There never was. You think this is an investigation? You think I’ve been spending my nights in the archives for the sake of the precinct?"
He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw, tilting your face up. The touch was electric, a sharp contrast to the dull ache of the past week. "I’ve been trying to find a version of this story where I don't want to ruin you myself.” Liar. "But you make it so difficult when you talk about how 'safe' Kento was. How 'boring' it was to be loved by a man who didn't understand the fire in you."
"And you do?" you challenged, your breath hitching. "You understand it?"
"I started the fire, [Y/N]," he murmured.
He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled you from the chair, his hands sliding down to your waist, dragging you against the hard, unyielding line of his body. The kiss was anything but gentle, it was an invasion, tasting of dark. It was the "intense" reality you had claimed to want, a world away from the "comfortable" Tuesday pasta nights.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft white hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if you could merge your skin with his. He groaned low in his throat, as he hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, scattering the remains of your lonely dinner.
His hands, those large, capable hands that had "scrubbed" the evidence of a dead man, were now tearing at the run in your tights, widening the hole until he could feel the heat of your skin against his palms.
"Kento never touched you like this, did he?" he rasped against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "He never made you forget your own name."
"I don't want to remember it," you gasped, arching your back as his mouth moved lower, marking you in the amber light of the kitchen. "Just... don't let me be safe, Satoru. Not tonight."
"I’m never letting you be safe again," he promised, his voice dark and final.
As he pushed you back against the cold cabinets, his body a heavy, scorching weight over yours, the last of the "comfort" you had clung to dissolved. You were no longer a victim or a person of interest. You were his. And as he moved within you, fierce and relentless, you didn't see the dark triumph in his eyes, the look of a man who had finally closed the cage and watched his prize walk right into the center of it.
The notification banner at the top of your screen felt like a physical blow.
I miss you. Did you forget about me?
Your hands trembled so violently that the phone nearly slipped from your grip, clattering against the cold tile of the bathroom floor. He was still after you. After weeks of silence—weeks where you had almost convinced yourself that the nightmare was fading into the background of your mundane life—he was back. He was still playing with him, using a dead man’s ghost to pull the strings of your heart.
Huddled in a cramped toilet stall in the company building, you fumbled with the buttons of your blouse, ripping a few open in a desperate attempt to get air into your lungs. The walls felt like they were shrinking, the sterile scent of bleach suddenly smelling like the iron tang of blood and the cloying sweetness of lilies.
You were hyperventilating, the ragged, shallow gasps echoing off the metal partitions. The last time your chest had felt this tight, this constricted, was the night you had finally broken down and invited Satoru over for takeout. Money had been tight, and the thought of splitting a bill and sharing a meal with a warm, living body in your silent apartment had seemed like the only way to survive the evening. But a simple, unexpected knock at the front door had unlocked the cellar of your fears, sending you into a spiraling panic.
You remembered the way Satoru’s hands had felt that night. Not cold and clinical like a detective's, but heavy and grounding. When the knock had sounded, you had collapsed against the kitchen counter, your vision blurring into static.
Satoru hadn't panicked. He hadn't even looked at the door. He had stepped into your space, his large frame shielding you from the rest of the world. He didn't pull you into a hug; instead, he took your wrists and pressed your palms flat against his chest, right over his heart.
"Listen to me, [Y/N]," he had whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to bypass your ears and go straight to your bones. "The door is locked. I am the lock. You don't need to breathe for the whole room, okay? Just breathe for me. Match me."
He had forced you to look into those eyes—those impossible, infinite blue eyes that seemed to pull the chaos out of your head and drown it in an ocean of calm. He didn't let go until your heart rate slowed to match the steady, powerful thrum under his ribs. He had taught you the "5-4-3-2-1" method, grounding your senses until the apartment stopped spinning.
In the stall, you tried to find that anchor again. You pressed your back against the cold metal wall, trying to conjure the memory of his heartbeat.
Five things you can see, you whispered to yourself, your voice a fractured wreck. The grey floor. The silver latch. The shadow of my shoes...
Your phone buzzed again in your lap. Another message.
You look so pretty today. I love that blouse on you. Blue. My favourite color.
The air left your lungs again. He was here. He was in the building. He was watching you. Your fingers flew over the screen, bypassing your recent calls and heading straight for the one name that made the world feel solid.
You didn't care about your pride anymore. You didn't care about the wine-soaked confession from a few nights ago or the fact that he was "scary." You needed the lock. You needed Satoru.
The phone rang once. Twice.
"Satoru," you choked out the moment he picked up, your voice breaking. "He's here. Satoru, he's in the building. He's using Kento's phone."
"I know," Satoru’s voice came through the line, eerily calm, accompanied by the muffled sound of footsteps on carpet. "I'm already in the lobby, sweetheart. Stay in the stall. Lock the door. I’m coming up to finish this."
The minutes that followed were a grueling test of your sanity. You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, your fingers dug into your thighs so hard you could feel your nails piercing the fabric of your skirt. Every distant flush of a toilet or the hum of the ventilation system sounded like a footstep, a breath, a blade. You tried to focus on the grounding technique Satoru had taught you, but the memory of his heartbeat felt worlds away from the cold, sterile reality of the office bathroom.
Then, the heavy door to the restroom creaked open.
Your felt your heart skip a beat. You pulled your feet up onto the seat, huddling into a ball, eyes fixed on the gap at the bottom of the stall. You waited for the black shoes of a stranger, for the scent of lilies to drift under the door.
"[Y/N]? It’s me," Satoru’s voice called out. It wasn't the playful, melodic tone he used when he was teasing you. It was low, resonant, and carried a sharp edge of authority that sliced through the silence.
The tension in your body snapped like a violin string. Relief, violent and overwhelming, flooded your chest. You unbolted the latch with trembling fingers and threw the stall door open. You didn't walk—you collided with him, crashing face-first into his chest before he could even reach out for you.
Only then did the dam break. A jagged, broken sob escaped your throat as you clawed at the expensive fabric of his suit, your face buried in his shirt. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered, your tears hot and frantic as they soaked into his chest.
"Shhh, I’ve got you," he whispered. His hands came up, one resting firmly on the small of your back while the other cupped the back of your head, pressing you closer. "You’re okay. I’m here."
As he shifted to hold you more securely, your hands slid down his torso, and your knuckles brushed against something cold and heavy holstered at his hip. You pulled back just an inch, your blurry eyes catching the dull, metallic glint of a small revolver. The sight of the weapon was a jarring reminder of the violence that followed him, but in your state, it felt like a promise of safety.
Satoru’s gaze dropped, sweeping over your disheveled appearance. In your panic, you had left several buttons of your blouse undone, and the thin fabric was pulled wide, revealing the lace of your bra and the frantic rise and fall of your chest.
His jaw tightened, a flash of something dark and unreadable flickering in his blue eyes. Without a word, he reached up and unbuttoned his own charcoal blazer. He shrugged it off and draped it over your shoulders. It was heavy and still held the warmth of his body, smelling of expensive sandalwood and the faint, ozonic scent of police station he’s been previously. It swallowed you whole, the hem reaching mid-thigh, effectively shielding you from the world.
"Button up, sweets," he murmured, his fingers lingering on the lapel of the jacket near your neck. "You’re shivering."
"He was... he was right there, Satoru," you choked out, clutching the oversized blazer around you. "The messages... he saw me. He saw what I was wearing."
Satoru’s expression went stone-cold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone, his thumb sliding across the screen with clinical precision.
"I know. I've already alerted the security team to lock down the floor," he said, though his eyes never left your face. He stepped closer, his shadow looming over you, tall and indestructible. "He’s not getting out of this building. And he’s certainly never getting this close to you again. I made a mistake letting you out of my sight for a week. I won't make it again."
He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek. His touch was lingering, almost possessive. "From now on, you stay where I can see you. Understood?"
The following night, precisely at midnight, you found yourself back in the sterile, air-conditioned silence of his private investigation wing. The office was swallowed in darkness, save for the solitary, amber glow of a desk lamp that carved Satoru’s silhouette out of the shadows.
To keep your hands from shaking, you were mindlessly chewing on some expensive butter cookies he’d claimed he bought specifically for you. But even the sweetness felt like ash in your mouth. What dominated the room now was the massive corkboard that had appeared since your last visit. It was a chaotic, spider-webbed mess of red string, grainy surveillance photos, and typed police reports.
In the center of the web sat a photograph of the infamous Geto Suguru.
Seeing the face of the man who had supposedly butchered Kento made your stomach turn. His long, dark hair and the cold, narrowed slant of his purple eyes made you gag. If you could, you would have reached into the photo and gouged those eyes out with your bare fingers. You hated him with a visceral, jagged intensity—never knowing that the man you despised was just another victim, discarded and buried by the true architect of this nightmare.
"I’m sorry for the late hour," Satoru said, his voice smooth and low, vibrating through the quiet room. He stood by the window, his back to the light, making him look like a towering wall of shadow. "But things are moving faster than I anticipated. I didn't want you sitting at home alone when I found... this."
He stepped toward the desk, his long fingers sliding a weathered, leather-bound notebook across the polished wood toward you.
"I went back to the location his car was found," he lied, his tone dropping into a grave, professional cadence. "The crime scene technicians missed it. It was thrown in some bush a few feet away from the parking spot. It’s Geto’s diary. Or at least, his manifest of obsession."
You reached for the book, your fingers trembling. As you pulled it closer, you noticed a stack of police reports pinned to the corkboard beside the diary. You leaned in, your brow furrowing as you scanned the dates stamped in red ink.
March 2024. June 2024. August 2024.
"Satoru," you whispered, your heart beginning to drum a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "These reports... all of them. They’re from a year ago. Some even eighteen months back. Why is there nothing recent? Why does the trail stop so long ago if he only just killed Kento?"
Satoru didn't miss a beat. He stepped into the light, his expression a perfect mask of grim concern. He leaned over the desk, his face inches from yours, his blue eyes reflecting the amber lamp light like molten glass.
"That’s what makes him so dangerous, [Y/N]," he murmured, his voice thick with a fake, heavy solemnity. "He went underground to prepare for you. He spent over a year scrubbing his life, living in the walls, becoming a ghost so that when he finally struck, there would be no paper trail left to follow. He wasn't idle for those eighteen months. He was practicing."
He tapped the leather cover of the diary.
"Read it. He talks about 'waiting for the fruit to ripen.' He was waiting for you to get bored of Kento. He was waiting for the perfect moment to step out of the shadows and claim what he thinks is his."
You opened the first page, the ink looking fresh despite the "age" of the book. The handwriting was elegant, precise, and utterly terrifying.
"She wore the blue dress again today," the first entry read. "The one that makes her look like she’s already drowning. Kento touched her arm at the bus stop. I’ll have to take that arm first."
The cookie you had been chewing felt like a lead weight in your throat. You looked up at Satoru, the "hero" who had found the evidence the police were too blind to see, unaware that the ink on those pages was barely dry.
The paper felt cold beneath your fingertips, but the words burned. You read the entry again, your stomach twisting into a hard, sick knot.
"I found a strand of her hair on the bus seat. It’s thinner than I expected. I keep it in my mouth sometimes, just to feel her against my tongue..."
A bile-flavored heat rose in your throat. You instinctively reached up, touching the ends of your hair as if you could feel his phantom touch lingering there. The thought of a man—of Geto—sitting where you sat, tasting a part of you, made the air in the office feel thin and tainted.
You slammed the diary shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room. You couldn't do it. Your hands were shaking so violently that the leather felt like it was vibrating with the same sickness that filled the pages. You pushed the book away, your chair screeching against the floor as you tried to create distance between yourself and that ink.
"I can’t... I can't read anymore," you choked out, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. "It’s too much, Satoru. It’s not just stalking, it’s... it’s a desecration."
But Satoru didn't let the silence settle. His hand, large and steady, reached past you and reclaimed the book. He didn't put it away. Instead, he flipped it open to a later page, his eyes scanning the lines with a terrifying, clinical focus.
"You need to understand the depth of it, [Y/N]," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that made the hair on your arms stand up. "You need to see exactly why Kento never stood a chance."
He began to read, his voice steady, almost melodic, as he recited the words he had drafted in the dark.
"He is a shackle. A heavy, iron weight around her neck that she calls 'love.' Every time he touches her, he leaves a mark of mediocrity on her skin..."
"Stop it," you whispered, but Satoru stepped closer, his presence looming over you, the amber light casting long, distorted shadows of him against the wall of evidence.
"I need to cut the chain," he continued, ignoring your plea. He was reading with a strange kind of intensity, as if he were savoring the weight of the syllables. "I need to see her scream so that, for once, she feels something more intense than 'comfortable.' Red is a much better color for her than grey."
The room felt like it was spinning. The word comfortable hit you like a physical blow. It was the exact word you had used to describe your life with Kento just nights ago, while you were slumped on your kitchen floor, drunk and vulnerable.
"He knew," you whispered, your voice trembling. "He knew I was bored. He knew I felt trapped. How could a monster understand me better than the man I shared a bed with for almost a year?"
Satoru closed the diary slowly, the "thud" of the cover sounding final. He looked down at you, his blue eyes unreadable behind the glow of the lamp. He didn't look horrified for you; he looked like a man who had finally proven a point.
"Geto wasn't always a monster, [Y/N]," Satoru said, his voice dropping into a low, conversational tone that felt dangerously intimate. "Before he went off the rails, he was a detective. A good one. He had this... obsession with 'wrongdoers.' He wanted to purge the city of anyone he deemed a 'monkey'—the people who made the world stagnant, boring, and corrupt."
He stepped closer, closing the distance until the tips of his shoes brushed yours.
"The problem was, Geto started seeing everyone as a wrongdoer. He became a threat to the very society he was supposed to protect. He was judge, jury, and executioner." Satoru leaned down, his voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper. "And he was obsessed with you because he saw how Kento was stifling you. He thought killing Kento was an act of justice. A 'cleansing.'"
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Is that why you couldn't find his files? Because he was a detective? Because he knew how to hide?"
"Exactly," Satoru lied, his face a mask of perfect, tragic sincerity. "He knew the system because he helped build it."
The weekend before everything shattered—long before the drunk confession and the suffocating glow of the evidence room—you found yourself sitting in a quiet office on the edge of the city. It was a space of muted tones and soft shadows, smelling faintly of medicinal herbs and the ghost of expensive tobacco.
You hadn’t chosen to be here. Satoru had practically choreographed the appointment, handing you a card with a name embossed in silver: Dr. Shoko Ieiri.
"You’re fraying at the edges, sweets," he had whispered that morning, his thumb tracing the dark circles under your eyes with a tenderness that felt like a bruise. "I can’t be the only one holding you together. Talk to Shoko. She’s... an old friend. She knows how to handle people like us."
Now, sitting across from her, you realized "people like us" meant the broken and the haunted. Shoko was beautiful in a way that felt exhausted, her eyes heavy with the weight of a thousand secrets she’d been paid to keep. She didn't look at you with Satoru’s manic intensity, rather she looked at you with a clinical, bone-deep weariness.
"Satoru said you were having trouble," Shoko began, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. She didn't have a notepad out. She just watched you. "He’s been very... vocal about your well-being lately."
"I feel like I'm losing him," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And the worst part is, I’m letting it happen. Every day Kento feels further away, like a photograph left in the sun until the faces are just white blurs."
Shoko tilted her head, her gaze tracking the way your fingers restlessly picked at the hem of Satoru’s oversized hoodie, the one you had started wearing like a second skin. "Loss isn't a single event, [Y/N]. It’s a series of disappearances. What are you letting go of today?"
"The guilt," you admitted, the word tasting like copper. "I’m growing closer to Satoru. He’s been my shadow since the funeral. He handles the bills, he handles the police, he even handles the way I breathe. But when I’m with him—when he makes me laugh or when I feel that spark of something that isn't grief—I feel like I’m cheating. I feel like every step toward Satoru is a shovel of dirt on Kento’s grave."
You looked up at her, your eyes burning. "I loved Kento. He was my home. But Satoru is... he’s a sun. It’s hard not to look at him. And then I hate myself for looking."
Shoko reached for a silver case on her desk, clicking it open but not taking a cigarette. She just stared at the contents. "Satoru has a way of becoming the only thing in a person's peripheral vision. He’s been like that since we were students. He doesn't just enter a life, he occupies it until there’s no room left for anything else."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a warning. "Grief makes us grab for the nearest hand in the dark. Sometimes, we don't realize that hand is the one that turned the lights off in the first place."
The comment felt strange, a jagged edge in a smooth conversation. "He’s the only one who cares about the case," you defended. "The police have basically given up. Satoru is the only one who sees Geto for what he is."
A flicker of something (pity, perhaps) crossed Shoko’s face at the mention of the name Geto. She looked like she wanted to scream, but instead, she reached for her prescription pad. The pen scratched against the paper with a rhythmic, decisive sound.
"You aren't 'cheating' on a dead man by trying to survive the day," Shoko said firmly. "But your brain is stuck in a loop of trauma and hyper-vigilance. Satoru told me you aren't sleeping. He told me you're starting to imagine things."
"I'm not imagining the stalker," you snapped, a defensive heat rising in your chest.
"I didn't say you were," Shoko replied calmly, sliding the slip of paper toward you. "These are antidepressants. Specifically, they help with the obsessive loops of grief and the paranoia that comes with prolonged trauma. They’ll help lower the volume of the noise in your head."
She paused, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a final plea.
"Take these. They won't make you forget Kento, but they might help the fog lift enough so you can see Satoru for what he actually is, rather than just a liferaft."
"And what is he?" you asked, clutching the prescription.
Shoko stood up, the session over. "He’s a man who hates to lose. Especially when it comes to things he thinks belong to him. Be careful, [Y/N]. Clarity can be a very dangerous thing when you’re living in a house built on lies."
As you walked out, the prescription felt heavy in your pocket. You felt relieved that Satoru had sent you here, convinced that his "concern" was the only thing keeping you alive.
The next day, you were beyond exhausted. Both mentally and physically, you were a wreck. All the all-nighters you’d pulled (either because of Satoru’s late-night "updates" or the paralyzing grip of fear) were finally crashing down on you like wild ocean waves. Your diet for the past few weeks had consisted of lukewarm vending machine snacks, half-priced expired convenience store meals, and enough energy drinks to make your heart flutter like a trapped bird.
To say all you wanted to do was dig a hole and die in it was an understatement—no pun intended.
You were huddled in the breakroom, trying to coax a bit of warmth out of a paper cup of bitter coffee, when voices drifted in from the hallway. You froze.
"I’m just saying, it’s a bit much, isn't it?"
It was Reina, a girl from accounting who had always looked at you like you were something she’d stepped in. Her voice was sharp, laced with that faux-pity that made your skin crawl.
"I saw that guy who came to pick her up the other day. White hair, designer suit, looks like he stepped off a runway," Reina continued, followed by the sound of a locker slamming shut. "Of course she’d move on that fast. We all know [Y/N] only likes the high-end models. She doesn't deserve guys like that."
"But what about Nanami?" another voice asked, though it sounded hesitant.
"Please," Reina scoffed, and you could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "Remember when she friend-zoned Tanaka from HR a few months before she got with Nanami? Tanaka was sweet, stable, and actually had his life together. But the whole office knows why she turned him down—he was average. Plain. Just another face in the crowd."
You gripped your cup tighter, the cardboard beginning to give way under your fingers.
"Nanami was only a placeholder," Reina whispered, her voice dropping but still perfectly audible in the quiet room. "He was decent-looking enough to keep her satisfied for a while, but the second a guy like that detective shows up? She drops the act. She’s probably thrilled to have an excuse to be around someone with money and looks for once. It’s pathetic, really. Using a tragedy to trade up."
The coffee splashed over your knuckles, stinging and hot, but it was nothing compared to the white-hot flash of rage and grief that ignited in your chest. You weren't even thinking when you stood up. Your vision blurred at the edges, partly from the lack of sleep, partly from the pills Satoru had insisted you take, but mostly from the sheer, jagged unfairness of it all.
You didn't see a colleague. You saw a target for every ounce of pain you’d been forced to swallow.
"Say that again," you rasped, stepping out of the breakroom.
Reina jumped, her hand flying to her throat as she saw you. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were bloodshot. "I—[Y/N], we were just—"
"Say it again," you hissed, your voice cracking as you took a step toward her. "Tell me more about how I didn't love him. Tell me how I'm 'trading up.'"
The girl’s face went from pale to defiant. "Look at yourself! You’re a mess, and you’re riding around in luxury cars with a man who looks like he owns half the city while your boyfriend isn't even cold yet. It’s disgusting."
The snap was audible. You didn't just slap her. No. You lunged, your fingers hooking into the lapel of her blouse as you drove her back against the lockers. The sound of metal hitting metal rang out like a bell, and for the first time in weeks, you didn't feel like a victim.
The impact of Reina’s head hitting the lockers made a hollow, booming sound that seemed to vibrate through your very teeth. For a second, the office fell into a deathly silence, the only sound being your own ragged, hyperventilating gasps.
"You don't know anything!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat, raw and jagged. "You think this is a choice? You think I wanted this?"
Your nails dug into her shoulders, and for a terrifying moment, you wanted to keep going. You wanted to claw the judgmental smirk off her face, to make her feel even a fraction of the suffocating, lightless void you woke up in every morning. Reina’s eyes were wide with genuine terror, her hands fumbling at your wrists to pry you off.
"Someone get HR!" she shrieked. "She’s crazy! She’s actually lost it!"
The intervention was swift. Two men from the sales department grabbed your arms, hauling you back. You fought them, kicking and snarling like a cornered animal, until the adrenaline peaked and then vanished, leaving you limp and sobbing in their grip.
By the time the police arrived, called by a trembling office anager, you were sitting on the floor, your back against the very lockers you’d slammed Reina into. You looked hollowed out.
The fluorescent lights of the police station were unforgiving as always. You sat in a small wooden chair, your head spinning from the antidepressant you’d taken that morning on an empty stomach. You felt like you were floating three inches above your own body.
An older officer, Officer Ito, sat across from you, tapping a pen against a stack of paperwork. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
"Look, Reina is pressing charges for assault. She’s got a bruise on her shoulder and she’s claiming workplace trauma," he said, rubbing his eyes. "But I see your name in our system. You’re the complainant in the Nanami homicide, right?"
"Yes," you whispered, clutching the hem of your blazer, which felt like the only thing keeping you from dissolving. "I’m... I’m being stalked. Geto Suguru. Detective Gojo said he’s the one who did it. I’m just... I'm not in my right mind."
Ito paused. He stopped tapping his pen. He looked at you, then at the computer screen, then back to you. A strange, twisted little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—a dry, cynical laugh that sounded like dead leaves skittering on pavement.
"Detective Gojo, huh? Satoru Gojo?" Ito shook his head. "Honey, I don't know what kind of game that hotshot is playing, but Geto Suguru hasn't stalked anyone in a long time. We found his body in a warehouse over a year ago. Blunt force trauma to the neck. Case is long since closed."
"Dead?" you repeated, the word tasting like copper. "But... the diary. The messages. Satoru showed me the evidence room. He said he was tracking him."
"Then he’s tracking a ghost," Ito said, standing up to grab a coffee. "Maybe he’s just trying to keep you calm, but the man’s been in the ground for fourteen months. You can’t be stalked by a corpse."
You didn't remember leaving the station. You didn't remember the taxi ride back to Satoru’s penthouse. Your mind was a frantic, looping reel of the last few weeks.
If Geto was dead... Who wrote the diary? Who killed Kento?
The answer was so loud it was deafening, but your drugged brain kept trying to reject it. You walked into the penthouse, your footsteps silent on the expensive marble.
Satoru was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights reflecting off his white hair like a crown. He was holding a glass of amber liquid, looking every bit the savior you had prayed for.
"You’re home late," he said, his voice smooth as silk. He didn't turn around. "I heard about the incident at work. I’ve already handled the legal side of it. Reina won't be a problem anymore."
You stood by the door, your hand on the latch. "Satoru... I saw a policeman today. At the station."
Satoru went still. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Oh?" he murmured, finally turning to look at you. His blindfold was off, those terrifying, beautiful blue eyes locking onto yours with the precision of a hawk. "And what did the policeman have to say?"
You looked at the man who had held you while you cried, the man who had clothed you and fed you and "protected" you. You wanted to scream 'Why did you lie?' but the sheer power radiating off him made your throat lock. You realized with a jolt of pure horror that if you confronted him now, you would never walk out of this room.
"He... he said the case is difficult," you lied, your voice trembling. "That there are no leads. He said I should just... trust you."
Satoru’s tension vanished instantly. He smiled, that dazzling, blinding smile that you used to find comforting. He crossed the room in two long strides, cupping your face in his large, warm hands.
"Smart man," Satoru whispered. "You look exhausted, [Y/N]. Your brain is working too hard. Here."
He reached for a small silver tray on the side table, picking up a glass of water and a small, white pill. Not your usual antidepressant. This one was different.
"Take this. It’s a sedative. Just for tonight," he urged, his thumb stroking your lower lip. "You’ve had a traumatic day. Let me take the weight for a while. Drink."
You looked at the pill. You looked at the man who had murdered your life just to build a new one around you. You took the pill, and as the water hit your throat, you realized Satoru wasn't just the cure.
He was the one who had made you sick in the first place.
The truth was, you didn’t know what the medicine Shoko gave you was actually supposed to do. Genuinely. You hadn't bothered to read the side effects or the clinical pamphlets, you had just trusted the weary weight in her voice. But as the days bled into one another, you realized the "leveling" she promised was more like a total burial.
The realization hit you one afternoon. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, clutching a framed photo of Kento, the one taken at a small seaside bakery where the flour had dusted his nose and he’d actually let out a genuine, unburdened laugh. It was your favorite piece of him. You waited for the familiar, agonizing chest pains to arrive. You waited for the sob to catch in your throat, for the hot tears to blur the glass, for the visceral scream of why? to tear through your mind.
Your heart beat in a steady, dull rhythm. Your eyes felt dry, almost sandy. You looked at his face, the man who was your entire world once, and felt like you were looking at a stranger in a textbook. You were hollow. The medicine had built a glass wall between your soul and your grief.
"I can't feel him," you whispered into the empty room, your voice flat. "Kento, I can't find you."
"That's because you're finally healing, sweets."
The floorboards didn't even creak. Satoru was suddenly there, casting a long, elegant shadow over you. He sat on the bed, the mattress dipping significantly under his weight, and draped a heavy, warm arm around your shoulders. He didn't look at the photo. He only looked at you.
"I... I should be crying, Satoru," you said, turning the photo toward him, your hands trembling despite the chemical chill in your veins. "Why can't I cry? It’s like I’m forgetting how to love him."
Satoru’s hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair, gently pulling your head to rest against his chest. You could hear his heart.
"You aren't forgetting," he murmured, his chin resting atop your head. "You're just evolving. Shoko’s medicine is doing exactly what it’s meant to do—it’s silencing the noise so you can finally hear me."
He took the photograph from your limp fingers and set it face-down on the nightstand. The click of the frame hitting the wood sounded like a coffin lid closing.
"Kento wouldn't want you to be a slave to the past," Satoru lied, his voice a honeyed caress that vibrated through your skull. "He was a simple man. He’d want you to be taken care of. He’d want you to be happy. And you are happy now, aren't you? No more screaming. No more waking up in a cold sweat."
You leaned into him, not because you wanted to, but because the pills made the alternative—standing up, fighting, feeling—seem like an impossible chore. You felt like a ghost haunting your own body.
"I feel so empty," you breathed against his shirt.
"Empty is good," Satoru whispered, his grip tightening just a fraction, a silent claim of ownership. "Empty means there's finally room for me to fill the gaps. Just breathe, [Y/N]. Let the medicine do the work. I’ll do the rest."
At the time, you thought it was mercy.
You placed the dark pill on your tongue and swallowed quickly, washing down the acrid, sour flavor with a gulp of water. Shoko had prescribed you low-dose antidepressants to be taken once a day, but since Satoru himself said those were useless for your "unique condition," you believed him. He has been friends with Shoko for a long time now. He surely knows what he’s doing, right? You switched to the new pills he provided instead. A higher dosage, twice a day, with eight to twelve hours between them. Or was it twelve to twenty-four? You couldn't quite remember. The days had begun to bleed together into a soft, hazy blur, but it didn't matter. Satoru was always there to remind you.
The evening was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the kitchen’s pendant lights. Satoru had decided that tonight was a celebration because you were "finally feeling like yourself again." He had brought home a bottle of vintage Romanée-Conti and a bag of handmade pasta that cost more than your monthly rent used to.
One moment, you were staring at the big window in the living room, trying to remember what you had been doing—had you been looking for your keys? Watching the rain? Was it raining, huh?—and the next, you were standing by the stove. The transition felt like a jump-cut in a film, the middle of the reel simply snipped away by a pair of invisible shears.
"Careful, sweetheart. You're drifting again," Satoru murmured.
His voice didn't come from behind you. It seemed to resonate from within the very air. His chest was a solid, immovable wall against your back, and his arms draped over your shoulders like heavy silk ropes. He was guiding your hand, which held a wooden spoon, stirring a thick, red sauce that bubbled like a lava pool.
"The wine, [Y/N]. Sip it. It’s a 1945 Romanée-Conti. It tastes like history," he whispered into your ear. His breath was hot and smelled faintly of expensive sugar.
You lifted the crystal glass. Your arm felt like it belonged to someone else, moving with a strange, lagging latency. The wine was deep, almost black, and as it hit your tongue, it didn't taste like grapes. It tasted thick, cloying, and deceptively sweet, like overripe fruit beginning to ferment into rot.
"Is it good?" he asked, his chin resting on your shoulder, his white hair tickling your cheek. He looked like a masterpiece in the amber light. "I bought it to celebrate. You're so much better today."
"I... I don't remember buying the pasta," you slurred, the words feeling like marbles in your mouth. You looked down at the counter. When had the flour gotten there? Why were there three plates set when it was just the two of you? You blinked. Once. Then twice. There were only two. Were you hallucinatinh?
"I did everything, my love," he hummed, his hand sliding down to cover yours on the spoon, forcing you to stir faster. The rhythm was hypnotic. Swish. Thud. Swish. Thud. "You just had to show up. You’re the guest of honor in your own life now. Isn't that wonderful? No more decisions. No more 'grey' days."
He picked up a strand of pasta with his bare fingers, oblivious to the heat, and held it to your lips. You opened your mouth instinctively, like a fledgling bird. He fed you, his thumb lingering on your bottom lip, dragging slowly across the skin until he forced your mouth to close.
"Delicious," he whispered, though you couldn't actually taste anything through the cotton-wool fog in your brain.
He began to sway, pulling you into a slow, rhythmic dance while the sauce hissed and spat on the burner behind you. The room felt like it was spinning on a tilted axis. The expensive cabinetry, the designer appliances, the smell of garlic and expensive perfume, it was all so perfect it felt nauseating. It was a dollhouse version of domesticity, and you were the porcelain figure he was repositioning to suit his whim.
"You love me, don't you?" he asked. It was a directive. He tilted your head back, his fingers digging slightly into the soft flesh of your jaw to keep you from looking away from his blinding gaze.
"I... I think so," you breathed, the ceiling fan above him swirling into a halo of distorted blades.
"You do," he corrected with a smile that was far too wide, his teeth gleaming like ivory. "You love me because I'm the only one left. Everyone else... they were just shadows. I'm the only thing that's real."
He kissed you then—a deep, suffocating kiss that tasted of iron and vintage wine. You leaned into him, not because of passion, but because your legs no longer felt capable of holding your weight.
The cold night air, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth of the kitchen you were just in, bit at your exposed skin and flushed your cheeks a deep, frantic crimson. One moment, the smell of garlic and thick, red sauce had been drowning you, the next, you were inhaling the thin, icy oxygen of the heights and the thick smoke of Satoru’s freshly lit ciggarete.
Where were you? You blinked, your eyelashes heavy with the sedative’s weight. This was the balcony, a sprawling concrete tongue lashing out into the void of the city. You were so high up in the sky that the world below had ceased to be human. The people were ants, the cars were glowing embers, and the sound of the wind was a low, mournful howl that seemed to be screaming the things you couldn't remember.
"Careful, [Y/N]. It's a long way down for someone who can't even stand straight."
Satoru’s voice didn't come from the door. He was already there, leaning against the railing with a glass of that ink-dark wine in his hand, looking like a god who had grown bored of the stars.
He moved toward you. He didn't walk so much as he glided across the space, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his body began to fight the night chill on your skin. He reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping around your waist to steady you as you swayed.
"Did we... did we finish dinner?" you asked, your voice a slurred whisper that the wind tried to steal. You looked back at the glass doors, but they seemed miles away, the interior of the penthouse glowing like a distant, unreachable planet. "I don't remember walking out here."
"You didn't," he murmured, his nose brushing against the crown of your head. He pulled you flush against him, his arm a heavy, unyielding bar of iron around your middle. "I carried you. You were so tired, sweetheart. You fell asleep for a little while right there at the table. I didn't want the smell of the food to make you nauseous, so I brought you out for some fresh air."
He lied with such effortless grace that for a second, your drugged brain wanted to thank him. He steered you toward the edge, forcing you to look down at the dizzying drop. The height made your stomach lurch.
"Look at them," Satoru whispered, his chin resting on your shoulder. "All those little people down there, scurrying to jobs they hate, coming home to lives that don't matter. They're so small, aren't they? So fragile. One gust of wind and they’d just... vanish."
His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip.
"I’m the only thing holding you up here," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum that seemed to echo inside your ribcage. "Without me, you’d be just like them. Lost in the grey. But up here, with me, you’re part of the sky. You’re the only thing I need to see, [Y/N]."
You leaned back into him, your strength failing. You couldn't remember the policeman's laugh. You couldn't remember Kento’s laugh, either. All you knew was the freezing wind on your face and the terrifying, absolute safety of Satoru’s arms.
"You're shaking," he noted, a dark, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He turned you around in the narrow space between his body and the railing, lifting your chin until you were forced to drown in those infinite blue eyes. "Is it the cold? Or are you finally realizing how much you need me to keep you from falling?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He tilted your head back, his lips pressing against the pulse point in your neck, right where the blood was thrumming a frantic, trapped rhythm. As the city lights blurred into a singular, glowing smear, you felt the last of your will dissolve. You were miles above the truth, trapped in the clouds with the man who had turned your life into a beautiful, terrifying hallucination.
Another week dissolved into a hazy, indistinguishable blur. If someone had pulled you aside and asked what had happened over those seven days, you wouldn't have been able to give them an answer. You couldn’t remember yesterday, or the day before that. Even the present moment felt like a fever dream. A strange, echoing sense of déjà vu where every action felt like something you had already performed in a previous life.
It was uncomfortable. It made you want to cry, yet no tears would fall. It felt as though your tear ducts were blocked by a backlog of sorrowful memories, memories that felt like they didn't quite belong to you. And yet, the strangest part was that you didn't feel sad.
You just felt like you were floating.
Driven by a sudden, jagged spark of instinct that managed to pierce through the fog, you decided to see Dr. Ieiri again. You waited until Satoru was away at work, presumably (hopefully) still investigating Kento’s case. You hadn't heard any updates in months. Or maybe you had? The memories were like smoke; the harder you tried to grasp them, the faster they thinned out.
The office was a tomb of silence, the only sound the rhythmic, liquid clicking of a clock on the wall that seemed to beat out of time with your own heart. Shoko Ieiri sat behind her desk, a silhouette framed by the dying light of a Tokyo afternoon. She didn't look at you when you sat down. Instead, she was meticulously cleaning a pair of surgical scissors with a piece of gauze, the rhythmic snip-slide the only sound in the room.
"You're late for your follow-up, [Y/N]," Shoko murmured, her voice a low, raspy vibration. "Or perhaps you’re early for the next collapse. It’s hard to tell these days."
"I... I can't keep track of the time," you admitted, your hands trembling in your lap. You tried to focus on a jar of cotton swabs on her desk, but the edges of the glass seemed to bleed into the shadows behind it. "Satoru says it's the grief. He says the brain shuts down the 'unnecessary' functions when the trauma is too high. He’s been so patient, Shoko. He brings me my medicine every night. He says I’m getting better, even if I feel like I’m disappearing. He’s too nice.."
Shoko stopped cleaning the scissors. She finally looked up, her dark, sunken eyes tracing the sluggish movement of your pupils. She didn't ask about the dosage. She didn't ask about the symptoms. She simply reached for a cigarette, her movements deliberate and hauntingly slow.
"Satoru has always had a very specific definition of 'better,'" Shoko said, blowing a thin, grey ribbon of smoke into the space between you. "To a man who sees everything, a person who sees nothing is much easier to manage. It’s a matter of perspective."
"What do you mean?" The fog in your head pulsed, a dull throb behind your eyes.
Shoko leaned back, her chair creaking like a floorboard in an empty house. "Tell me about the 'ghost' he’s chasing for you. The one who killed Kento. Suguru, wasn't it?"
"Yes," you whispered, the name feeling like a curse. "He’s everywhere. Satoru finds his traces constantly. A hair, a scent, a message... he says he’s closing the net. He says once he catches him, I’ll finally be safe."
Shoko tilted her head, a ghost of a bitter smile playing on her lips. She didn't deny Geto’s existence. She didn't tell you he was dead. Instead, she picked up a small, anatomical model of a human heart from her desk, turning it over in her hands.
"A predator doesn't always hunt to kill, [Y/N]. Sometimes, they hunt to herd," she said cryptically. "If you want to keep a bird from flying away, you don't necessarily have to clip its wings. You just have to make it believe the sky is full of hawks. You make the cage the only place where the hawks can't reach."
She set the heart down with a heavy thud.
"Satoru is an artist of the 'Impossible,'" she continued, her gaze locking onto yours with a sudden, piercing clarity that cut through your sedation. "He can make an entire city vanish if he chooses. He can make a dead man walk, if that dead man is the only thing keeping you running into his arms. He’s very good at filling the 'grey' spaces with monsters of his own design."
You felt a cold shiver crawl down your spine, despite the heat of the office. "Shoko... you’re scaring me."
"Good," she rasped, leaning forward until the scent of tobacco was all you could breathe. "Fear is an instinct. It’s the only part of you he hasn't been able to medicate into silence yet. Why do you think he gives you those black pills himself? Why doesn't he let you go to the pharmacy? A doctor prescribes to heal, but a master prescribes to maintain."
She glanced at the door, her expression shifting back to that mask of weary indifference.
"I can't give you a new prescription, [Y/N]. Not while you’re already 'well-tended' by the strongest man in Tokyo. But I will tell you this: the next time he tells you he found a trace of a ghost, look at his hands. Really look at them. See if there’s any dirt under his fingernails from the grave he’s digging for you. Or if there’s any ink on his skin from the 'diary' he’s writing in your name."
She stood up, the session abruptly over.
"Don't look for the ghost chasing you, sweetheart. Look for the man holding the key to the door. Clarity isn't a gift Satoru gives, it’s a threat to his peace. And Satoru hates being disturbed."
The meeting the other day made your head spin. You couldn't understand everything Shoko hinted at, but you knew one thing: Satoru wasn't the protector you thought he was. In fact, he might be the very monster you had been looking for over the past four months.
For the last twenty-four hours, you had played a dangerous game. You swallowed the pills he gave you, only to rush to the bathroom and forcefully heave them into the toilet the moment he turned his back. The physical toll was exhausting, but the mental clarity was electric. You felt lucid, brave enough to seek the answers you craved on your own.
You were going to solve this case yourself. The detective assigned to it wasn't doing his job properly, or perhaps he was. Either way, you were going to do it better.
During the weeks you stayed at Satoru’s penthouse, thinking he was protecting you (only to realize he was practically caging you with the beast you were fleeing), you had memorized his schedule. You knew when he was at work, when he was at home, and the gaps in between where he simply vanished.
You walked straight into the lion's den: the police station. You weren't there to seek Satoru’s comfort. You were there to find Officer Ito, the man responsible for the charges that dumb bitch had tried to press against you. He was the only one who had spoken to you like a human being, and the only one left who might tell you the truth without Satoru’s shadow looming over the conversation, since you understood Shoko wanted to part in this.
You found Ito in the basement’s archive room, a subterranean tomb of windowless concrete and the smell of decaying glue. He looked up from a stack of paperwork, his eyes widening behind his spectacles. Seeing you without your "shadow" was clearly a shock to his system.
"Miss [F/N]?" Ito stood up, adjusting his glasses. "Gojo isn't with you? I thought he had you on..." a leash, he was probably trying to say. "well, I thought you were resting."
"I’m tired of resting, Officer," you said, your voice steadier than it had been in months. You sat across from him, leaning into his space. "I need to ask you about the lead suspect in Kento’s case. Geto Suguru. I need to see his file. Not the one on the computer—the hard copy."
Ito froze, his hand hovering over a stapler. He looked at you with a mixture of confusion and a dawning, terrible realization. "The Geto file? [F/N], why are you asking me about that again? I told you months ago, back at the station when this all started... Suguru Geto is a closed case."
The fog in your brain, already thinning from the lack of black pills, suddenly tore wide open. You remembered. A fleeting comment in a hallway, a stray remark officer Ito had—something about a "deceased associate." Satoru had been right there. He had laughed it off, told you Ito was confused, that he was thinking of a different case. And in your grief-stricken state, you had believed the god and ignored the man.
"You told me he was dead," you whispered, the words tasting like copper. "But Satoru said... he said Geto was stalking me. He showed me the CCTV. He said Geto killed Kento."
Ito let out a shaky breath and walked to the back of the room. He pulled a thin, battered folder from a drawer labeled EXHIBIT: CLOSED and slapped it onto the desk.
"I don't know what Gojo has been feeding you, but I saw the body myself a year ago," Ito hissed, leaning in so close you could see the sweat on his brow. "Shinjuku warehouse. It wasn't a mystery. Satoru was the one who called it in."
Ito paused, a haunted look crossing his face as if he were seeing the scene play out on the office's peeling wallpaper.
"He was sitting in the dirt right next to the corpse, his hands stained to the elbows. But it was his face, [F/N]... I’ve never seen him like that. He looked so devastatingly sad, like the world had ended right there in that warehouse. His eyes, well.. what I could see of them, and even the tips of his ears were bloodshot, bright red, like he’d been crying for hours. It was a mess. He just looked up at us and told us he’d 'taken care of it.' We didn't ask questions. You don't ask the strongest detective in the country questions when he decides a case is over."
You opened the folder. There it was. The coroner's photo—a man with long dark hair, his eyes closed, looking peaceful in a way that made your skin crawl. Beneath it was the cremation authorization, signed in Satoru’s arrogant, sprawling cursive.
Your eyes scanned the medical examiner’s summary, freezing on a single, clinical line, Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma; catastrophic head injury.
Ito’s voice softened then, a rare note of genuine pity cutting through his nervousness. "They were inseparable, you know? Best friends since their college days. Classmates, partners... they were the 'strongest duo' everyone talked about back then. It’s a tragedy, honestly. I’m just sorry they had to be separated by fate like that. To lose someone who was practically your other half... it changes a man."
The paper felt like ice against your fingertips. Separated by fate. Ito believed it was a tragedy of circumstance, a mourning friend found at a crime scene. But as you stared at the description of the injury—the sheer violence required to cause "catastrophic" trauma—the fog in your mind vanished.
Satoru hadn't been "separated" from Geto by fate. He had been the one to end him. And now, he was using the ghost of the man he killed to keep you from realizing he had likely done the exact same thing to Kento.
The realization tasted sour on your tongue.
The walk home felt refreshing, even after hearing such news from Gojo’s colleague. It felt good because, for the first time in months, you knew. The truth was a cold, sharp blade, and finally, you could begin to plan your revenge.
To truly settle this realization deep in your bones, you needed one final piece of evidence: Kento’s phone. The device Satoru had used to torment you with "Geto’s" messages for what felt like an eternity. You didn't know if he still had it; now that he had you physically in his grasp, the digital psychological warfare was no longer necessary. He might have snapped it in half or tossed it into the Sumida River, but a flickering hope remained in your heart that his arrogance had won out. You suspected he kept it as a Plan B, a fallback in case your behavior ever ceased to be to his liking.
The penthouse was silent, the air heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and the faint, lingering smell of the incense he liked to burn. You moved toward Satoru’s bedside table, your footsteps light enough to be a heartbeat, your breath hitching in your throat as you gripped the handle of the bottom drawer.
When it slid open, the air seemed to drop ten degrees.
There, nestled amidst the pristine luxury of his life, lay the wreckage of yours. You reached in, your fingers brushing against the cold, jagged edge of a smartphone. It was Kento’s. The screen was spider-webbed with cracks, a violent impact having shattered the glass, but through the fractures, you could see a dried, brownish-red residue caked into the speaker grille.
You picked it up, your thumb trembling as you pressed the power button. The lock screen flickered to life, showing a photo that made your blood turn to ice: it was a candid shot of you, taken from a distance, sleeping in a motel room you clearly remembered now. It was right after your first meeting.
Beneath it lay the Polaroids. You pulled them out, and a small, dry flake of something dark fell onto your hand. You didn't need to be a forensic expert to know it was blood—Nanami’s blood, preserved like a sick pressed flower between the glossy sheets of film.
The images were a descent into hell. They weren't taken from the perspective of a witness, rather they were taken from the perspective of an artist admiring his work. One shot showed the interior of the car, the upholstery shredded by a force no human should possess. Another was a close-up of Kento’s hand, still wearing the watch you gave him, resting in a pool of ink-dark gore. But the last photo, the one that made the bile rise in your throat, was a selfie.
In the frame, Satoru had abandoned all pretense of the polished, untouchable detective. He wasn't wearing his signatureglasses. His white hair, usually so meticulously styled, was wild and disheveled, sticking out in jagged clumps as if he had been running his hands through it in a fit of manic adrenaline.
His face was a map of slaughter. Crimson droplets were sprayed across his pale skin like macabre freckles, and a thick smear of dark blood was wiped across his jawline. But it was his eyes that froze the blood in your veins. Those crystalline blue eyes who looked at you with so much love, were wide, unblinking, and vibrating with a terrifying, ecstatic glow. He was smiling, a jagged, wide-mouthed grin, while in the background, visible through the shattered glass of the driver’s side window, Kento’s lifeless silhouette sat slumped, his head hanging at an unnatural angle.
Satoru looked beautiful, and he looked like a monster. He looked like a man who had finally achieved exactly what he wanted.
The paper felt like it was scorching your skin. Every drop of blood on his face in that photo was a drop of Kento’s life, and he had worn it like war paint.
Your hand spasmed, dropping the photos back into the drawer, where they landed next to the velvet pouch. You tipped it over, and Geto’s black ear gauges rolled out like heavy, dead eyes. They felt weighted with a century of sin. Gojo had kept these pieces of the people he "loved" as if he were building a shrine to his own isolation.
The sound of the front door unlocking felt like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
"Sweets? I’m home early," Satoru’s voice drifted down the hallway. It was melodic, sickeningly sweet, vibrating with a cheerfulness that felt like a serrated blade. "I stopped by that little bakery you liked. I remember you mentioned it... or maybe I just dreamt you did. Everything is so blurry lately, isn't it?"
You heard the heavy thud of his boots on the hardwood. He wasn't rushing.
"I didn't see you in the living room," he continued, his voice getting closer, now just outside the bedroom door. "You aren't hiding, are you? You know I hate playing hide-and-seek when I've had a long day."
You scrambled to close the drawer, but your trembling hands betrayed you. The wood groaned as it slid shut, a sound that felt deafening in the stillness.
The bedroom door creaked open.
Att the exact moment you threw yourself face-first onto the bed. You couldn't let him, of all people, ever see your tears again. Not after seeing that photo. Not while the image of his blood-splattered, manic grin was burned into your retinas.
"You brought the strawberry tart, yeah?" you asked, your voice muffled and thick against the pillow.
You felt the mattress groan under his weight as he sat beside you. Satoru reached out, his large, warm hand coming to rest on the small of your back.
"I did, babe," he murmured, his tone playful but edged with that ever-present, suffocating possessiveness. "Though I’m starting to think you love the pastries more than the man who buys them."
You forced yourself to roll over, blinking back the last of your moisture. You sat up and leaned into his space, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "I'm just... so hungry for something sweet. But Satoru?" You tilted your head, softening your expression into something fragile and longing. "I really want to drink some umeshu with the tart. It’s been so long, and I want to feel... warm tonight."
Satoru let out a long, exaggerated groan, flopping back onto the pillows with an audible pout. His lower lip tucked out, a childish expression that looked hauntingly wrong on a man you now knew was a murderer.
"Again? [Y/N], I literally just walked through the door," he complained, his voice a sing-song whine. "I’m tired, it’s late, and the good cellar is all the way downstairs. Can’t we just stick to the tea?"
You didn't give him a chance to refuse. You crawled over to him, straddling his lap and placing your hands on his chest, right over the heart that beat with such terrifying steadiness. You leaned down, brushing your lips against his jaw, then his cheek, lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin.
"Please, Satoru?" you whispered against his ear, your voice a desperate, honeyed plea. "For me? I've been so good lately. I just want to celebrate being here with you."
You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, then leaned in to capture his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It was an act of pure survival, a sickening performance that made your stomach churn, but you poured every ounce of feigned affection into it.
When you pulled away, Satoru’s eyes were slightly glazed, his pupils blown wide. The pout shifted into a slow, dark smirk of triumph. He liked this. He liked you begging. He liked the physical proof that he had finally "broken" you into loving him.
"You're very spoiled, you know that?" he rasped, reaching up to pinch your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He gave your lower lip a playful tug. "Fine. If my girl wants her plum wine, she gets it. But don't think I won't expect a 'thank you' later."
He stood up, dumping you gently back onto the silk sheets. "Stay put. If I come back and you've fallen asleep, I'm waking you up."
As his footsteps receded toward the kitchen, the warmth drained from your face instantly. The mask fell. You had bought yourself the window you needed. Now, you just had to hope your hands would stop shaking long enough to use it.
You waited, lungs burning from holding your breath, until the heavy thud of the front door echoed through the hallway. Now it was your time. This was for Kento’s stolen future. This was for poor Geto’s desecrated memory. This was for the four months you had spent drowning in a fog of his making.
As soon as the silence settled, you scrambled off the bed, your movements frantic yet precise. You didn't head for the door, instead you headed back to that dark oak drawer.
You pulled it open again, the sight of the blood-flecked Polaroids hitting you like a physical blow to the stomach. Your hands shook as you reached into your own pocket and pulled out your phone. With trembling fingers, you began to document the horror.
Snap. The cracked screen of Kento’s phone, the dried gore caught in the crevices.
Snap. The selfie of Satoru, his face a mask of splattered red, smiling over Kento's corpse and all the other Polaroids he was probably meant to send to you. Just like that time four months ago.
Snap. The ear gauges, sitting in your palm like cold, black stones.
You made sure every shot was clear, the digital flash illuminating the darkness of the room for a split second each time. You uploaded them to a hidden cloud drive, a digital trail he couldn't scrub away. Once the last file finished syncing, you painstakingly placed every item back exactly as you had found it, aligning the Polaroids and the silk pocket squares with the obsessive care of a ghost.
Your eyes darted around the room, landing on the armchair in the corner. Satoru’s blazer was draped haphazardly over the back, a casual, discarded skin. You knew how he operated; for all his arrogance and God-like power, he was still a man of the law, or at least, he played one during the day. As a high-ranking detective, he was required to carry a service weapon, a small revolver he kept for the rare moments when his raw strength was too conspicuous for the job.
You approached the blazer, the fabric smelling of his cloying, expensive cologne and lillies—a scent that now made you want to retch. Your hands dove into the pockets, searching for the weight of his authority.
First, the outer pockets: a handful of sweets and a crumpled receipt.
Then, the inner holster pocket.
Your fingers brushed against something cold, heavy, and unmistakably metallic. You pulled it out. The revolver felt tiny in your hand, but its weight was grounding, a solid, undeniable reality in the hall of mirrors Satoru had built around you. This was the tool he used to "protect" the city, the very same one he likely kept within reach while he watched you sleep.
You checked the cylinder with trembling fingers. Fully loaded. Six rounds. Six chances to end the nightmare he had scripted for you.
You heard the distant chime of the elevator. He was back.
You quickly tucked the revolver into the waistband of your jeans, pulling your oversized sweater down to hide the lethal bulge against your spine. You didn't have time to be his "sweetheart" anymore.
You didn't wait to see his face. You bolted for the en-suite bathroom, the heavy marble door swinging shut with a solid thud just as you turned the deadbolt.
Your back hit the cold tile, your breath coming in ragged, silent gasps. You pressed your hand over your mouth to stifle even the sound of your breathing, the cold weight of the revolver pressing against the small of your back.
"Sweets?" Satoru’s voice was right outside the door, muffled but vibrantly cheerful. "I’m back. I found the bottle, it was tucked behind the vintage reds. It's perfectly chilled, just the way you like it."
You didn't answer. You stood frozen, staring at the door handle.
"Come on out, [Y/N]," he sang, though the syrup in his tone was starting to thin. "The tart is already plated. I even cut the strawberries into little hearts for you. Don't let it get warm."
Silence. The air in the bathroom felt like it was being sucked out of the room.
"I know you're in there," he said, his voice flatter now. The cheerfulness was a mask slipping off a marble statue. "I can see your shadow. Why aren't you answering me? Did I do something wrong?"
Still, you remained a ghost. You reached behind you, the grip of the revolver meeting your palm. The metal felt like the only real thing left in the world.
The request was no longer a song. It was a command. He rattled the handle—once, twice—a sharp, violent sound that echoed off the bathroom’s tile walls. When you didn't respond, the silence that followed was even more terrifying. It was the silence of a predator deciding whether to play or to kill.
"This isn't funny," he hissed. You could hear the sudden, sharp intake of his breath. The playful "Satoru" was gone, replaced by the man who had stood over Geto’s body with bloodshot eyes. "I went out for you. I bought this for you. I have spent every waking second of the last four months making sure you were safe, and you're going to ignore me?"
He slammed his palm against the door. The vibration rattled your teeth.
The roar of his voice made the mirror above the sink tremble. The sweetness had curdled into a dark, jagged rage. "I have been patient. I have been kind. I have let you mourn a man who wasn't half the man I am! But if you think you can lock me out of my own room—out of your own life—you are mistaken."
The handle turned again, but this time it didn't rattle. It twisted with a slow, terrifying pressure, the metal beginning to groan under a strength that surpassed human limits.
"I’m going to count to three, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice now dangerously low, vibrating through the wood and into your spine. "And if this door isn't open, I'm going to stop being the 'hero' you think I am. One..."
His counting was cut short by the ringing of a phone. Not his. His. Inside the dark oak drawer next to the bed, Kento’s phone had surged to life.
The handle stopped turning. The terrifying pressure against the door vanished as Satoru froze. In the heavy silence of the bedroom, the ringing was deafening. The specific, upbeat default ringtone that Kento had never bothered to change. It was a cheerful sound that, in this context, felt like a funeral dirge.
Inside the bathroom, you stared at your own phone in your shaking left hand. You had dialed the number from memory, a ghost calling a ghost. On your screen, the contact name Kento stared back at you.
You heard the drawer slide open with a violent, desperate shove. Satoru’s breathing had changed; it was no longer the rhythmic huff of a predator, but the jagged, panicked gasps of a man watching his carefully constructed lie shatter.
You pressed the phone to your ear and waited.
The ringing stopped. He had picked it up.
You didn't wait for him to speak. You didn't wait for him to try to explain. Your voice was a cold, dead thing, stripped of all the "sweetheart" and "Satoru" and "love" that had been poisoned over the last four months.
"Do you like the photos, Satoru?" you whispered into the line.
There was no sound on the other end but the faint, erratic whistle of his breath.
"I saw them," you continued, your eyes fixed on the bathroom door, imagining him standing there, holding a dead man’s phone. "I saw your face. I saw the blood. I saw the way you were smiling while Kento was dying behind you. I saw Suguru’s gauges. I saw the obituary."
"Sweets," he started, his voice cracking, a pathetic, high-pitched tremor underlying the name. "It’s not... you don't understand the context. I was—"
"You weren't saving me," you interrupted, the revolver in your right hand feeling heavier, more certain. "You were harvesting me. You killed the only man who I truly loved just so you could be the only one left for me to look at. You played with Kento’s phone for months to make me think I was losing my mind. You watched me cry for a man you slaughtered."
The silence on the other end was absolute now. The strongest man in the country, had finally run out of scripts.
"I'm not coming out for the tart, Satoru," you said, your thumb clicking the safety off the revolver. The sound was small, but you knew he heard it through the door. "And I'm not drinking the wine. I’m done being the lead actress in your sick little play. I know who you are. I know what you did. And I know that the only ghost in this house... is you. I’ll make you pay."
On the other side of the door, a low, guttural sound escaped him—a laugh that dissolved into a sob. It was the sound of a mind finally snapping under the weight of its own obsession.
"If you know who I am," he whispered, his voice vibrating through the door and the phone simultaneously, "then you know I’m never, ever going to let you leave this room."
The silence that followed was more suffocating than his rage. Then, the wood of the door groaned. Not from a turn of the handle, but from the sheer weight of him leaning his forehead against it.
"You used me," he whispered, the words trembling with a terrifying, jagged edge. "I went out into the rain. I brought you gifts. I held you while you screamed Kento’s name, and you... you were acting."
His voice rose, cracking like breaking glass. "You were lying to me! All those smiles? The way you leaned into me? Was any of it real, or were you just waiting to stick your hand in my pockets like a common thief?"
"I gave you everything!" Satoru screamed, his voice now a raw, guttural roar that stripped away every ounce of his refined beauty. "I cleared the path for you! I got rid of the distractions! Kento didn't love you—not like I do. He would have left you. He would have grown old and boring and forgotten you. But I made you eternal! I kept you safe! And this is how you repay my devotion? By calling a dead man's phone to mock me?"
He slammed his fist against the door again, and this time, the hinges shrieked as they began to warp.
"You think that little toy in your hand makes us equal?" He laughed, a high, hysterical sound that lacked any trace of sanity. "I am Satoru Gojo! I am the only thing keeping the world from swallowing you whole! If I hadn't taken Kento’s place, you’d be nothing but a memory in a graveyard. I gave you a home! I gave you me!"
Through the cracks forming in the door, you saw a flash of electric blue.
"Open the door, [Y/N]," he hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifying, subsonic vibration that made the water in the sink ripple. "If I have to break this door, I’m going to break every bone in your hands so you can never hold another phone again. I'm going to make sure you never have to look at another photo, or hear another voice, or think another thought that isn't about me."
The air in the bathroom was thick with the scent of pulverized wood and the metallic tang of your own terror. You realized with a sickening jolt that the door wouldn't hold for another second. Satoru’s raw, unhinged obsession provided all the strength necessary to shatter your world.
Your fingers, slick with cold sweat, fumbled with the deadbolt. Click.
The sound was tiny, but in the vacuum of his sudden silence, it sounded like a guillotine blade dropping. You threw the lock and scrambled backward, your socks sliding on the tile until you hit the far wall of the shower. You were gasping, the revolver held in both hands, shaking so violently that the barrel traced erratic circles in the darkness.
Satoru stepped into the doorway. He looked like a man possessed. His white hair disheveld, his face was flushed with exertion, and his pupils were blown so wide they swallowed the iris. He looked at you, then down at his own service weapon in your hands, a dark, twisted smirk curling his lips.
"There she is," he whispered, his voice trembling with a cocktail of rage and agonizing adoration. "My brave girl. Are you going to do it, [Y/N]? Are you going to kill the only man who truly knows you?"
He took a step forward, his hand reaching out as if he expected you to simply hand over the gun. "Give it to me. We’ll go eat. We can pretend this never happened."
"Don't come closer!" you shrieked, your voice breaking.
"Or what?" He laughed, a jagged, broken sound. He took another step, his presence filling the small space until you felt like you were drowning. "You don't have it in you. You're too soft. That’s why I had to do the heavy lifting. That's why I had to take care of Kento—because he was a weight you weren't strong enough to drop!"
The image of the blood-splattered selfie in the drawer flashed before your eyes. The grief, suppressed for months under his gaslighting, surged up as pure, unadulterated adrenaline. Your finger tightened on the trigger.
The sound was deafening in the cramped bathroom, a physical shockwave that barked through your wrists. The bullet meant for his heart went wide as he pivoted, tearing through the meat of his thigh instead. The sudden collapse of his leg sent him spiraling. There was no grace in the fall—just the sickening thud of his skull meeting the stone floor, followed by a silence far louder than the gunshot.
The ringing was the first thing to settle in. A high, piercing whistle that seemed to drill into the back of your skull, drowning out the world. It turned the bathroom into a distorted pocket of reality where the smell of acrid gunpowder hung heavy and gray in the air.
Your hands were vibrating, the pistol feeling like a lead weight that you couldn't quite let go of. You stared at the spot where he had been standing a second ago. Now, there was only a smear of crimson on the white tile and a heap of dark clothing.
The name felt like glass in your throat, but you couldn't even hear your own voice over that relentless ringing screaming in your ears.
The adrenaline that had fueled the shot evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow terror. You stumbled forward, your knees hitting the floor beside him with a jarring thud. You didn't remember dropping the gun, but it clattered away, spinning across the tile.
"Satoru? Satoru, get up."
Your vision blurred as hot, frantic tears spilled over. You reached out, your fingers slick with the blood blooming from his thigh, but your eyes were fixed on his face. He looked terrifyingly still. His head was turned at an unnatural angle, resting against the stone floor where a dark shadow was already beginning to pool beneath his white hair.
"No, no, no..." The sob finally broke through the ringing, a jagged, wet sound. You hovered your hand over his chest, terrified of what you’d find. Or what you wouldn't.
You leaned down, pressing your ear to his sternum, straining to hear anything over the pulse thudding in your own head. For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then, a slow, thready thump. Then another.
A choked, hysterical laugh escaped you, quickly turning back into a wail. He wasn't dead, but the way his eyes remained shut, veiled and vacant, made the room spin. You looked at the blood on your hands, then at the gash on his leg, and finally at the bruising already forming at his temple.
The man who had just taunted you with Kento’s death, the man who had filled the room with his suffocating shadow, looked small. Broken. You had done this. You had actually pulled the trigger.
You grabbed a towel from the rack, your movements clumsy and frantic as you tried to wrap it around his leg, your tears dripping onto the fabric. "I'm sorry," you whispered into the ringing silence, even though a part of you still tasted the bile of his insults. "I’m so sorry, please don't die. Please."
The ringing in your ears began to dull into a low, rhythmic hum. You reached out with a trembling hand, not to check his pulse this time, but to pat down the pockets of his dark jacket. Your fingers found the familiar rectangular crinkle.
You pulled out the pack of cigarettes and his lighter. With one hand, you fumbled for your phone, dialing 119 with blood-slicked fingers.
The operator’s voice was a tinny, distant chirp against the fading whistle of the gunshot. "Emergency services, what is your—"
"Ambulance," you interrupted, your voice eerily steady now, devoid of the jagged panic from moments before. You gave the address in a clipped monotone, watching the cherry of the cigarette glow bright as you took a long, dragging inhale. "Gunshot wound. Male, late-twenties. He’s unconscious. Hurry."
You tossed the phone onto the bathmat and leaned back against the tub, exhaling a plume of gray smoke into the stagnant air.
Through the haze, the scent hit you, heavy, cloying, and surreal. It was the expensive, floral notes of his lily-scented perfume, a fragrance that had always felt like a funeral shroud, now mingling with the metallic, iron-rich tang of the blood pooling around your knees. It should have been revolting. It should have made you sick.
Instead, you leaned into it.
The adrenaline wasn't a spike anymore, it became a steady, honey-thick current flowing through your veins, sweet and addictive. You looked down at Satoru’s pale face, then at your own crimson-stained palms. The horror had vanished, replaced by a terrifying, crystalline clarity.
He had been right. About Kento. About the "heavy lifting." About the strength it took to let go of the world's morality and just act.
You took another drag, feeling the smoke settle in your lungs like a secret. The suffocating weight he had placed on you for months hadn't crushed you—it had forged you. As you watched the blood soak further into the white towel, you didn't feel like a victim anymore. You felt powerful. You felt alive in a way that was violent and shimmering.
The perfume and the gore, the beauty and the butchery. It was an intoxicating cocktail, a sensory map of the man lying at your feet. And for the first time, you didn't just see him. You understood him.
The monster hadn't won. It had just moved into a new home. You were exactly like him now.
