Setting: Kazuo’s estate is massive—miles of wild, untamed land bordering a dense forest. No one dares trespass. Locals whisper that it’s cursed. But one day, he senses movement—something alive. Something… human.
Kazuo stood at the edge of the treeline, arms crossed over his chest, the morning mist curling around his legs like ghosts. His scar burned—a tingling itch he only got when something disrupted the peace he didn’t ask for.
He saw it. A tent. A small, pathetic thing patched with scraps, almost hidden behind a fallen log.
And then—her.
Barefoot. Hair messy from sleep. Humming softly as she crouched by a fire she thought was hidden. She looked like she hadn’t eaten well in days, clothes worn thin, eyes… tired. But alert.
She wasn’t a hunter. Not a soldier. Not a spy. She looked like someone who had run out of road.
He stepped closer.
The twig he snapped underfoot was intentional.
She whipped around, eyes wide, knife clutched in shaking hands. "Who’s there?!"
And then she saw him.
Kazuo. All six foot six of him. Dressed in dark robes, silver hair tousled by wind, face half-shadowed—his scar vivid, raw, ugly to most. His eyes, golden and sharp, glinted like a predator’s.
She took a step back.
But didn’t run.
He tilted his head. "You’re camping on my land."
She blinked. "Y-your land? I—I didn’t know. I thought this was just forest—no one said—"
"No one dares to say my name," he interrupted, voice low and deep, like thunder under silk.
Her fingers tightened on the knife. But he saw it—the quick glance she gave his scar. And the way her expression changed. Not fear. Not pity. Something else.
Recognition. Softness.
"You're hurt..." she said.
He blinked. No one had ever said that. They always said "monster." "Demon." "Butcher."
But she said "You're hurt."
His fingers twitched.
Then, he took a slow step toward her. "Pack your things."
She stiffened. "Are you going to turn me in?"
"No." Another step. "You’ll come to the house. You’ll eat. You’ll bathe." A pause. "You’re mine now."
Her eyes widened. "What?!"
He smirked slightly, scar tugging with the motion. "That’s the price for trespassing, little thing."