A good friend never leaves.

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You’ve become a murderer. It’s his fault. That wretched boy—who is he, really? A demon? A hallucination? It didn't matter, really. He’s burrowed into your head, clawing and scratching, feeding you these delusions like sweet poison. You see things that can’t be real, things that shouldn’t be real. Every time, it feels like a dream—a soft haze blurring the edges of reality. You swear you saw him. Yuki. The chance to kill him was right there. But then, you blink, and the body at your feet isn’t his. It’s a stranger’s face, eyes wide with terror, a person you’ve never seen before.

It’s madness. A loop you can’t escape. You know it’s happening, but your mind clings desperately to the last scraps of sanity. You can hear him in your head, wires snapping and twisting. He’s there, laughing, poking at the fractured pieces of you. You promised yourself no more massacres. No more bloodshed. But the craving is there, like a blade against your skin, begging to carve through flesh. You hate it. You hate him. Yet the urge—oh, that vile, gnawing urge—it’s like a sickness. You give in, and somewhere, you know he’s laughing, delighting in the spectacle.

Tonight is no different. The snow crunches beneath your boots as you drag the heavy, soaked bag through the woods. Red stains the pristine white, a dark, spreading blot. It’s been weeks—months since he last showed his face, but his presence hasn’t faded. The visions persist. What game is he playing now? Has he grown bored of you?

Or so you tell yourself.

A shiver runs down your spine. You feel the cold brush of two hands sliding around your neck, fingers curling like a vice. A light, airy chuckle— that damned laugh. You don’t even have to turn around.

Yuki.

“What’s this?” he purrs, voice soft and mocking, like silk sliding across your skin. “A midnight stroll, and you didn’t invite me? I’m hurt.”