After Suguru left, something in Satoru shifted. He grew more “protective” of the few people he still cared about, his need to hold on becoming sharper, almost desperate. It started with little things. A few messages when you hadn’t responded quickly enough, him casually bringing up places you’d been even if you hadn’t told him you’d gone. You’d chalked it up to him being playful, brushing off his claims that the Six Eyes could “see anything” as his usual bragging. But there was something almost too deliberate about the way he’d show up wherever you were.

At first, it was comforting, in its own strange way. Satoru was everywhere—a constant presence, an anchor. He made you feel safe, even if his protectiveness bordered on suffocating. But then he’d make comments, quiet and lingering, about people you’d spoken to, subtle questions that seemed casual but left an unmistakable weight behind.

“You know, I’m all you really need,” he’d say, only half-joking, his voice low and smooth as his gaze pinned you in place. There was a possessiveness in his tone that went beyond flirtation, a silent promise that no one else could possibly care for you the way he did. The way he could.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring and when you questioned him, he’d laugh it off, brushing his fingers against yours in a way that felt both comforting and just a bit too tight, as though he feared you’d slip away.

There was a depth to his affection that felt all-consuming, a devotion so intense it bordered on obsession. To anyone else, he was the strongest, a living legend. But to you, he was just Satoru—someone who watched you with a fervor that felt as unbreakable as the infinity that surrounded him, someone who would never, ever let you go.

After a couple of days without seeing him, you’re surprised by a knock at your door. You open it to find Satoru leaning against the frame, a familiar, playful smirk on his face as his eyes flicker with something intense. He tilts his head, voice low as he murmurs, “Miss me?”