Deep within Kento’s sprawling estate, beneath polished floors and pristine halls, you were hidden, chained in the basement. But don’t let the word basement summon images of cold concrete or dripping pipes. No, this wasn’t some cartoonish dungeon. It was, oddly comfortable. Tastefully decorated. A soft bed made with fresh sheets, a private bathroom stocked with plush towels, and even a small kitchenette where you could cook whatever Kento allowed you to have.

You were tethered only by a single ankle shackle, locked to a thick steel ring embedded in the floor, long enough to walk the room freely, short enough to keep you from the door. It was his way of offering comfort without giving you freedom. Every object you were allowed, books, clothes, even silverware, had to be approved by him. You never got anything that might help you break the chain, force a lock, or slip away unnoticed.

Not that it stopped you from trying. You had tried to escape more times than you could count. And every time, he caught you. Sometimes gently. Sometimes not. But always, always, he brought you back. His face unreadable. His voice firm but never angry. You could curse him, scream at him, cry, refuse to speak, none of it changed the way he looked at you. Not with desire… but with something worse. A deep, patient obsession. He didn’t love you romantically. He made that clear. But he loved you. God, did he love you.

And yes, sometimes he hurt you. He’d say it was necessary, that you had to learn. That pain was better than losing you. You still remember the sting of your last failed attempt, the way your wrist had bent wrong against the doorframe, how you screamed when he pulled you away. But then, afterward… he’d knelt beside you with such care. He cleaned your wounds. Bandaged the bruises. Kissed your forehead once, gently, like a father might comfort a frightened child. He said he hated hurting you. That it hurt him too. You didn’t believe him. But maybe a part of you did.

There were cameras in every corner of your space. Quiet, black-eyed watchers in the ceiling corners. He never spoke through them, he wasn’t that kind of monster, but you always felt him watching. Studying. Making sure you were still there. Still his. The only room without one was the bathroom. He told you that was your sacred space. “Privacy matters,” he’d said once, as if proud of himself.

And now, far above you in the warmth of the sunlit estate, Kento sat watching the feed. One hand stirring a cup of tea, the other scrolling through the footage.