Last Bite | Twisted Oneshots
Pairing: Yandere!Choso × F!Reader
Genre: Dark Fiction, Psychological Horror, Yandere, Slowburn, Obsessive Romance, Thriller
Word Count: 9.7k
⚠️ Content Warning:
This story contains extremely dark and potentially triggering themes. Including:
Non-consensual sexual content, Dubious consent, Emotional dependency, Psychological manipulation, Obsessive and possessive behavior, Emotional abuse, Self-harm references, Blood and injury, Violence, Drugging/poisoning implications, Medical horror elements, Dissociation, Trauma responses, Mental instability, Captivity implications, Unhealthy attachment dynamics, Disturbing character mindsets, Graphic sexual content, Panic attacks, Delusional behavior, Codependency, Body fluids/blood themes, Psychological breakdowns, Extreme yandere dynamics.
Please DO NOT read if you are sensitive to these subjects.
🚫 IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction intended for a mature audience capable of separating fantasy from reality. The behaviors, relationships, and actions depicted in this story are toxic, dangerous, and not meant to represent healthy relationships in real life.
The purpose of this piece is to explore psychological horror, obsession, dependency, and disturbing character dynamics through fictional storytelling only.
Masterlist
You stood in front of the mirror near your apartment entrance, adjusting your earrings absentmindedly while shrugging on your coat.
Behind you, the apartment remained quiet. Until—
“When will you come back?”
You glanced toward the doorway.
Choso stood there leaning lightly against the frame, arms folded loosely over his chest. His eyes stayed turned away from you, fixed somewhere near the floor instead.
Like he was trying very hard not to sound clingy. And failing miserably.
You suppressed a sigh. “I don’t really know yet.” You reached for your bag near the counter. “I’ll try to head back quickly.”
“But…” His brows pulled together slightly. “It’s your day off.”
“It’s not my off day, Choso.” Your tone softened despite yourself. “Some of my colleagues arranged a meetup. Since I’m part of the department, I kinda have to attend.”
His jaw tightened faintly. “…But, You never told me…”
“I did.” You laughed lightly. “Twice.”
Choso stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again. “You’ll be gone for hours.”
“......."
You turned toward him fully this time. There it was again. That barely concealed disappointment. Just this strange, wounded sadness every time your attention shifted somewhere else.
You walked closer with a soft exhale. “Choso.”
“……” His eyes flickered up briefly before dropping again.
“You know I have a life outside of you, right?”
The moment the words left your mouth, regret flickered through you. Because his expression immediately fell. Yet, he was trying not to let it show.
“…I know but—” A pause. Then briefly— “I just like when you’re here.”
Sighhh…
You reached up suddenly, fingers hooking lightly into the collar of his hoodie before pulling him down just enough to kiss him.
His breath caught sharply against your lips before all the tension in him melted at once. Every bit of whining. Every sulky complaint. Gone instantly.
When you pulled away, he stared at you silently for a second before quickly looking off to the side.
Flustered. Embarrassed. A faint flush spread visibly across his cheeks. It was honestly unfair how easy he was to read.
You smiled despite yourself before patting his chest lightly. “I’ll be back soon.”
This time, he moved away from the doorway without protest. Still refusing to meet your eyes.
“…Okay. I… I wait.”
—
The restaurant was louder than you expected.
Warm lights glowed overhead while overlapping conversations filled nearly every corner of the place. Plates clinked together constantly. Someone across the room burst into laughter loud enough to turn heads.
Around ten people from your department had shown up. Enough to crowd two tables together near the back.
You sat wedged between two coworkers while absentmindedly stirring the ice in your drink, half-listening to whatever argument was currently happening about hospital scheduling.
“…I’m serious,” one of the residents groaned dramatically. “If they put me on another double shift this month I’m actually quitting.”
“You say that every week,” another snorted.
“Because every week I mean it!”
Laughter erupted around the table. You found yourself relaxing little by little. It felt… nice somehow. Then your phone buzzed beside your hand.
Your eyes flickered downward immediately.
Choso…
A small sigh escaped you before you quickly pressed the phone face-down onto the table and switched it to silent. Unfortunately, the movement didn’t go unnoticed.
“Oho?” One of the nurses across from you leaned forward instantly with a grin.
“Boyfriend?”
Another immediately gasped dramatically. “I KNEW IT.”
“Oh my god, finally—”
“Who is it!?”
You nearly choked on your drink. “No— no one.” You waved a hand quickly. “It’s literally just spam calls.”
The entire table stared at you. Unconvinced. Then one of the older doctors snorted. “We’re not stupid.”
Another pointed a fry at you accusingly. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks.”
“Weird…?” you repeated.
“Yes, weird,” she laughed. “Smiling at your phone. Leaving work with someone. Looking distracted all the time—”
Your stomach tightened slightly…
Someone else suddenly leaned forward with narrowed teasing eyes. “…Wait.”
“Is it that patient of yours?”
You nearly inhaled wrong. “What?”
“The tall one,” another coworker chimed in immediately. “Always wearing black.”
“The one who only comes to your office!”
“The one who stares at you like a kicked puppy—”
“Oh my god it IS him!!!”
Heat crawled rapidly up your neck. “I said it’s spam,” you muttered weakly.
“Liar,” someone laughed immediately.
The serious one among the group rested their chin against their hand before saying flatly: “We already know.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass.
“We just wanna hear it from you,” they added.
Another nurse nudged your shoulder teasingly. “C’mon, don’t be shy now.”
You laughed nervously under your breath, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across your face.
The table immediately erupted again.
“How did you two even happen?”
“Did he confess first?”
“WAIT—did YOU confess?”
You opened your mouth automatically—And stopped. Your smile faltered slightly. Confusion flickered quietly across your face. Because suddenly—You genuinely couldn’t remember.
How did it even happen?
—
You remembered the first time he showed up because of how badly you wanted to leave that night.
The entire shift had been miserable from beginning to end. Too many patients. Too many emergency cases shoved into an already overflowing schedule.
Your head hurt, your shoulders were stiff, and by the time you finally finished signing the last report, you were seconds away from grabbing your bag and walking straight out without another thought.
Then came the knock. One of the nurses leaned into your office looking apologetic already. “Sorry, doctor… but—”
You nearly laughed from exhaustion. “Oh, please don't tell me…”
“One more walk-in emergency,” the nurse informed you. “Name’s Choso. Laceration on the forearm.”
You closed your eyes for a second. Ah fuck. Are you fucking serious right now?
With a quiet sigh, you dropped back into your chair and waved a tired hand. “Fine. Send him in.”
At that point, you barely cared who the patient even was. You only remembered fragments from that first visit. Dark clothes. Broad shoulders. Blood staining the sleeve of his coat.
You didn’t properly look at his face the entire time, only brief glances while checking for additional injuries. Your body was too exhausted to focus on anything else.
“Hold still,” you muttered while cleaning the cut across his forearm. The man flinched slightly but stayed quiet.
You worked mostly on autopilot after that. Clean the wound. Disinfect. Bandage. Check movement. Prescribe pain medication. Your voice sounded flat even to yourself while explaining dosage instructions.
“Take these twice a day for the pain. Don’t strain the arm for at least a week or you’ll reopen it again.”
A quiet voice answered after a pause. “…Okay.” That was it.
You dismissed him, grabbed your things, and went home without thinking about him again. At least, not until the next night.
You were preparing to leave at almost the exact same time when another emergency case came in. Again.
You remembered getting annoyed immediately. Because seriously—why always right before you clocked out?
You had already stepped into the hallway, ready to ask another doctor to handle it instead, when you heard someone quietly whining in pain from one of the chairs near the wall.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just this soft, strained sound like someone trying very hard not to make a scene. It made you stop to look over.
A black coat, head lowered, one hand gripping his injured arm tightly. The same man from yesterday.
For a second, you genuinely considered walking away anyway. You were exhausted. Someone else could handle it. But guilt settled unpleasantly in your chest almost immediately.
You sighed under your breath before turning around. “…Come on,” you muttered. “Let me look at it.”
The man lifted his head slightly at your voice before quietly following you back inside.
You sat down across from him and carefully unwrapped the bandages from the previous night, only for your brows to pull together immediately.
The wound looked freshly aggravated. You frowned. “This injury looks new. Did you hurt yourself again?”
The man blinked slowly at you. “…You treated it yesterday.”
“……”
For a moment, your exhausted brain genuinely tried piecing things together before you finally looked at him properly for the first time.
Heavy dark circles sat beneath his eyes, deep enough to make him look permanently exhausted. There was a dark mark stretching across the bridge of his nose too—almost like a tattoo maybe?
You couldn’t really tell from this close. His hair looked messy, unevenly tied back like he either forgot to fix it or just didn’t care enough to bother anymore.
And more than anything—He looked tired. The kind of tired that sat inside a person for months. Maybe years.
Something in your expression softened without meaning to. “…Right,” you murmured quietly. “Sorry. Long shift.”
He immediately shook his head. “No, it’s okay...”
You cleaned the injury again more carefully this time, noticing the way he kept watching your hands in silence.
“You need to be more careful,” you told him while wrapping fresh bandages around his arm. “These wounds aren’t going to heal properly if you keep doing this.”
“…Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me.” You glanced up briefly. “Just take care of yourself, alright?”
His eyes widened slightly at that. Like nobody had said something like that to him in a long time.
But that was only the second visit.
After that, he just… kept appearing. Third time. Fourth. Fifth. Always late. Always near the end of your shift.
At first it was bruised knuckles. Then cuts along his shoulder. Split skin over his ribs. Sometimes injuries that clearly should’ve been treated immediately but somehow weren’t.
And every single time, he looked worse. Paler. More exhausted. Like something was slowly wearing him down from the inside.
Eventually, you started recognizing him the second he walked through the clinic doors.
You remembered which medications you’d prescribed him already. Which arm had been injured first. Which painkillers upset his stomach. Which bandages irritated his skin.
And after a while, irritation started mixing with concern. Because none of it was improving.
One night, after seeing fresh bruising spread along his forearm again, you finally lost your patience a little.
“Are you even taking the medicine I gave you?” Your voice came out sharper than intended.
Immediately, his shoulders drew inward slightly. Like he’d physically recoiled from the tone. Guilt hit you almost instantly.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to relax while setting the ointment aside. “…Look,” you said more quietly, “I’m serious. This isn’t normal.”
You hesitated before finally saying the thing you’d been thinking for weeks. “Maybe you should try therapy.”
His head lifted slightly.
“We can arrange counseling for you,” you continued carefully. “Different department. Professional help would probably—”
“No.”
The answer came so fast it caught you off guard. “What?”
His fingers curled tightly against the sleeve of his coat. “I don’t…” He swallowed hard without looking at you. “I don’t want anyone else.”
Your brows pulled together. “That’s not really an excuse.”
“I don’t like talking to them.”
“You haven’t even met them yet…”
“.......”
Instead of answering, he suddenly started fumbling nervously through his coat pocket.
You stared at him in confusion while he searched for something with shaking fingers before finally pulling out a small pack of bubblegum.
“…What?”
Without speaking, he held it out toward you.
You pointed at yourself instinctively. “For me?”
He nodded once. Still holding it there. Still refusing to look directly at you. You hesitated before slowly taking it from his hand.
“…Ah. Thanks.”
The room fell quiet after that.
When you glanced back up, you noticed him staring at you strangely. His brows were drawn together slightly, sadness sitting visibly across his face. Like he was waiting for something.
You awkwardly turned the gum over in your fingers. “I’ll eat it later,” you said. “It’s kinda late and I still have—”
You stopped. Because he wasn’t reacting at all. Wasn’t listening. Your jaw tightened slightly.
Where the hell were the nurses?
You glanced toward the doorway irritably before slipping the gum into your pocket and trying to end the appointment.
“Just take your medicine properly this time,” you said while standing. “And come back after a week so I can check the—”
He had suddenly bent forward in his seat, both hands gripping his head tightly while staring down toward the floor.
You froze. “…What’s wrong?”
No answer.
You looked toward the hallway again. “Nurse?” you called out.
Nothing…the silence pressing against the room suddenly felt strange.
Part of you still considered leaving. But then your eyes dropped back toward him again, shoulders shaking faintly beneath his coat, and guilt twisted uncomfortably in your stomach.
With a quiet sigh, you pulled the gum back out. “…Oh,” you muttered awkwardly while unwrapping it. “It actually smells pretty nice.”
That finally got his attention.
You noticed the gum was striped red and white before tossing it into your mouth without thinking much about it.
And honestly—It tasted ridiculously good. Sweet at first, then softer somehow, calming in a way you couldn’t explain. Some of the tension sitting behind your eyes eased before you even realized it.
You almost forgot why you’d taken it out in the first place.
Then Choso suddenly looked up at you again. Carefully. Quietly.
“Do you like it?”
The question caught you off guard mostly because of how intently he was staring at you now. Waiting.
You chewed once before nodding slightly. “…Yeah,” you admitted. “It’s good.”
And looking back now—you think that was the exact moment everything started changing.
—
Somewhere along the way, you stopped getting annoyed when he showed up. Honestly, that was probably the strangest part.
At first, you used to dread those late-night visits because all you wanted after work was to go home and collapse into bed. But eventually, without really noticing when it happened, your eyes started drifting toward the clock near the end of every shift. You’d catch yourself listening for footsteps outside your office. Waiting for the familiar knock.
And Choso always came. Sometimes with bruised knuckles. Sometimes with another split cut across his arm. Sometimes with nothing serious at all, just enough to justify seeing you for ten extra minutes.
It became routine so naturally that neither of you questioned it anymore.
He’d sit quietly on the examination bed while you cleaned his injuries, and you’d ask the same tired questions every time. “Does this hurt?”
“A little...”
“You should’ve come earlier.”
“…Sorry…”
At that, he’d usually go quiet and lower his eyes like he genuinely didn’t know what else to say.
You learned quickly that Choso wasn’t good at conversations. At least not normal ones. Most of the time he answered carefully, like he was worried about saying the wrong thing and making you upset enough to send him away.
But little by little, he started talking more. Just scraps of information here and there.
One night while wrapping fresh bandages around his wrist, you asked absentmindedly, “Where do you even live?”
You expected a simple answer. Instead, he hesitated. “…Nowhere permanent.”
You looked up briefly. “What…?”
“I’m still looking.” His voice stayed quiet. “I’m new here.”
Your hands slowed slightly. “You moved recently?”
He nodded once.
“From where?”
“A smaller town.” He shrugged faintly. “There wasn’t really anything there anymore.”
You listened while finishing the bandages around his wrist, occasionally humming so he knew you were paying attention.
Apparently, he still hadn’t found steady work yet. He’d been staying in cheap places whenever he had enough money, sometimes sleeping wherever he could when he didn’t.
Every answer came out awkward and reluctant, like he hated admitting any of it out loud.
You should’ve ended the conversation there. Instead, your stupid mouth moved before your brain caught up.
“Well…” You cleared your throat awkwardly. “You could stay with me for a while.”
You blinked. Then immediately regretted everything. “…Until you find somewhere else,” you added quickly. “I mean...”
“…….” Choso stared at you like he’d stopped breathing.
You awkwardly avoided eye contact while putting the medical tape away. “I have a spare room,” you muttered. “It’s not a big deal.”
You finally glanced back at him—only to nearly pause at the expression on his face. Overwhelmed… completely overwhelmed.
“......” His lips parted slightly like he wanted to speak, but no words came out at first.
“…Really?” he asked eventually, so quietly you almost missed it.
You shrugged, suddenly embarrassed yourself. “I mean, yeah. It’s temporary anyway…”
That was how it started. At first, it felt strange. Suspicious, almost.
Having another person inside your apartment after spending so long alone. Hearing movement in the kitchen while getting ready for work. Seeing someone sitting on your couch when you came home exhausted at midnight.
But after a while, the awkwardness blurred into routine. And somehow, he slipped into your space so naturally that it stopped feeling strange at all.
—
You sat cross-legged near the end of the couch scrolling through next week’s duty schedule on your phone with a tired frown.
“Why the hell am I on morning shifts three days in a row…” you muttered under your breath.
From the kitchen, you heard quiet movement followed by Choso’s voice. “Is it bad?”
“Terrible,” you answered immediately. “I’m being punished for something, probably.”
A soft sound that almost resembled a laugh came from the kitchen.
You glanced over automatically. Choso stood near the stove wearing one of your oversized shirts with the sleeves pushed messily to his elbows.
His hair was tied back loosely today, though several strands had already fallen free around his face while he cooked.
For the past few weeks, he’d somehow taken over almost everything around the apartment. Cooking, cleaning, laundry.
At first you tried stopping him because it felt unfair, but Choso always looked genuinely distressed whenever you told him not to help.
So eventually you gave up. And honestly? Coming home no longer felt exhausting the way it used to.
Before he moved in, most nights ended with you barely having enough energy to change clothes before collapsing into bed. Half your meals came from convenience stores or whatever packaged food was easiest to microwave after a shift.
Now, every time you walked through the apartment door, there was actual food waiting. Warm food. The kind that smelled homemade.
Choso carefully placed another dish onto the table before glancing toward you hesitantly. “…I wasn’t sure what you wanted tonight.”
You stood and wandered toward the kitchen, peeking over his shoulder. Brows lifted immediately. “Seriously?” you laughed softly. “You made all this?”
His ears turned pink almost instantly. “It’s not much.”
“There’s enough food here to feed five people.” You looked down at the table again before shaking your head with disbelief.
“Choso, if you keep cooking like this, I’m genuinely gonna get spoiled.”
“I—” He nearly choked at that.
“Well, I mean…” You grinned while leaning against the counter. “What happens after you move out? I’ll probably die eating instant noodles again.”
Immediately, he looked away. Flustered. “…You won’t.”
“Oh?” You smirked slightly. “You planning to cook forever?”
That only made him worse. His grip tightened around the spoon in his hand while he stared stubbornly at the counter instead of you.
“If…” He swallowed nervously. “If you wanted me to.”
Your smile faltered for half a second. There it was again. Those tiny hints he kept giving you. Quiet enough to ignore. Obvious enough that you understood exactly what they meant.
You’d noticed them weeks ago already. The way his face softened whenever you entered a room. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. How absurdly happy he became over the smallest praise.
Choso liked you. Maybe more than liked. And honestly, he was terrible at hiding it. But you always pretended not to notice. Because this was temporary. That was what you kept telling yourself.
Eventually he’d find work. Find a place of his own. Move on with his life. And when that happened, whatever this strange little routine between you two had become would disappear with it.
So it was better not to think too deeply about it… right?
—
The noise around the table slowly returned to focus, overlapping conversations crashing back into your head all at once.
Someone snapped their fingers lightly in front of your face, making you blink. “…Hello? Earth to doctor?”
You looked up to find half the table staring at you expectantly. “What?”
One of the nurses narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You completely zoned out.” Another immediately smirked. “Thinking about your boyfriend?”
Heat crawled up your neck again. “He’s not—” You stopped yourself halfway with a tired sigh before pushing your glass aside. “Actually… I think I’m gonna head home.”
Almost instantly, protests erupted around the table.
“What? Already?”
“It’s not even that late!”
“We literally just ordered another round!”
You forced out a small laugh while reaching for your coat hanging behind your chair. “I’ve got morning shift tomorrow,” you explained. “If I stay any longer, I’m actually gonna die at work.”
One of the older doctors leaned back in her seat, studying you carefully for a moment before speaking.
“…Didn’t like the food?”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“You barely touched anything all night.”
Your eyes instinctively dropped toward your plate. The food sat mostly untouched aside from a few absentminded bites near the edge. Your drinks, however, were nearly empty..
“…Oh.” You stared at the plate for another second before shaking your head lightly. “I’m just not feeling great tonight, I think.”
Concern flickered briefly across a few faces around the table. “You okay?”
“You look kinda pale actually.”
“Did you catch something from work?”
You waved a hand quickly before they could start spiraling into medical interrogation.
“I’m fine,” you assured them. “Just tired.”
After another few minutes of everyone complaining about you leaving early, you finally managed to escape the restaurant.
You shoved your hands into your pockets while walking down the dim sidewalk, exhaustion settling heavier into your limbs now that the noise and distractions were gone.
You exhaled quietly through your nose and shook the thought away before climbing the apartment stairs.
By the time you reached your floor, your body already ached with exhaustion again. You pulled your keys from your pocket while approaching the apartment door, unlocking it automatically out of habit.
Usually by this hour, the lights inside would already be on. You’d hear movement from the kitchen. Maybe quiet music playing from Choso’s phone while he cooked. But tonight, there was nothing…
You paused slightly after stepping inside. “…Choso?”
Your brows pulled together. Did he go out somewhere?
That alone felt strange enough to make unease creep subtly into your stomach. Choso rarely left the apartment unless absolutely necessary, especially this late at night.
You shut the door behind yourself before slipping your shoes off near the entrance.
A strange tension slowly crawled up the back of your neck. You reached toward the wall and flicked the lights on.
The living room came into view first. Empty. Then your eyes shifted further inside the apartment—And your breath caught instantly.
The kitchen looked destroyed. A shattered plate lay across the floor near the counter. One of the chairs had been knocked onto its side. Glass glittered beneath the overhead light in scattered pieces across the tiles.
And in the middle of it—Choso.
He sat collapsed against the lower kitchen cabinets with his head lowered forward, one hand weakly braced against the floor while blood dripped slowly down the side of his face.
For half a second, your brain stopped working entirely. Then your bag hit the floor.
“Choso—?!”
You rushed toward him so fast you nearly slipped on broken glass yourself, dropping to your knees beside him.
“Hey—hey, look at me!!” Your hands grabbed his shoulders carefully, panic rising fast in your chest the moment you saw how much blood stained his shirt and sleeve. His breathing came in uneven shakes that immediately made your stomach drop.
“Choso—what happened?” Panic rose so fast your voice barely sounded steady anymore. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding so much—”
Your eyes darted frantically over him, trying to figure out where to even start first. Blood stained the side of his face, smeared across his trembling fingers, soaked into the sleeve of his shirt.
There was broken glass everywhere around him, one shattered plate near his knee stained red enough to make your chest tighten violently.
“Why didn’t you call—” you blurted out desperately before the words caught in your throat. Because he did… the missed calls, the phone buzzing beside your drink. Face-down on the restaurant table while everyone laughed around you.
You ignored him… a horrible feeling crawled up your spine so suddenly it almost made you nauseous.
“…Oh…”
You quickly reached for the emergency kit you always kept near the living room cabinet, nearly fumbling the zipper in your rush before dropping back onto your knees beside him again.
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, though the panic cracking through your voice ruined the reassurance completely. “It’s okay, I’m here now.”
Were you really? Because somewhere along the way, you had stopped seeing him as a patient. Stopped treating him like someone fragile. You got comfortable. Too comfortable.
And now he was sitting on your kitchen floor covered in blood while guilt clawed viciously at your chest.
“I’m sorry,” you heard yourself mumble shakily while grabbing gauze with unsteady hands. “I… I shouldn’t have left you alone for this long.”Your words kept stumbling over themselves. “I shouldn’t have ignored the calls, I—”
You gently wiped the blood from the side of his face, your fingers shaking badly enough that you had to steady your wrist against his cheek. Choso barely reacted beyond another weak shudder passing through him.
“Look at me,” you whispered desperately. “Please look at me.” Slowly, you pushed damp strands of dark hair back from his forehead so you could properly check the injury—And froze.
There were tear tracks dried along his face. Old enough to have dried there long before you came home. Something inside your chest twisted so sharply it almost hurt.
God… why did this hurt so much?
You were trained for situations like this. So why did seeing him like this make your hands feel numb?
The moment your fingers brushed carefully against his hair again, Choso suddenly folded toward you without warning.
A broken sound escaped him. Before you fully realized what was happening, he was crying quietly against your palms, shoulders shaking hard enough to make his breathing stutter.
“Lock me up,” he choked out weakly. “P-please…”
His fingers curled weakly into your sleeve like he was terrified you’d disappear if he let go. “Lock me up,” he repeated through uneven sobs. “But don’t leave me…”
“Please don’t leave me alone…”
“……” Your mouth parted slightly, but nothing came out.
“I’m sorry,” he kept mumbling desperately, words falling apart between shaky breaths. “I’ll be good… I won’t upset you anymore… please don’t abandon me… don’t forget me… I'm sorry…”
Every sentence sounded more frantic than the last.
You had no idea what to say. No idea what to do. You’d met patients who were grieving. Patients who were unstable. Patients who needed saving in ways medicine alone couldn’t fix.
But this? This felt different. And you realized you had absolutely no idea how to help him.
Then suddenly—Choso leaned forward. Just enough that you felt the movement before understanding it.
His hand tightened weakly around your sleeve as his face tilted instinctively toward yours, breath uneven and warm against your skin.
For one brief second, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth—And he froze. Like reality crashed back into him all at once.
His eyes widened immediately. “No—”
He jerked back so fast he nearly lost balance against the cabinet behind him. Panic flooded his face instantly, horror twisting through his expression as his breathing turned sharp and uneven again.
“I—No—I’m sorry—”
“I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—” His hands immediately came up to cover part of his face, fingers trembling badly enough you could see it.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated again, voice cracking this time. “I know you don’t—I know you probably don’t want—”
The words kept tangling over themselves. He looked terrified of himself. Like he genuinely believed he’d ruined everything in a single second.
“Choso—”
“I’m sorry,” he choked out again, shoulders shaking harder now. “Please don’t look at me like that…”
Your chest tightened painfully. Because you weren’t even looking at him badly. You were just shocked.
But somehow he’d already convinced himself he crossed a line unforgivable enough to make you leave him.
At this point, you weren’t even sure what line existed between the two of you anymore. Your eyes flickered toward his trembling hands before slowly lifting back to his face.
Still avoiding you. Still panicking. Still mumbling broken apologies under his breath like he couldn’t stop.
A quiet sigh escaped you before you moved without thinking too deeply about it. Your fingers curled lightly around his wrist. “Hey.”
Choso flinched. “No—I…”
You gently pulled one of his hands away from his face before leaning forward and kissing him.
He went completely still beneath your hand, like his entire body forgot how to function. For a second, he didn’t even kiss back. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.
Then you felt the sharp tremble that ran through him. A broken sound caught somewhere in his throat as his fingers suddenly tightened around your sleeve again, desperate and shaky all at once.
You could feel how badly he was trying not to overwhelm you. Trying not to move too much. Trying not to ruin this somehow.
When you pulled back slightly, Choso just stared at you. Wide-eyed. Breathing uneven.
His lips parted faintly like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.
With a sigh you carefully wiped the remaining blood from his face before pulling back slightly, forcing yourself to think clearly again despite the panic still pounding inside your chest.
“Listen to me...” you said softly, trying to sound calmer than you felt. “Don’t move for now, alright? You need to rest while I clean this up.”
Choso stayed quiet for a moment, head lowered while his breathing steadied unevenly.
“No.”
Before you could react, he pushed weakly against the cabinet behind him and started trying to stand.
Your eyes widened immediately. “Choso—what are you doing?”
“I have to…” His voice came out rough from crying. “I have to cook.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “What…?”
“You’re hungry.”
The words hit so unexpectedly that you froze for a second. Because—How did he know that?
And despite everything that had just happened—Despite the blood. The panic attack. The tears still clinging faintly to his lashes—He was still thinking about whether you’d eaten dinner.
“Choso…” you said carefully, standing quickly to steady him before he lost balance again. “You do not need to cook right now.”
But he shook his head immediately. “I can.” He swallowed hard, avoiding your eyes while trying to wipe at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I’m okay now.”
“You are literally bleeding...”
“I’m okay,” he repeated stubbornly, though his voice still trembled slightly. “You came back, so I… I'm okay now…”
You watched him quietly for a moment while he stood there looking exhausted beyond belief, fingers still shaky as he pushed his loose hair back from his face.
There was something deeply wrong here and no matter how much you kept trying to treat him normally—Choso wasn’t normal. You knew that already. You just didn’t know what to do about it.
“…At least sit down while I clean the cuts properly first,” you murmured.
This time, he didn’t argue. “Fine…”
You guided him carefully toward one of the chairs that hadn’t been knocked over before quickly cleaning the remaining blood near his hairline and wrapping fresh bandages around his arm again.
The entire time, Choso stayed unusually quiet, eyes lowered while you worked. Only when you finally pulled away did he speak again. “You should go shower.”
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“There’s blood on your hands.” He glanced briefly toward your sleeve. “And your clothes.”
You looked down automatically. “Oh.”
“I’ll make food while you wash up,” he said softly. “Okay?”
Part of you wanted to refuse again. Wanted to make him lie down. Wanted to force him to rest properly after everything that happened tonight.
But another part of you already knew arguing would only upset him further. And honestly?
Cooking was probably calming him down more than sitting still ever would. So eventually, after a long pause, you gave a reluctant nod.
“…Fine,” you muttered quietly. “But call me if you feel dizzy or anything.”
The tension in his shoulders eased almost immediately. “…Okay.”
You hesitated for another second before finally heading toward your room.
—
By the time you stepped back out wearing fresh clothes, the apartment smelled like food again. Like nothing terrible had happened less than an hour ago.
You found Choso standing quietly near the stove again, movements slower than usual but steady enough that your chest loosened slightly with relief.
“You should be resting now,” you muttered automatically while approaching the kitchen.
“I’m almost done.”
“You always say that. Do you have some beef with sleeping or what?”
A faint flush spread across his cheeks at the mild scolding. “…Sorry.”
You sighed softly before sitting down at the table. A few minutes later, Choso carefully placed a bowl in front of you before watching nervously while you took the first bite.
The moment the taste hit your tongue, your shoulders relaxed without meaning to. It was really good as always.
You looked up slightly. “…This is amazing.”
The relief on his face appeared instantly. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” You shook your head lightly. “How are you this good at cooking?”
His ears turned pink again almost immediately. “I just…” He looked away awkwardly. “I wanted you to like it.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice made your chest ache again. You focused back on eating before the feeling could settle too deeply.
Across the table, Choso watched quietly the entire time. Every now and then asking small things under his breath.
By the end of the meal, you were already full enough to stop, but Choso immediately noticed when you lowered your chopsticks. “…There’s still some left.”
You blinked at him. “…Were you seriously thinking about that this whole time?”
His gaze dropped instantly. “…Maybe.”
A quiet laugh escaped you before you rubbed tiredly at your forehead. “Unbelievable.”
Still—you found yourself taking another bite anyway. And the way his entire expression softened afterward made it painfully obvious he’d been waiting for it.
Later, while you started cleaning the shattered glass from earlier, Choso immediately tried helping despite the fresh bandages wrapped around his arm.
You frowned the second you noticed him reaching for broken pieces near the counter.
“Choso. Stop.”
But he ignored you anyway, stubbornly continuing to gather the smaller glass shards before you could stop him.
Eventually, you gave up trying to argue. Not because he won. But because somewhere deep down, you understood this was another way of calming himself too.
—
The apartment finally grew quiet sometime past midnight. You barely remembered pulling the blanket over yourself before sleep dragged you under.
At least—until something pulled you back out of it again. Your eyes snapped open suddenly.
A strange unease crawled uncomfortably beneath your skin, sharp enough to leave your chest tight as you pushed yourself up halfway against the pillows.
Your throat felt dry. You reached automatically for the water bottle sitting beside the bed, twisting the cap open with shaky fingers before taking a quick drink.
The water nearly went down the wrong way the moment your eyes caught something sitting in the corner of the room.
At first, your half-awake brain genuinely thought—Ghost.
Wait, ghost? What the fuck? Who is that sitting over there!? Someone broke in?
Your grip tightened around the bottle as you stared into the darkness properly this time, trying to force your eyes to adjust.
A figure sat near the wall beside the bedroom window. Still, motionless, curled inward strangely.
For one horrible second, panic surged through you so fast you almost reached for your phone. Then the moonlight shifted faintly across the room.
“…Choso?”
“What are you doing over there?” Your brows slowly pulled together as you pushed the blanket aside and carefully stepped closer.
He was sitting on the floor hugging his knees tightly against himself, forehead pressed down against his arms. His shoulders trembled faintly every few seconds.
Then you heard it. Soft sniffling. Your chest tightened immediately at the sight.
Oh… maybe he couldn’t sleep again.
You crouched carefully beside him, voice still rough from sleep. “Choso…”
Nothing.
“Choso?” Concern crept deeper into your stomach. You reached out hesitantly before gently touching his shoulder.
He flinched violently before lifting his head too fast, panic flooding his expression the second he looked at you.
“I’m sorry—”
“I’m sorry for what I did…” His breathing turned uneven again almost immediately. “I know you hate me now—I know I made you uncomfortable—I really didn’t mean to—I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Choso—”
You paused, for a second, you could’ve sworn the dark line stretching across the bridge of his nose shifted slightly against his skin. Like something twitching beneath the surface.
You blinked hard. ‘Did it just move…?’
“I—I’m sorry,” he repeated shakily, tears already gathering again. “I just—I couldn’t stop thinking about it—I know I shouldn’t have done that—”
Your chest twisted painfully at the sight of him trying so hard not to completely fall apart in front of you.
“Hey,” you said softly, reaching toward him again. “Calm down first—”
The second your hand touched him, Choso suddenly grabbed onto you so painfully.
His fingers clenched desperately into the fabric of your shirt as he leaned forward against you almost instinctively, shaking badly enough that you could feel it through your arms.
“I can’t sleep,” he admitted weakly against your shoulder. “I tried to but I can’t stop thinking…”
His voice cracked apart quietly. “Thinking you’ll get tired of me.”
“I know I’m too much,” he kept mumbling unevenly. “I know I keep bothering you and showing up and ruining things and—”
“You’re not ruining anything…”
“But I am!” His grip tightened again. “You looked shocked earlier… I made you uncomfortable… I know you did it just to calm me down…”
You exhaled shakily before carefully pulling back just enough to look at him properly. His face looked exhausted.
“Choso, listen to me?” you murmured gently. “You really think I hate you?”
“I don’t,” you said quietly. “I could never hate you.”
He stared at you silently like he genuinely couldn’t process the words. Your hand lifted slowly toward his face, brushing damp strands of hair away from his forehead before pressing a soft kiss there. Then another against his temple.
His breathing caught sharply. You could actually feel him freezing beneath your hands. A faint flush spread across his cheeks almost instantly as you kissed the corner of his cheek gently afterward.
“See?” you whispered softly. “I’m still here.”
The kiss lingered just long enough for Choso’s lips to tremble against yours before you pulled back.
His eyes stayed wide, unfocused, the flush spreading down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his loose shirt. He looked like he’d short-circuited completely.
You opened your mouth to say something soft, to ease the tension—but then your gaze dropped. Involuntarily.
The thin fabric of his sweatpants betrayed him instantly. A tight, obvious bulge pressed against the material, twitching as if it had a mind of its own. Your words died in your throat.
Oh…
Heat rushed to your own cheeks before you could stop it. You felt your pulse jump, suddenly hyperaware of the way your own body responded—a warm, insistent throb between your legs that made your thighs press together without thinking.
Choso noticed your stare. His eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face as he scrambled to cover himself with both hands.
“S-sorry!” His voice cracked again. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I can’t help it, you kissed me and I—Uh, I’m so sorry, I’ll just leave—”
He tried to stand, but his legs were shaky, and you caught his wrist before he could stumble away. The touch made him freeze.
“Choso,” you said, your own voice coming out lower, breathier than you intended. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay!” He was already shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut. “You don’t have to—I know you’re just being nice, I know you don’t actually want—I’m disgusting, I’m sorry, I’ll—”
You pulled him back down gently, guiding him until he sat on the edge of the bed. He went without resistance, like he trusted you more than himself.
You knelt between his legs, and the sight of you there made his breath hitch audibly. “Look at me,” you murmured.
He did, reluctantly, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “.......”
“I kissed you because I wanted to,” you said softly. “Not because I felt sorry for you. Not because I’m being nice. I wanted to.”
His lips parted, a small, broken sound escaping him. “But I… I don’t deserve…”
You silenced him by leaning forward and pressing your palms flat against his thighs. The contact made his whole body jolt.
You felt the heat radiating off him even through the thin fabric, and the way his cock strained against his pants seemed almost painful.
“Let me show you what you deserve,” you whispered.
His breath stuttered. “I—I don’t know if I can—if I’ll embarrass myself—”
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged down slowly. He lifted his hips instinctively, letting you slide the fabric past his thighs.
His cock sprang free—thick, flushed dark, already slick at the tip with a bead of precum.
Choso watched you with desperate, uncertain eyes, his hands fisting in the sheets. “Please... don’t hate me,” he whispered.
Instead of answering, you pressed your knees together, then wrapped your chest around him, the plush weight of your tits sandwiching his cock from both sides.
The head peeked out just above the valley between them, glistening. You held his gaze as you leaned down and ran your tongue along the tip in one long, deliberate stripe.
A strangled moan tore from his throat. His head fell back, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “That feels—ah—that feels so—”
You did it again, slower this time, circling the head before dipping down to suck the tip into your mouth.
The taste of him hit your tongue—salt and heat and something utterly him. Your tits slid up and down his shaft with every movement, the slick friction making his cock pulse against your skin.
Choso’s hands hovered near your shoulders, trembling, not quite daring to touch. “Can I—please—can I hold you?”
You nodded, and his fingers buried themselves in your hair, not pulling, just gripping like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.
You took him deeper between your lips, letting his cock slide past your tongue while your breasts kept working the base in slow, wet strokes.
His moans grew higher, needier, every exhale a shaky curse or an apology. “I’m sorry—sorry for being so loud—fuck—it just feels—you’re so warm—”
You kept the pace unhurried, drawing out every sound he made, every desperate twitch of his hips. Pre-cum smeared across your chest, making everything smoother, sloppier.
His breathing turned ragged, his grip in your hair tightening. “I—I’m close,” he warned, voice cracking. “Please—I’m sorry—I can’t hold it—”
“Mmh…” You sucked harder, tongue flicking against the underside of the head, your breasts pressing tighter around him as you moved faster.
His hips stuttered, a broken cry ripping from his throat as hot cum spurted across your face—thick ropes painting your cheek, your lips, your chin. Some landed on your chest, mixing with the slick there.
He kept coming, his whole body trembling through the aftershocks, little apologies spilling out with every pulse. “Sorry—sorry—I got it on your face—I’m sorry—”
You pulled off slowly, licking your lips, tasting him. Then you lifted a hand and wiped a drop from the corner of your mouth with your finger, bringing it to your tongue deliberately. The taste was strangely familiar.
Choso stared at you, his face burning crimson, his chest heaving. He looked like he was about to apologize again, so you leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Don’t say sorry now,” you murmured against his skin.
“.......” He blinked, dazed, and slowly, hesitantly, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. His grip tightened whenever you shifted.
"Choso," you murmured, stroking the back of his head. "We should probably get cleaned up."
He shook his head against your shoulder, voice muffled. "Don't want to move… Don't want… this to end."
A small smile touched your lips. But beneath the tenderness, a different heat was coiling low in your belly. You shifted your hips deliberately, pressing your thigh against his half-hard length.
He gasped, jerking back slightly, eyes snapping up to meet yours. "You—" He swallowed hard, his blush deepening. "You... you want more too?"
Instead of answering with words, you pushed him gently onto his back. He went easily, staring up at you with wide, vulnerable eyes as you straddled his waist.
The position pressed your bare cunt against the base of his cock, and the contact made both of you inhale sharply.
He was already hardening again, the stimulation too much to ignore. You reached down, wrapping your fingers around his shaft, stroking slowly. His hips bucked instinctively, a broken moan spilling from his lips.
"Wait," he panted, hands flying to your hips. "Wait—I don't—I've never—"
You paused. "Never what?"
His face turned impossibly red. "I've never... done this. All the way." His voice dropped to a whisper, ashamed.
The admission hit you somewhere deep. It made the heat inside you burn hotter, made your grip on his cock tighten just slightly. He whimpered.
"That's okay," you breathed, leaning down to press a kiss to his chest. "We'll go slow."
You guided his tip to your entrance, the head nudging against your slick folds. Choso's breath caught, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.
You pressed down gently, just the tip beginning to stretch you open—he gasped, his whole body seizing. A hot burst of cum splashed against your inner thigh, sticky and sudden. He'd come again. Just from the touch of you.
"No—no, no, I'm sorry—" His voice cracked, panic rising. "I—I couldn't—couldn't hold it—please—"
He looked wrecked. Humiliated. Tears welled in his eyes as he tried to cover his face with his hands.
The sight of him so undone, so helpless under you, made your clit throb. You gently pulled his hands away, leaning down to kiss his lips, soft and reassuring.
“It's okay," you whispered. "That just means you get to go again."
You slid off him, settling beside him as you wrapped your hand around his still-twitching cock.
He was oversensitive, flinching at every touch, but you stroked him slowly, firmly, watching his face contort with pleasure and embarrassment.
Within minutes, he was hard again, painfully hard, precum beading at the slit. This time you didn't hesitate. You positioned yourself over him, sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.
The feeling of him filling you made your eyes roll back. He was thick, and the stretch was perfect. Choso let out a strangled cry, his hands flying to your hips, gripping so tight his knuckles went white.
"Ahh—is that—" he gasped, as if he couldn't believe it. "I'm—I'm inside you!—"
"Yes," you moaned, starting to move. Up, down, a slow, rolling rhythm that had both of you groaning. "You feel so good, Choso."
His head thrashed against the pillow, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. "Don't let go—please—don't let go of me—"
He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your back, pulling you flush against his chest.
His face buried in your neck, and his hips started moving on their own—thrusting up into you desperately, frantically, no rhythm, just pure need. "Yes—yes—" he sobbed against your skin. "Don't let go—don't ever let go—"
You clung to him just as tightly, riding him hard, feeling his cock hit deep inside you with every buck of his hips. "Ngh… I'm close…" you gasped. "Choso—"
"Cum with me—please—cum with me—" His voice was wrecked, desperate. "I love you—I love you so much—"
The words crashed into you just as your orgasm did. You clenched around him, crying out, and that was all it took.
He buried himself as deep as he could, a choked sob ripping from his throat as hot cum burst inside you—pulse after pulse, flooding your walls.
But he didn't stop. He kept thrusting, shallow and frantic, his body shaking with overstimulation. Tears soaked your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Don't stop—don't stop holding me—" he begged, his voice barely a whisper now. "Please—please—"
You held him tighter, stroking his hair, whispering soothing nonsense against his ear as his movements finally slowed.
His cock stayed buried inside you, softening, but he didn't pull out. He just clung to you, trembling, crying softly into your neck.
—
The next morning, everything was supposed to continue normally.
Your alarm went off before sunrise like always, vibrating somewhere beneath your pillow. For a few seconds, you simply lay there staring blankly at the ceiling, still half-asleep and aching from the exhaustion of the night before.
Then the nausea hit. Hard enough that you immediately pressed a hand over your mouth.
Your stomach twisted violently while a sharp throb pulsed behind your eyes, spreading steadily toward the back of your head.
You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass, but the moment you tried sitting up, another wave of nausea rolled through you so badly you nearly collapsed back against the mattress.
“…Ow—Fuck.” Your voice came out weak and rough.
Beside the bed, Choso stirred almost instantly. You hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep there sometime during the night, curled awkwardly near the edge of the mattress with one arm resting beside your blanket like he’d wanted to stay close in case something happened.
The second he lifted his head and saw your face, whatever sleep remained in his expression disappeared completely. “What’s wrong?”
You rubbed weakly at your forehead. “Nothing, I just…” Another pulse of pain made your stomach turn again.
Immediately, Choso pushed himself upright. His movements still looked tired from the previous night, but none of that seemed to matter the moment his attention settled fully on you.
“You don't have to go today,” he said quietly.
“But…” You tried getting up again anyway. The second your feet touched the floor, dizziness crashed over you hard enough to blur your vision for a moment.
Choso caught your arm almost immediately before you could properly lose balance. “Don’t go.”
Normally, you would’ve argued. Normally, you would’ve forced yourself through it anyway. But the pounding in your skull had already become unbearable, every movement making it worse.
Your body felt strangely heavy beneath the blankets again once Choso carefully helped you lay back down.
Eventually, after another miserable attempt at convincing yourself you could still make it to work, you gave up and called in sick instead.
The guilt settled in immediately after hanging up. You almost never took leave. Especially not this suddenly.
But by noon, the headache had turned into a fever strong enough that even thinking became exhausting.
Heat burned beneath your skin while chills still crawled across your arms underneath the blankets. Your body ached everywhere, the kind of deep weakness that made lifting your head feel like too much effort.
And through all of it—Choso stayed beside you. The entire day. Every time you drifted half-conscious from fever and exhaustion, he was still there when you opened your eyes again.
Sitting beside the bed. Adjusting the blanket when it slipped down your shoulder. Pressing cold cloths against your forehead with careful hands. Watching you with quiet panic he clearly wasn’t managing to hide very well.
You found yourself mumbling instructions between bouts of dizziness because honestly, he looked terrified every time your fever spiked again.
“There’s medicine in the second drawer,” you whispered weakly at one point. “White bottle… not the blue one…”
Choso nodded immediately like the instructions were life-or-death.
Later, when the fever made your stomach too nauseous to handle proper food, he cooked soup instead. Simple things.
He listened to every single thing you said with frightening seriousness. By evening, he’d practically memorized your medicine schedule better than you had. Still, nothing helped.
You told yourself it was probably just some mild infection at first. Something annoying but manageable. Maybe exhaustion finally catching up after too many long shifts back-to-back.
But one day turned into two. Then three. And instead of improving, your body only felt heavier. Weaker.
Sometimes when you woke in the middle of the night, you’d find him sitting on the floor beside the bed with his head resting quietly against the mattress near your arm.
Other times he’d be leaning forward in the chair beside you, watching your face so intensely it almost startled you. Like he was checking every breath. Making sure you were still there.
You noticed the fear in him more clearly as the days passed. The way his fingers twitched anxiously whenever your fever climbed too high again. The way he called your name softly whenever you stayed asleep too long.
This shouldn’t be lasting this long…
You were a doctor. You knew how ordinary infections behaved. Even exhaustion-induced fevers usually eased after proper rest and medication. But this… this felt wrong.
Slowly, sometime that afternoon, you finally made up your mind. Maybe you should call someone from the hospital or at least ask another doctor what they thought.
You shifted weakly beneath the blanket before blinking toward the bedroom doorway. Quiet. Usually Choso stayed close enough that you could hear him moving around the apartment constantly.
Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Sometimes just pacing softly between rooms whenever your fever got too high. But now there was nothing.
You swallowed against the dryness in your throat before trying to sit up properly. Immediately, pain exploded through your skull. “Ah—!”
Your hand flew instinctively toward your forehead as dizziness crashed into you hard enough to blur your vision for a second. It genuinely felt like someone was driving nails behind your eyes.
You stayed frozen there breathing slowly through it, waiting for the pounding to ease enough to move again. Maybe he was busy.
Eventually, after another long minute, you forced yourself upright anyway. Your legs nearly buckled the moment they touched the floor. Your body felt awful.
You steadied yourself against the wall before dragging your feet slowly toward the living room, every step making your head pound harder.
Your phone rested abandoned near the couch cushions where you’d apparently left it days ago. You grabbed it weakly before dropping down onto the couch with a shaky exhale.
The screen lit up immediately.
So many missed calls. Your coworkers. The hospital. Several personal messages stacked one after another across the screen.
Where are you?
Why aren’t you answering?
Are you okay??
Even the department group chat had exploded with notifications.
Your brows pulled together weakly. ‘How long had your phone been on silent?’
You stared at the screen through blurry vision for another second before unlocking it shakily. Honestly, you only meant to check one message quickly before calling someone back.
But your thumb slipped lower accidentally. The official hospital notice opened instead. At first, the words barely registered properly through the headache pounding behind your eyes.
You squinted harder at the screen. The letters blurred together once. Twice. Then slowly sharpened.
NOTICE TO ALL STAFF MEMBERS:—
‘Patient identified as Choso Kamo has escaped from XX Long-Term Psychiatric and Containment Facility following a violent incident involving multiple injured staff members.
Patient is considered medically hazardous. Avoid direct contact with bodily fluids.
Subject displays severe emotional dependency, unstable attachment behavior, and unpredictable violent responses.
If seen, contact hospital security immediately. Do not approach alone!’
Below the notice sat a photograph:
Dark hair tied messily back. Heavy eyes. That same exhausted expression you’d memorized over months.
Choso…
Your body trembled suddenly, though whether from fever or shock you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
From the kitchen, something clattered softly against the counter. You flinched.
For a second, you simply sat there staring blankly at the screen while your pulse hammered painfully against your throat.
Then slowly—very slowly—you pushed yourself back onto your feet. Your legs felt weak underneath you as you moved toward the hallway.
Every step made the notice replay louder inside your head: Do not approach alone.
You reached the kitchen entrance quietly enough that he hadn’t noticed you yet. And then you saw him—
In front of the hot cooking pot on the stove, steam rising from whatever was bubbling inside. His pants were unzipped, hanging loose around his hips.
One hand wrapped around his cock—hard, flushed, glistening with precum—stroking in fast, desperate pulls. The other hand gripped a kitchen knife, blade slick with red. His wrist was bleeding, a thin stream running down his forearm, dripping onto the floor.
He was fucking his own fist, hips jerking forward, breath coming in ragged pants, and as you watched, his body tensed—a low, guttural moan escaping his throat as thick ropes of cum shot into the pot, mixing with the food.
He didn't stop until he'd emptied himself completely, his cock twitching, a final drop falling.
Then he turned. His eyes found yours instantly. No surprise, shame or flustered apology.
Instead, a slow, wide grin spread across his face—stretching until it seemed to reach his ears, splitting his cheeks. His head tilted to the side, almost mechanically, like a doll's.
“I was just… waiting until you loved me enough.”
[Extra Chapter]
