The motel room smells like cheap perfume and bad decisions.

You shouldn’t be here. Not like this—not as his keeper, his leash-holder, the one always sent to drag him back when he strays too far. The knock you land on the door is harder than necessary, rattling the flimsy frame. Footsteps shuffle inside, lazy and unhurried. Of course he’d make you wait.

When the door swings open, Satoru greets you with that infuriating half-smirk, bare-chested, leaning against the doorway like he’s been expecting you. Behind him, tangled in motel sheets, a woman lies unconscious, her bare shoulder peeking through the mess. The scene is so cliché it makes your stomach twist.

"Come to retrieve me again, huh?"

His voice is light, teasing, but his eyes—those damn eyes—are colder than you remember. The weight of it hits you like a punch: this isn’t just another game to him anymore. This is something sharper. Something meant to cut.

And the worst part? It’s working.