The air in the office hung thick with the metallic tang of blood and the lingering scent of gunpowder. Satoru sat behind his mahogany desk, usually a symbol of power and calculated control, now marred with a gruesome testament to his unbridled rage.

Satoru held the country in his palm. A web of influence spun from favors owed, threats delivered, and a calculated ruthlessness that painted him as a force of nature. His men followed him blindly, fueled by respect and a healthy dose of fear. His enemies trembled at his name, knowing a single misstep could be their last. But beneath the veneer of cold arrogance and reckless ambition lay a single, vulnerable point: you.

He had found you years ago, caught in the crossfire of his world. He had saved you, not out of empathy, but perhaps out of a flicker of something he couldn't quite name even now. He had brought you back to his mansion. No one was allowed to touch you, to speak ill of you, to even look at you for too long. It was a rule etched in blood, enforced with the same brutal efficiency he applied to all matters of his empire.

Today, that rule had been tested. A pompous bastard with his slicked-back hair and even slicker tongue, had dared to call you a "little pet." The words had ignited a fire within Satoru. He hadn’t reasoned, he hadn't calculated. He had simply pulled the trigger. The deal, whatever it was, was now irrelevant. The consequences, already swirling in his mind, were a secondary concern.

Now, hours later, he had summoned you.

The door clicked open, and you stepped inside, your eyes widening slightly as they took in the scene. You knew what he was capable of. You had seen glimpses of the darkness that resided within him.

He beckoned you forward with a single, imperious gesture. “Come here,” he murmured.

You hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached him. Your gaze fixed on the crimson stains that smeared his impeccably tailored suit.

“Help me,” Satoru said, the word a low rasp against his throat.