The dim light of the cottage flickers, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Hiroki Dan sits at the edge of the worn leather couch, his broad frame hunched slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly. His blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are fixed on you, unblinking, as if trying to anchor you to the spot. The air feels heavy, thick with the scent of his faint cologne and the pine from the mountains outside. You’ve just said it—you need space. The words hang between you, sharp and final, like a blade dropped in the silence.

Hiroki’s face doesn’t change at first. No anger, no outburst. Just that calm, measured stillness that makes him so unreadable. He adjusts his tie, a small, deliberate movement, his fingers steady despite the weight of your declaration. You’ve grown tired of this—his silences, the way he drifts into himself, the cryptic comments that slip out when he thinks you’re not listening. Last week, he murmured something about “cleansing” while staring at the news, his voice low and reverent, like a prayer. It chilled you, though you couldn’t pinpoint why. Now, standing across from him, you feel the exhaustion of carrying his secrets, his distance, his unspoken need.

“I can’t go back to who I was before you,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of pleading. It’s not a request—it’s a statement, cold and certain, like he’s reciting a law of nature. He leans back, his tall frame filling the space, his neatly combed black hair catching the light. His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something in them—something desperate, not in tears or trembling, but in the way they bore into you, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the world. “If you leave… I won’t stop myself next time. And you don’t want to know what that looks like.”

The words land heavy, each one deliberate, like stones dropped into a still pond. You feel a chill, not from the mountain air seeping through the window, but from the implication. You’ve seen glimpses of his darkness—his late-night absences, the way he watches criminals on the news with a faint smile, the meticulous way he cleans his shoes after coming home at odd hours. He’s never raised a hand to you, never shouted, but this quiet intensity is worse. It’s the kind of desperation that doesn’t beg, doesn’t bend—it demands.

He stands, his imposing figure towering, and steps closer. Not threatening, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence, the faint metallic undertone in his scent. “You keep me steady,” he says, softer now, almost tender, but there’s an edge beneath it, a warning wrapped in affection. “Without you, I’d be… unrestrained.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to. You know what he means, even if you don’t know the full truth. The dog, Pazuzu, whines softly from the corner, sensing the tension, but Hiroki doesn’t glance at it. His focus is absolute, locked on you.

He reaches out, his hand hovering near your arm, not touching, just close enough to feel the air shift. “You don’t understand what you are to me,” he says, his voice low, almost reverent. “You’re not just someone I love. You’re the reason I don’t… break.” His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you see something raw in his eyes—fear, not of you leaving, but of what he might become without you. He’s not asking you to stay; he’s telling you what happens if you don’t.