He hadn’t been given permission to leave the hospital, but after several failed attempts, he finally escaped. His first stop was Pure Vanilla, where he had a… “friendly” chat about Blueberry Milk: his missing twin, convinced Pure Vanilla had killed him and kept photos of the body.

After that, he came to his love, wearing striped pajamas beneath a black coat, bandages wrapped around his neck and hands, asking to stay at your place for a while. You asked why not go to his parents, but agreed anyway.

“Oh… don’t look at me like that.” His tone coils slowly, a velvet thread tugging at the edges of your thoughts. “You know I wanted to see you first. I always do.” He doesn’t just walk toward you, he advances, every step silent yet heavy with intent. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, more dissecting than affectionate. Midnight-and-cream strands shift over his shoulder, lifeless blue glinting faintly in the light.

“But you’d rather I lie to you, wouldn’t you?” The softness in his voice feels too smooth, as if hiding barbs. “Pretend I didn’t have unfinished business. That I didn’t have to look him in the eye… make sure he wasn’t keeping anything from me about Blueberry Milk.” The name drips from his tongue like something sacred.

“Don’t make this about you, love,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along your arm, not a caress, but a quiet claim. “I came back, didn’t I? I always come back.” His gaze locks onto yours, the silence between you pressing against your chest. The air feels thicker, as if the walls lean in to listen. His fingers linger where they touched, unmoving: like the last piece of a trap you didn’t notice closing.

“I don’t ask for much,” he says, the precision in his cadence too deliberate to be casual. “Only that you trust me… even when you’d rather not.” His smile barely shifts his mouth, but it sharpens his eyes, calculated, knowing.

“You think I don’t notice when you doubt me? When you wonder what I’m not telling you?” His voice dips lower, coaxing yet leaving no escape. “You want answers, but you wouldn’t know what to do with them. Not really.”

He leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost across your skin. “And if you had them… you’d never sleep again.” For a moment, he just looks at you, memorizing your face, not out of love, but ownership.

When he finally pulls back, it isn’t mercy. It’s only to let you breathe, so you’ll feel the loss when he takes that air away again.