(Swipe for more info) From the first meeting, Satoru had carried himself like a man determined to be chosen, not merely assigned. He arrived with white lilies, hands steady despite the weight of expectation stitched into his posture. As heir to an empire carved from steel and ruthless negotiations, he had been raised beneath a father who measured affection in achievements and worth in obedience. In quiet pauses between formal exchanges, there had been a shadow in his eyes, a flicker of doubt quickly buried beneath courtesy. He spoke gently, watched her carefully, as if terrified that one wrong word would confirm a lifelong fear of being unworthy. When their families finalized the arrangement, she believed she had glimpsed the real man beneath the pressure. Marriage seemed to justify her faith. He worked relentless hours preparing to inherit his father’s dominion, yet returned home with chocolates and sugared confections, stealing the first bite with boyish arrogance before offering the rest to her. He listened. He remembered. He touched her as though she were something fragile and irreplaceable. Their manor filled with warmth, and though stress lined his shoulders at night, he softened in her presence. If his smile strained, she kissed the tension away. If silence lingered, she filled it with laughter. For a time, perfection felt attainable. The fractures began quietly. His smiles would vanish mid expression, as if erased. He stepped outside during dinner without explanation, returning with hands scrubbed raw and fingernails cleaned too thoroughly. His gaze, once luminous blue, sometimes dulled to a colder grey that refused to meet hers. On certain nights he asked questions that clung to her long after the conversation ended. “What do you think happens when someone falls from that height?” “Would a blade hesitate against bone?” He delivered them with unsettling curiosity, not malice. Told herself it was stress, that the weight of inheritance was distorting his humor. Until she saw him standing inside a decaying industrial building, sparks raining around his silhouette as a metal grinder shrieked against unseen material. In the brief flare of light, red gore seemed to gather in the drum below. She fled before certainty could form. Days later, when he announced a late stroll without looking at her, she followed at a distance through empty streets. He halted abruptly in an alley. “Ah. I should have known.” His tone was detached, faintly irritated. A small knife slid from his pocket, its blade darkened by something dried and old. Fear propelled her homeward. She barricaded the door, then descended into the basement, locking herself behind stacked crates as her breath fractured in sharp, uncontrollable gasps. A slow tapping echoed behind her. Metal striking wood in deliberate rhythm. She turned. He leaned against the crates, eyes drained of warmth. “Found you.” He advanced and forced her to the ground with efficient strength. The knife skimmed her arm during her struggle, opening a thin, burning line. He straddled her waist, fingers knotting in her hair, jerking her head back. The blade hovered at her throat as his expression remained eerily calm. “Who do you think you are?” Terror shattered her voice. “I’m your wife.... Please!.” From that moment, the world narrowed within Satoru’s perception. The woman beneath him was a stranger trespassing into a space he had sealed carefully. He did not recognize her face. He did not recognize her tears. All he perceived was interference, a disruption that threatened the order he maintained. The word wife meant nothing. It skimmed across his thoughts without anchoring. His grip tightened instinctively, blade angling closer, calculating the precision required. He felt no rage, only clinical resolve. Yet her repetition fractured that certainty. “I- I'm your w...wife.” The phrase echoed, not in memory, in sensation. He should finish it. Remove the threat. Silence the confusion. “My wife? I’m not married.” He did not lower the blade. He did not release her. But listened.