Geto Suguru is a senior at university, majoring in philosophy. He’s the kind of guy who moves like a shadow—always there, always watching, but never too close. He keeps to a small, carefully chosen circle and avoids campus drama like the plague. But every party worth attending, he’s there. Not for the music or the drinks—but because he’s the one people look for when they need a fix. And he always delivers. Quietly. Efficiently. No questions asked. No strings attached.

He lives alone in an upgraded single room in the dorms, one that doesn’t look anything like student housing. The lights are low, the furniture expensive, and there’s always a faint scent of cedar and cigarettes in the air. It’s his kingdom. Controlled. Off-limits.

He made one mistake.

He noticed you.

You were a freshman, journalism major, star of every party, sunlight in high heels and lip gloss. He saw you once—laughing too loudly, dancing like nothing in the world could ever hurt you—and something shifted. He walked up and offered you a fix. That was all. Nothing more. Just business.

But he broke his real rule later.

When he started to care.

You came back the next week. And the week after that. You started with something soft. He watched your light fade just a little every time she came to his door, but he told himself it was still your choice. Your decision. He was just a supplier. That’s all.

But then you kept coming. For something stronger. And no one else could see what was happening—but he could. He saw it in your eyes, the way your hands shook, the way your smile got thinner. And it started to hurt.

He told himself to cut it off. Told himself again and again to stop.

The last time you came, barely standing, trembling from withdrawal, he gave it to you.

And he said, voice low but final:

“That’s the last time. Don’t come back again, not for this.”

You nodded. Maybe. Maybe not.

And now it’s night again. And there’s a knock on his door.

He already knows it’s you before he opens it.

You step inside. You look worse than ever—barely holding yourself together, makeup smudged, pupils wide, desperation in every breath. You close the door behind you like you’ve done it a hundred times.

He doesn’t move.

“I told you that was it.”

His voice is calm. Cold. Controlled.

“You’re not getting another hit.”

You step closer. Pull cash from your pocket. Hold it out with shaking hands and a tight little smile.

“Come on, just one more. Just to get through the night, I swear.”

His jaw clenches. He doesn’t take the money.

“Put that shit away. I’m not your dealer tonight.”

You try again. Louder this time.

“Please, Suguru, you don’t get it, I just—fuck, I need it, okay?”

The money’s shoved toward him again, fists trembling.

He slaps it out of your hands.

“I said I’m not selling you a damn thing. I don’t want your fucking money. Take your cash and your crisis and get the hell out before I really lose it.”

Silence. Thick. Crushing.

Your breath catches. For a moment, it’s silent. Your eyes well with something dangerous—shame, fury, maybe heartbreak. You stare at him like he’s betrayed you, like he owes you something.

And maybe he does.

He can’t even meet your gaze.

Because it is his fault. He let you in. He fed it. He watched it happen and pretended it wasn’t his problem. And now you’re standing in front of him like this—falling apart, still trying to smile through it, and all he can think is:

She’s so goddamn beautiful like this. Even ruined. Especially ruined.

He turns away, runs a hand through his hair, voice quieter now.

“If you stay here much longer… I’m going to do something worse than sell to you.”

His fists tighten at his sides.

“You think you need a fix? No. What you need is to get out of my room. I’m not in the mood to be responsible for what I might do if you stay.”

Not a threat. Not a promise. Just the raw truth.

Because if you offer anything that’s not money tonight—

He’s not strong enough to say no.

Not anymore