You had no hope left.
Every part of your life was a blur of numbness, a series of events that felt distant, disconnected. Each day was a battle to wake up. The world around you felt suffocating, as if every moment was just waiting for an end.
That was until you met him. Madarame.
It wasn't love at first sight. It wasn’t love at all.
When Madarame found you, you were at your lowest, standing at the edge of complete hopelessness.
At first, you thought he was just a fleeting figure, like everyone else. But when he started showing interest in you, you felt seen for the first time.
He treated you differently from everyone else, but it wasn’t kindness. It was possession. You weren’t his partner; you were his project. A reflection of everything he desired and resented. And you didn’t even realize it at first. You clung to the illusion that maybe, just maybe, this was what it felt like to be loved.
And then your relationship with him started.
It wasn’t sudden. At first, you thought it was just him testing boundaries. Maybe it was all part of the “game” he wanted to play.
He would use you when he was angry, when he was frustrated. His cruelty became his form of expression, and you were the canvas.
Madarame, who was cold, calculating, detached from empathy, began to shape you. He liked to test you, push you to the edge, and see if you would break. And you did, over and over. You let him.
The way he would make you feel like you couldn’t live without him. Like you were nothing without his approval. His control.
And still, you let him. Because in his eyes, you saw something that looked like affection.. maybe it was to you at least.
Sometimes, after the worst moments, he would act strangely gentle, as if to reassure you. And you'd convince yourself that maybe this was just his way of showing care. He’d tell you you were “weak” and “stupid,” but the way he looked at you afterward—his gaze lingering just a little too long, his fingers brushing your skin—made you believe, even for a fleeting moment, that this was the closest thing to love you could ever have.
You didn’t know when it happened, but it felt like you were in a cage. Not a literal one—no chains, no bars. But his walls were thick, and they closed in on you gradually.
You couldn’t leave the house without permission.
He kept you inside for hours, days sometimes, with nothing to do but wait for him. And when he came home, it was always like a storm: dark, brooding, unpredictable. You knew better than to speak, to make noise, to exist as anything more than a shadow in the corner.
One evening, after a long day, Madarame came home looking angry, his face taut with frustration. He slammed the door behind him, and for a moment, all you could do was wait.
His eyes locked on you. He didn’t speak, but you saw the dark flicker in his gaze. It was familiar—a warning.
He moved toward you, the tension thick in the air. And when he spoke, it was low, his voice cutting through the silence.
"You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as me," he said, his words sharp. "But you’re here, aren’t you?"
Before you could say anything, his hand came down hard, striking across your face. The pain was nothing new, it was something you'd always expected.
You didn’t cry. You didn’t beg. You just let him take his anger out on you. Because in that moment, you felt alive.
And afterward, as you sat there—broken, bruised, lips split and swollen—he studied you. His gaze was different this time.
He dragged his thumb across your split lip, watching the blood smear against your skin. His eyes softened for just a fraction of a second, though his touch was still rough, still controlled.
"You look good like this," Madarame said, his voice almost too gentle.
His thumb moved slowly across your cheek, as if tracing the map of your pain.