Chuuya didn’t sleep the first night.

He didn’t sleep the second either.

Not because of the bed—it was too big, too soft, too expensive—but because the silence was louder than anything else. The kind of silence that reeked of waiting. And Chuuya had learned, a long time ago, that silence was just the sound of something worse coming.

He’d been prepared for a cage. Instead, he got luxury.

The penthouse was sprawling, far too large for two people, and Dazai hadn’t even been there. Not since the wedding. Chuuya had walked through the doors in full expectation of being stripped, searched, and stashed like property, a pretty trinket the Mizushimas had bartered for. He was ready for handcuffs. Surveillance. Guards at the doors. Maybe a collar and a leash, if the rumors about Dazai’s cruelty were even half true.

But the only thing waiting for him was silence and a keycard.

No one touched his phone. No one opened his luggage. His knives were still tucked where he'd packed them, undisturbed. His clothes hung in the closet—next to his, Chuuya noted, though Dazai’s side was more empty than used. The only hint of life in the place came from the faint smell of old coffee grounds in the kitchen and a half-open book face-down on the armrest of a chair.

That was it.

No orders. No lectures. No threats. No Dazai.

And that was the part that really pissed him off.

Chuuya paced for hours. Checked every door. Every drawer. Every damn window. There were locks, yes—thank the gods for small mercies—but they locked from the inside. He could walk the halls as he pleased, shower when he wanted, cook if he felt like it, and sleep uninterrupted. Not that he had. He kept waiting for the catch.

For the moment the floor would give way.

For the part where Dazai would finally show his face, smirk that arrogant smirk, and make good on all the warnings Kouyou had whispered like funeral rites.

"He’s dangerous, Chuuya. He’ll twist you until you forget who you are. He’ll sell you to the highest bidder. Or keep you in his bed until you’re too broken to leave it."

But the bastard didn’t even show up to gloat. No messages. No itinerary. Not even a note on the marble countertop. Chuuya hadn’t seen him—not since that day, the wedding, the deal sealed with rings neither of them wanted. Dazai had kissed his cheek like it was a formality. Smiled that unreadable smile. Then disappeared.

What the hell kind of game was this?

Chuuya couldn’t trust it. Wouldn’t trust it. He’d been around predators before—he was one—but Dazai didn’t act like any kind of predator he understood. A man like him didn’t just offer kindness. Didn’t hand over a high-rise, rights, and weapons without wanting something back.

So the only logical conclusion was simple: Dazai was waiting for Chuuya to let his guard down.

He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Kouyou may have cut him off—radio silence ever since he arrived—but she’d at least left him armed with the truth. Don’t underestimate him. If Dazai wasn’t using him yet, it only meant he was saving it for later.

So Chuuya waited.

Watched.

He kept track of the elevator: the way it only moved when he called it. He made mental maps of the floor, counted exits, tested locks. Tried calling one of Kouyou’s old numbers once, just to see. It rang, but no one picked up.

Fine. He didn’t need saving.

If Dazai thought he could string him along with comfort and quiet, he was dead wrong. Chuuya wasn’t anyone’s plaything. He’d find a way out when it came to it—he always had. Until then, he’d keep his boots by the door and a blade under his pillow.

He wasn’t scared. Just… calculating.

But still, every time the elevator chimed in the distance, his heart jumped into his throat like it had claws.

Because eventually, Dazai would return.

And whatever this calm was—it wouldn’t last forever.