vows of the false devotee - chapter 2
word count: 5.8k words | master list
[tw/s] mentions of violence
[tags] reader is kinda heartless, a bit canon!geto
October 31, 2013.
“Hey, you!”
It was Nanako. It had been two weeks since you started, and the twins had already grown accustomed to your presence.
“I’m talking to you!” she huffed, tapping your shoulder with her phone.
“Forgive me, Nanako-chan,” you murmured, slipping instantly back into your mask. “I was lost in thought regarding the tea.”
In reality, your mind was miles away, dissecting the man who owned this temple. You had spent these fourteen days cataloging his movements. You already guessed why he was so rarely seen. He was gathering exorbitant funds from desperate clients and, more dangerously, collecting curses. It was a sickening disadvantage.
Every day you spent cleaning his floors, he was only growing stronger, gorging himself on the very monsters you didn't have the motive to fight.
At night, in the suffocating silence of your room, you would draw your hidden blade—a sleek, blackened tanto that Yoshio had gifted you. You would run your thumb along the edge, the cold steel a stark contrast to the warm, flowery scent of the temple. You imagined the friction of the blade sliding between his ribs, the way that smug, superior look on his face would finally shatter.
You still saw that face in your dreams—the look of a god looking down at a bug. It fueled the fire that had been burning since September 2012. You hadn't even been allowed to say goodbye to Yoshio. Jujutsu High had swept in like vultures, confiscating his body and the ruins of your life before you could even stop shaking.
You were too slow, the voice in your head whispered. Too weak. Just a monkey.
“Are you even listening?” Nanako asked, her brow furrowing. Beside her, Mimiko watched you with that same heavy, unblinking stare.
“Yes, Nanako-chan,” you said, forcing a gentle, apologetic smile. “I was just thinking that the strawberries today looked particularly vibrant. I wanted to make sure they were perfect for you.”
Nanako’s expression softened instantly at the mention of the fruit. “Hmph. Well, hurry up then. Geto-sama is actually returning early tonight. He’s tired, so don’t be annoying or loud while you’re working in the main hall.”
Your heart didn't skip a beat but your grip on the tray tightened just a fraction. Tonight. Finally, the target was coming home.
“Oh? Geto-sama is returning?” you asked, pitching your voice with a rehearsed curiosity. “I haven't seen him in quite some time...”
Nanako shrugged, her lips pulling into a pout as she scrolled through her phone. “Well, he’s busy! He’s doing important things for our future. We don't need to meddle in his business,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She looked up at you, her eyes suddenly bright with an impulsive idea. “Do you want to go out with us later? We want to go to that new crepe shop in Harajuku!”
You lowered your head, the perfect image of a hesitant, rule-abiding steward. “I’m not sure I’m allowed, Nanako-chan—I have my evening rounds, and Suda-san was very clear about the schedule...”
“But you’re ours!” Nanako hissed, her tone shifting from playful to possessive in a heartbeat. She stepped closer, the entitlement of a sorcerer-child radiating from her. “We’re the ones who decided to keep you. Geto-sama will permit it if we ask!”
“I... I don't want to be removed,” you whispered, playing the part of the terrified monkey who feared his wrath. “If Geto-sama finds out I’ve neglected my duties to play at being a friend...”
“You aren’t a friend, you’re our steward. Which makes it better,” Nanako corrected with a sharp, toothy grin. “And if we say you’re coming, you’re coming. Mimiko wants you there too, don’t you?”
Mimiko, who had been standing silently in the shadow of the shoji screen, gave a single, slow nod. She gripped her doll’s neck, her eyes fixed on you.
You felt a cold shiver of triumph. If you were theirs, you were protected. And if you were protected, you could get close enough to the master to finally draw your blade.
“If you are certain...” you murmured, letting a small, relieved smile touch your lips. “Then I would be honored to accompany you.”
You take it back. You were not honored to accompany them. You were irritated.
They had succumbed to exhaustion, slumped against each other on the tatami mats like discarded dolls.
Accompany them to what? Their dreams?
They were useless. Absolutely useless.
You stood over them, your expression a mask of bewilderment. How were they even his children? They didn't seem like him at all.
Eventually, you began to clear the mess, stacking the empty tea sets and wiping away the stray crumbs from the meal you had prepared. Your movements were forced by a simmering resentment that you kept locked behind your ribs.
But then, your body reacted before your mind did. You bowed your head instinctively, your gaze fixed on the polished wood of the floor. You didn't move and didn't breathe.
The sliding door hissed open. The soft rustle of silk announced his entry, followed by the faint, metallic scent of blood. He stopped a few paces away, his presence looming over the sleeping twins.
“They waited up, then,” Geto said. His voice was low and tired, lacking the smug edge from before. He sounded almost human, which made you loathe him even more.
“Steward,” he addressed you. “Carry the girls to their quarters. They shouldn't wake up on a cold floor.”
You didn't dare speak. You simply shifted to comply, but his next words stopped your heart.
“Wait.”
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over you. “Look up.”
You felt the muscles in your jaw tighten. You forced every ounce of your training to the surface, suppressing the assassin, and the grieving daughter. You lifted your head slowly til your eyes met his.
For a fraction of a second, your mask almost snapped. Up close, the smugness you remembered was replaced by a bone-deep weariness, but his dark eyes—narrowed and terrifyingly intelligent—searched yours as if looking for a crack in the glass. You were inches away from the throat you wanted to crush, and the effort of not lunging forward made your vision blur with a suppressed rage.
The silence between you stretched thinly. Geto didn't pull his gaze away immediately. He took his time to study the shape of your face as if trying to remember where he had seen a monkey with eyes that didn't immediately flicker with fear.
“Do you have anyone in your family who needs help?” he asked suddenly.
The question was unexpected. For a moment, the memory of the basement, the smell of blood, and Yoshio’s calloused hands threatened to surge up your throat. You thought of the family that had been erased by curse users, the lineage of windows that he would most likely degrade if ever mentioned.
You suppressed the urge to laugh at the irony. Instead, you simply shook your head, keeping your chin tucked in a show of humble service. “No, Geto-sama. I am quite alone.”
He nodded grimly. “A rare trait in your kind,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, melodic tone. “To be content with simply doing what is asked. You have done your duty well. The girls haven't been this settled in months.”
He didn't wait for your thanks. As he stepped out toward the veranda, a sudden draft caught the heavy silk of his robes. His wide sleeves blew back in the wind like the wings of a great, dark bird, and then he was gone, his presence vanishing.
He thinks I’m content, you thought, your teeth gritting until they ached. He thinks I’m a loyal dog.
You looked at the sleeping twins, then back at the empty doorway where the wind still whistled. The mission wasn't just about the kill anymore. It was about making sure that when you finally took his life, he knew exactly which monkey had done it.
In the following weeks, it started small—a preference for your tea, a demand for your specific way of folding their laundry—but it soon spiraled into a constant chatter that filled the halls.
“She made these for breakfast, Geto-sama! You have to try one!” Nanako would chirp, shoving a plate of perfectly glazed pastries toward him while he reviewed his ledgers.
“She says the garden looks better with the lilies trimmed,” Mimiko would murmur, clutching her doll as she sat at his feet.
You remained a shadow in the corner of the room, your head bowed, your hands tucked into your apron. You felt his gaze flick toward you more often now—not with suspicion, but with a weary curiosity. To him, you were just a high-quality tool that his daughters had grown fond of, like a well-trained hound or a particularly sturdy piece of furniture.
“She seems to have made herself quite indispensable,” Geto remarked one evening. He spoke to the girls, voice smooth and indulgent. He reached out, patting Nanako’s head with a rare, soft smile. “It’s unusual for you to keep the same help for more than a month. What is it about this one?”
“She’s just... peaceful,” Nanako said, shrugging as she scrolled through her phone. “And she doesn't smell like the others. She smells reallyyy nice.”
“And she listens,” Mimiko added.
Geto hummed. “Usually, most of her kind can't help but chatter when they think they’re being helpful.”
Wow. He said all that while I was around.
He finally turned his head, his dark eyes landing on you. “You’ve done well to earn their favor. It is no small feat to keep them satisfied.”
“I only wish to be of use, Geto-sama,” you whispered, the lie as smooth as the silk of his robes.
Internally, you were screaming. Every time they spoke your name, every time Geto acknowledged your service, it felt like another link in the chain you were wrapping around his neck. You were a name he knew. A face he recognized.
You were moving closer.
Suguru Geto was a man who dealt in the weight of souls. He could feel the energy of the desperate monkeys who groveled at his feet from a mile away. He was used to the stench of their fear, the sticky residue of their greed, and the loud, clattering noise of their pathetic lives.
But this woman was different. As he sat in the dim quiet of his study, the thump of her footsteps in the hallway outside shouldn't have caught his attention. And yet, it did. It was too consistent. Too controlled.
Who is she, really? he wondered, his long fingers tracing the rim of a porcelain tea cup.
On the surface, she was perfect. Save for the fact that she wasn't a sorcerer. She had the hollow, wide-eyed look of a woman who had lost everything and found a god to cling to. She played the part of the desperate devotee with a chilling accuracy. But Suguru hadn't survived the cutthroat world of jujutsu by taking things at face value.
There was a deliberation in her movements that bothered him. When she bowed, it wasn't the clumsy, terrified duck of a peasant. When she spoke, her voice didn't waver with the genuine hysteria he usually saw in his followers. It was like a flat stone skipped across a lake.
Is she a window? he mused, his eyes narrowing into thin, dangerous slits. One of those half-lives who can see the truth but lacks the spark to change it?
If she was, it explained her lack of fear in the presence of his curses. But it didn't explain the silence of her. Even the most stagnant window carried a flicker of cursed energy, a tiny candle in the dark. But when he reached out with his senses toward her, he found nothing.
It was either the ultimate sign of a measly monkey... or it was something far more specific.
He leaned back, a dark smirk playing on his lips. Whether she was someone from Jujutsu High or simply a very talented actress, she was making his daughters happy. And for now, that was her only shield.
Later that evening, as Nanako and Mimiko sat on the veranda, swinging their legs and arguing over which stickers to put on their phones, Suguru stepped out to join them. The girls immediately brightened, leaning into his space with the easy affection they only showed him.
“Geto-sama! Are we still going to Harajuku tomorrow?” Nanako asked, her eyes sparkling. “The steward said she’d help us pick out new charms!”
Suguru looked at them, his expression softening into that of a weary but indulgent father. He glanced toward the kitchen where you were currently out of earshot.
“Would you two inform the steward that I need her for something important,” he said smoothly, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “I’m going to keep her occupied here for a while. There are some... domestic affairs that require her specific attention.”
The twins pouted, but they didn't question him. They never did.
“Oh, okay,” Mimiko whispered, clutching her doll. “But don't be mean to her, Geto-sama. She makes the good crepes.”
“I wouldn't dream of it,” Suguru replied, his smile widening into something sharp and predatory.
He wanted her alone. He wanted to see how that desperate mask held up when the lights were low and the pressure was applied.
“I’m sorry?”
The words slipped out before you could filter them, your voice cracking just enough to sound genuinely bewildered. You stood in the center of the girls' cluttered room, a stack of freshly pressed linens clutched to your chest.
Nanako didn't even look up from her vanity mirror, busy applying a layer of gloss to her lips. She was thirteen and still knew how to do her make-up. “Don’t make that face. It’s not like Geto-sama’s going to kill you.”
“But what about the trip to Harajuku,” you stammered, your mind racing through a hundred different tactical retreats. “You said I was meant to accompany you. Suda-san has already approved the transit.”
“Geto-sama changed his mind,” Mimiko murmured from the corner, her large eyes fixed on you with a strange, unreadable pity. She hugged her doll tighter. “He said he has a specific errand for you to handle. He's quite sensitive.”
Your stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. Sensitive.
Of all the people in this cursed temple to be assigned to, it had to be him.
You. Stuck with him. The man who could smell a lie from across a room. The man who had looked at you with that smug superiority and seen nothing but a monkey.
Why now? Was this a test, or simply the whim of a bored cult leader who enjoyed playing with his food?
But then again, you needed this. You don't know where his room was yet. These were baby steps that will eventually help you in the long run.
“He’s waiting for you in the west courtyard,” Nanako added, waving a dismissive hand toward the door. “Don’t be slow. He hates waiting for... well, for anyone.”
You bowed, your forehead nearly touching the linens in your arms to hide the sudden, violent tremor in your hands. It wasn't fear but the adrenaline of a cornered animal. You spent years imagining your final encounter with Suguru Geto, but it was always supposed to be on your terms. In the dark. With a blade in his throat.
Now, you were being summoned to his side in broad daylight, tasked with an errand that felt more like an execution.
“I... I will go at once,” you whispered.
As you backed out of the room, you felt the weight of the blackened tanto hidden beneath your skirts. If he had realized who you were, you wouldn't be going on an errand. You’d be dead.
You took a deep, steadying breath, smoothing your apron and resetting your face into that of the wide-eyed, devoted steward. You had to play the part better than you ever had before. Because today, the target was inviting you in.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The mantra hammered against your skull with every step you took toward the west courtyard. You had ten years of Yoshio’s brutal, silent training etched into your marrow. You were a warden. You were the twins' steward. You wouldn't be dead. But as you approached the silhouette of the man waiting by the koi pond, you felt every year of that experience shrivel under his presence.
You traded your apron for a more modest, travel-ready ensemble, throwing a dark cloak over your shoulders to hide the slight, tell-tale tension in your frame—and the blackened tanto tucked against your thigh.
When you reached him, you sank into a deep bow. “Geto-sama. I was told... I was told you had a requirement for me.”
Suguru Geto didn't turn around at first. He stood with his hands tucked into his wide sleeves, watching the dark water of the pond. Then, without a word, the air around you curdled.
From the shadows of the stone lanterns, a low-grade curse—a writhing, multi-eyed mass of sludge—slithered toward your feet. It let out a wet, gurgling hiss, its many pupils fixing on your face.
You didn't flinch. You couldn't. But your heart was a trapped bird against your ribs.
“You aren't screaming at all,” Geto said, his voice a smooth, terrifying purr. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowed into slits.
“Most monkeys would be hysterical by now. They’d be tripping over their own feet to escape something they can't even see, yet they feel the chill. But you... you’re looking right at it, aren't you?”
The curse lunged, stopping mere inches from your throat. The stench of rot filled your lungs.
You let out a shaky breath, your eyes welling with a perfectly timed tear. You collapsed to your knees, not in a bow, but in a show of broken spirit.
“I... I can see it,” you whispered, your voice thick with a fabricated, desperate shame. “I've seen them since I was a child. My parents... they called it a curse. They told me to never speak of it, or the world would take me away.”
You looked up at him, “I thought if I served you... None of those things in the dark would hurt me anymore. Please, Geto-sama. I’m just a window. I’m nothing else.”
Geto remained still, the wind catching his dark hair. The smugness returned to his face, but it was tempered with a new, toxic sort of interest. He stepped forward, reaching out to tilt your chin up with two cold fingers.
“A window,” he mused, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “A bird who sees the sky but can never fly.”
He pulled his hand away, the sludge-curse vanishing back into the shadows at his silent command. “I suppose that explains why the girls like you. You share their world, even if you are a tenant in it. Since you can see the truth, you will assist me with a client.”
You followed a step behind him, your head bowed. Your gaze was fixed on the rhythmic sway of his golden-stitched robes. Every inch of your skin crawled. The air in the corridor felt ionized, charged with the residual malice of the curse he had just set on you.
He led you deep into a secluded, soundproofed chamber where a middle-aged man in an expensive, sweat-stained suit was pacing frantically. The man was a donor—one of the wealthy monkeys Geto despised, yet used to fund his revolution.
“Geto-sama!” the man gasped, rushing forward. “The... the thing in my office. It’s still there. My daughter—she’s having nightmares. You said you’d take care of it!”
Geto’s expression remained serene. He gestured toward you with a flick of his wrist.
“Our new steward here can see it too, Akai-san. She was just telling me how... vivid the world is.”
The man looked at you, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. You lowered your head, playing the trembling window. “I... I can feel it, sir,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
“See?” Geto’s voice dropped into a predatory silk. “Even a common girl recognizes the filth you’ve allowed into your life. But you? You didn't follow the instructions. You held back the payment. You thought you could haggle with me.”
The air in the room suddenly curdled. Geto didn't move a muscle, but a massive, bulbous curse manifested behind him, its teeth inches from the donor’s throat.
“Wait! I have the money! I—”
“It’s not about the money anymore,” Geto interrupted, his eyes flashing with a cold, manic light. He turned his head slightly toward you, his smirk sharpening. “Watch closely, steward. This is the natural order. The strong cleaning the world of the blind.”
With a casual wave of his hand, the curse lunged.
You didn't look away. Your training as a warden had seen blood before, but the bored cruelty of this execution made your stomach turn. The sound of bone snapping and the wet, stifled gurgle of the man’s final breath filled the room.
He did this just to fucking tutor me?
Geto watched the slaughter with the detached interest of a scientist. He then turned to you, stepping over the spreading pool of dark blood. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of expensive incense and fresh iron filling your senses.
“Tell me,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours for a flicker of disgust or horror. “Does the truth frighten you? What do you feel?”
You looked at the body, then back at him. You forced your eyes to shimmer with a twisted, grateful awe. “It's... beautiful,” you lied, your voice shivering. “To see the power that puts the world in its place.”
YOU'RE A FUCKING SADIST WITH A GOD-COMPLEX, SUGURU GETO. YOU DESERVE TO DIE.
Geto’s smirk widened. He reached out, his hand lingering on your shoulder, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your cloak. “Good. I think I’ve finally found a use for you that goes far beyond making crepes.”
He turned and walked out, leaving you alone with the cooling corpse. You stood in the silence, your heart beating a slow and steady rhythm. You had just watched a man die to feed a monster’s ego.
Almost there, you thought, your hand twitching toward the hidden dagger. Just a little more devotion, and I’ll be the last thing those beautiful eyes ever see.
The walk back to the main grounds was conducted in silence. The scent of the donor’s blood seemed to cling to the hem of your cloak, a ghostly mark that Geto ignored with practiced ease. He walked with his head held high, the moonlight catching the gold embroidery of his robes, looking every bit the serene monk and nothing like the executioner you had just watched.
As you reached the shoji doors of the inner sanctum, he stopped, the wind fluttering the dark strands of his hair. He turned his head slightly, his narrowed eyes tracking your still, bowed form.
“You aren't going to do anything else tonight, are you?” he asked.
You kept your gaze firmly on the gravel at his feet. “I only wish to ensure the household is prepared for the morning, Geto-sama.”
He hummed. You expected a dismissal—a sharp nod that would allow you to retreat to your cell and finally scrub the invisible gore from your skin. Instead, he stepped toward the veranda, his back to the moonlight.
“I find myself with a sudden appetite,” he said smoothly. “Make me some zaru soba. The girls mentioned that you have a flair in cooking. I'd like a demonstration.”
“Understood, Geto-sama. Shall I leave it in the kitchen, or deliver it to your room—?”
He didn't even talk to reply before sliding the door open and disappearing into the dim warmth of his private quarters. You stood in the courtyard for a long moment, your breath hitching in the cold air. Zaru soba. A dish that required patience, chilled water, and a steady hand.
In the kitchen, you moved with familiarity, your warden training taking over. You boiled the water, the steam rising to dampen your face. You prepared the dipping sauce—dashi, soy, and mirin—balancing the flavors with a chef’s intuition.
As you sliced the spring onions into perfect rings, you looked at the knife in your hand. It was a common kitchen blade, but in your grip, it was a weapon. One quick turn. One lunge through the paper screens.
Not yet, you told yourself, the metal cool against your palm. He’s watching. He’s always watching. Probably.
You arranged the cold noodles on the bamboo tray with meticulous care, ensuring the presentation was as sterile and beautiful as the man who would eat them. When you were about to bring out the tray, looking around the halls in confusion...
You didn't actually know where his room was.
This temple was a labyrinth of sliding doors, identical corridors, and shifting shadows. You stood there like a fool, looking left and then right in mounting confusion, the tray of noodles beginning to feel cold.
“I’m eating in the living room.”
The voice came from directly behind your ear.
You almost jumped out of your skin, the tray wobbling dangerously in your hands.
“I—forgive me, Geto-sama,” you stammered, dropping your head low, your shoulders trembling as you fought to stabilize the tray.
He was so damn stealthy you hadn't even realized he had left his quarters, let alone tracked you back to the kitchen. Up close, his presence was a vacuum that sucked the oxygen out of the hallway.
“Follow me,” he commanded, his voice low and bored.
He turned and started walking, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished wood. You turned and followed a pace behind, your breath still hitched in your throat. For the first time, the reality of his rank truly sank in. This wasn't just a cult leader or a lucky sorcerer. This was a Special Grade.
You were following a predator who could erase your existence before you even felt the blade. Now that you thought about it, to kill him, you weren't going to need just a pathetic hopeless dagger—you were going to need a damn miracle.
After that walk, he was now sitting by the low table, his outer robes discarded, looking dangerously relaxed.
You knelt and placed the meal before him. Why did he look so harmless like this? He was smiling now, eyes content at the meal provided for him.
“Your soba, Geto-sama,” you whispered.
He picked up the chopsticks in a deliberately slow movement. He took a single bite, his dark eyes never leaving your gaze. The feigned respect in his gaze was unmistakable—he had seen you witness a murder without flinching, and now he was watching you serve him as if nothing had happened.
“Excellent,” he murmured, the word carrying a weight that had nothing to do with the food. “It seems I was right about you. You have a stomach for the truth.”
He gestured to the floor beside him. “Stay and talk. I need comments from a window.”
“Oh, I can’t—I shouldn't sit so near to you, Geto-sama,” you whispered, your eyes widening in a rehearsed display of frantic humility. You kept your hands tucked into your lap, the fingers of your right hand twitching toward the phantom weight of the dagger hidden in your clothes.
“I insist,” he mumbled, his voice low and distracted as he dipped a bundle of noodles into the dark sauce. He didn't look up, but the command was absolute, a gravitational pull you couldn't resist without breaking character.
You shifted forward, kneeling on the tatami just inches from the hem of his dark yukata. It was surreal. This man—this butcher who had spent the evening painting a room red—was now eating with the refined, quiet grace of a scholar. The proximity was a sensory assault: the smell of sandalwood, the slight rustle of his silk, and the vacuum of his presence.
(a/n: sorry, i wheezed, we have a vacuum at home & i suddenly thought of suguru😭)
“You're really just a window, right?” he asked, the question feeling like a double-check for lies.
“Y-yes, Geto-sama,” you stammered, casting your gaze down to the wood grain of the table.
“And your family?” he continued, his tone conversational, as if he were asking about the weather. “They are windows, too?”
“They were,” you replied, the truth of the past feeling so wrong to say, even to this asshole.
“Were?” He turned his head, his dark, narrow eyes locking onto yours.
“They’re dead,” you said, forcing your voice to go flat, the way it had the night you found out Yoshio’s dead. “My foster father, too. I’m the only one left.”
Geto didn't offer a word of comfort. He simply hummed. “The weak die inevitably,” he mumbled heartlessly, returning his attention to his meal. “It is the natural attrition of the world. I killed my own parents for the sake of the future. I still don't regret it.”
Ha-ha. Is that supposed to be a flex? Your lips twitch.
He set his chopsticks down and leaned back slightly, his shadow stretching across the floor to swallow yours. “What about you? In a world where the strong consume the blind... do you think you deserve to live?”
You let the silence stretch, your mind racing through a decade of Yoshio’s lessons. You needed a logic that wouldn't just satisfy him, but would make him see you as a mirror to his own soul.
“I don’t think in terms of deserving, Geto-sama,” you said softly, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze. “The world doesn't care about merit. It only cares about function.”
You leaned in a fraction, your voice becoming a steady, cold thread. “A window is a witness. We see the rot that the monkeys ignore, and we see the power that people like you wield to cut it away. If I didn’t deserve to be here, the world would have swallowed me along with my family. But I’m still standing. Maybe it’s because an act still needs a witness... someone to see the truth so it doesn't vanish over time.”
Geto went very still. He studied you, his expression shifting from bored curiosity to something much more dangerous: genuine interest.
“A witness,” he repeated, the word sounding like a prayer in his mouth. “Someone to see the truth so it doesn't vanish. It wouldn't be that terrible to have pathetic spectator to watch me make the world a better place.”
He reached out, his hand hovering near your face before his fingers grazed your temple, pushing a stray lock of hair back. But his fingers were so cold you almost shivered at the touch.
Was he trying to intimidate me? You immediately bowed, lowering your gaze.
“Most people look at me and see a savior or a monster,” he whispered. “But you... you just see the necessity of it. Perhaps the world did leave you behind for a reason. Even better, you found that flyer to serve my twins.”
He picked up his chopsticks again, the tension breaking as quickly as it had formed. “Finish cleaning the kitchen. And don't be late with the girls’ breakfast tomorrow. I expect you of all people to be punctual.”
You bowed lower until your forehead touched the floor, your heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm.
Did you finally do it? Pique his interest? Earn his trust?
He was so unpredictable.
The private errand wasn't a one-time occurrence. It was an invitation into the inner circle of a madman. In the days that followed, the frequency of your interactions with Suguru Geto increased so much so that it turned into a familiar routine of witnessing him kill several innocents. He acknowledged you with a terrifying familiarity now, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register every time he commanded you to follow him out into the world.
And going out always meant the same thing. There was always blood.
You stood silent and still, draped in your dark cloak, while Geto moved through the world like a plague of gold and silk. You watched him dismantle lives with the detached grace of a gardener pulling weeds. Each time, he would glance back at you, checking to see if his witness was still watching, still absorbing the truth of his revolution.
He had grown comfortable. Dangerously so.
The filter he usually kept for the outside world vanished when it was just the two of you standing over a fresh corpse. He stopped hiding his disgust. He stopped pretending.
“Look at them,” he sighed one afternoon, wiping a microscopic speck of blood from his cheek after a particularly messy correction of a non-sorcerer client. He didn't even look at the body, he just looked at the horizon. “Scurrying, breeding, filthy... they’re just monkeys mimicking the motions of a higher life form. Don't you agree?”
He said it directly to your face, the slur hanging in the air between you like a challenge. He wasn't insulting you—in his twisted logic, you had been promoted.
“T-they are indeed... loud, Geto-sama,” you whispered, your head bowed to hide the way the muscles in your neck were straining.
Goodness, the irony was a bitter pill to swallow. Every time he called someone a monkey, you felt the weight of the blackened tanto against your thigh. You were a warden of the very people he despised, a protector of a world he wanted to burn, and here he was, treating you like a confidante.
“Loud, and heavy,” Geto added, stepping closer until he was standing in your personal space, his scent of sandalwood masking the iron tang of the alleyway. “But you... I'm glad you're quiet. You're one of the only creatures in this world that doesn't give me a headache lately.”
Creatures.
He reached out, his fingers grazing the collar of your cloak, adjusting it as if you were a precious object he was proud to own. “Make sure the twins are ready for the summer festival. And would you wear something vibrant? I'm tired of seeing you in the colors of a funeral. I'm sparing your life, not taking it.”
As he walked away, his laughter was a soft, melodic sound that made your skin crawl.
Just you wait, Suguru Geto, you thought, watching his silhouette vanish. Keep sparing me. Keep bringing me closer. Once I find the one vulnerability you haven't managed to show me—you’ll wish I was just another monkey you had decided to kill.
You weren't wearing the colors of a funeral for yourself. You were wearing them for him. He just didn't know it yet.
ch 1. | ch 3.