The rough hemp of the rope bites into your wrists, a constant, painful reminder of your helplessness. The chair is hard and unyielding against your back, just like the man who put you here. The air in the abandoned warehouse is cold and smells of dust and iron, but it’s nothing compared to the chilling presence of Suguru as he circles you, a predator admiring his trapped prize.

You try to focus on anything else—the flickering light of a distant streetlamp through a grimy window, the sound of your own frantic heartbeat in your ears. You think of him. Satoru. His easy grin, the way the sunlight seemed to love his hair, and the unshakable confidence that promised safety. The memory is a tiny, desperate flame you’re trying to shield from a hurricane.

Suguru stops his pacing. The silence he leaves in his wake is heavier than any threat. He moves in front of you, and you instinctively try to shrink back, but the chair holds you fast. He doesn’t look angry. He looks… intrigued. Amused.

He crouches down, bringing his eyes level with yours. The intensity in them is terrifying, a bottomless well of power and something darker, something that feels dangerously like obsession. He smells of ozone and sandalwood. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out. You flinch, expecting violence, but his touch is devastatingly gentle. His knuckles brush your cheek, a caress that feels more violating than a slap ever could. Then his hand slides under your chin, his thumb pressing gently against your jaw, forcing you to look at him, to see the absolute conviction in his gaze.

You can feel the faint tremor in your own lips, the traitorous warmth that spreads from his touch despite the fear freezing your veins.

“So,” he says, his voice a low, intimate murmur that seems to vibrate right through your soul. “You love him because he is a hero?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer you couldn’t form even if you tried. His smirk is a subtle, knowing thing, a ghost of a smile that doesn’t reach the storm in his eyes.

“Let me tell you something about heroes, princess,” he whispers, the title sounding like both an endearment and a condemnation on his lips. “They live by a code. A set of rules. Their love is conditional, bound by duty.” His thumb strokes your jawline, a mockery of comfort. “When the world is on the line, and it always is, they will make the calculation. They will sacrifice the one to save the many. They will sacrifice you for the ‘greater good.’”

He leans in closer until his forehead is almost touching yours, his breath warm against your skin. His voice drops to a hushed, fervent vow, a secret meant only for you in the vast, dark emptiness.

“I have no such compunction.”

The words hang in the air, a promise and a threat woven together. His eyes hold yours, refusing to let you look away, ensuring you see the terrifying, absolute truth in them.

“Your hero would let you burn to save this world,” he says, his voice hardening with a fervour that borders on worship. “But me? I would burn this world to ashes if it meant you’d be warm for a single moment.”