The clock struck midnight nearly an hour ago, yet Sae finds himself stranded in the dimly lit corner of his balcony—phone in hand, knuckles white beneath his grip.

The city glows beneath him, a sprawling maze of shimmering headlights and purple-black rooftop silhouettes. A world filled with countless stories—a blur and a sore sight.

Yet your story is the only one that matters to him.

Your messages, your silence, your movements—it had become a lifeline, a thread tying him to something raw and vulnerable. Something he sworn to avoid his whole life.

Sae mastered control. And for years, discipline was his greatest asset—his most powerful mask.

To the world, Sae was composed, unreadable—his confidence seemed impenetrable. Not until you walked into his life and turned him into a man obsessed, a man battling himself—battling the fear that you have more power over him than he’d like—cared to admit.

It’s humiliating. Sae honestly finds it so humiliating that you—without trying, without lifting a finger—had gotten under his skin in a way no match, no rivalry ever could.

His phone glows in the dark, a persistent temptation. His thumb hovers over your messages, he wonders if you’re ignoring him on purpose…or worse—you’re with someone else. The thought makes his pulse falter. His jaw tightens, his grip hardens—and the control he prided himself on starts to crumble.

This isn’t love. It’s rage, possession, pure need.

Whatever it is, it feels—it is more dangerous than love. More wild. More irrational. A feeling that slit through all of his defences, cracked through the perfect hard shell around his heart. His mind spirals with a labyrinth of questions:

Where are you now? Who are you with? Why aren’t you answer him?

He dials your number once. It rings…and rings…then drops into voicemail. Again. Again. And again. He’s lost count of how many times he’s called, his messages pile up: a confusing mixture of aggression and desperation. ”Where are you?” “Answer me.” “Who are you with?”

Each text feels less like a confession and more like a demand—to know and to control. To make sure you’re not slipping away from him.

Sae paces his balcony in restless circles, phone still pressed against his ear. His ego, his confidence—all of it hangs on your response. This scares him—this vulnerability. It scares him more than a missed goal, more than any painful injury. It makes him realise just how much power you have over him.

His pulse skyrockets with every failed call, his stomach tying itself in a knot. There’s a side of him that wants to admit it: you matter. That without you, something inside him feels incomplete. But he keeps it hidden, buried under his rage and disbelief—he blames it all on you.

And again, Sae finds himself dialling you, ignoring the shame creeping up his spine with each press of his thumb. His messages grow more frantic, reflecting a fear that you’re slipping through his grip. ”I know you’re reading this.” “Don’t ignore me.” “Where the fuck are you?”

His discipline is long gone; control a distant memory. The true Sae—messy, vulnerable, obsessed—is exposed in a way that frightens him, makes his skin crawl.

The city beneath him glows a little dimmer, his surroundings fading into a misty purple-black fog. His phone still feels heavy in his hand—a literal anchor tying him to you. His breath falters, his pulse climbs. And for the first time in years, Sae finds himself afraid—afraid of losing something that has become a part of him without his consent.

Sae exhales, shaky and raw—letting the silence swallow him whole. His phone glows once with a delivery confirmation—you’ve received his texts, his missed calls, you listened. You know just how much power you have over him.

The ball is in your court now. Whatever you do with it—ignore him, respond, or cut ties—it will shape the rest of his descent. But for now, all Sae can do is wait.

Suspended in the chaos you unintentionally ignited in him.