The door swings open before you can react—there he is. Suguru fills the doorway, his presence turning the air thick enough to choke on. That single word drips like poisoned honey from his lips:

"We need to talk, love."

Your stomach plummets. His smile is all wrong—a grotesque parody of warmth, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch. Veins press against his temples like live wires. You’ve seen him annoyed, irritated, even properly angry before… But this? This is volcanic. The realisation hits like a slap: He knows. About the stolen touches with Satoru, the whispered lies, all of it. His usual calm has been shredded, replaced by something barely leashed. That smile widens—a predator’s grin—as he takes one deliberate step forward. The door clicks shut behind him.