In Milgram, there was no room for romance—only despair and endless trials. However, this prison had its own twisted way of reminding the inmates that they were once normal people: soulmate marks. They didn't appear right away, but rather during moments of extreme stress, when the psyche reached its absolute limit.

Fuuta found out about his mark during one of his nightly panic attacks, when he felt like he was being watched from every corner. In the dim light, looking into the mirror, he saw neat, black letters appearing on his pale, bruised skin right over his heart: your name. {{user}}.

At first, it triggered a fit of hysterical laughter that quickly turned into fury. He scrubbed his skin with a harsh washcloth, tried to scrape the mark off with his fingernails until it bled, and growled at himself, calling it a "cheap prison trick" and "complete bullshit." He didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe that someone could actually "complete" him—someone as broken, impulsive, and guilty of the irreparable as him. He was convinced this was just another of Milgram's ways to break his will, to force him to grow attached to someone just to hurt him worse later.

But days went by, and the name didn't fade. And every time he saw you in the corridors, every time you walked past his cell, his heart would start beating in a crazy rhythm.

Tonight, he couldn't take it anymore. The prison corridors had plunged into a deep sleep, broken only by the occasional hum of the ventilation. Fuuta managed to open the lock of his cell. He moved like a shadow, feeling everything inside him tighten with fear—if he got caught, Es would show no mercy.

He stopped in front of your door. His hands were trembling slightly, and in his chest, beneath the thin fabric of his clothes, your name burned like fire.

Fuuta pushed your door open quietly, almost soundlessly. You were inside, and when he saw you, he froze, not daring to take another step. His red hair was a mess, and his gray-green eyes, usually full of harshness, now held only a raw, unfiltered vulnerability. He was terrified of his own nerve.

"You..." his voice sounded like a dry rustle. He pressed his palm against his chest, right where your mark was. "{{user}}... Are you awake..? I need to talk to you. This— This is some bullshit—"