Your parents’ deaths left you hollow—an orphan drifting through life until they took you in. A wealthy Japanese mafia family, all polished smiles and sharp eyes, offered you a gilded cage. You should’ve known nothing came free in their world.

Their son, Satoru, was the first warning. Cold. Brutal. A man who carried violence like a second skin. His gaze alone could freeze your blood, his presence a shadow that smothered the light. You learned to shrink away, to become invisible.

The marriage was transactional—a business arrangement, nothing more. To your surprise, he never touched you. Never even looked at you. Two months passed in eerie silence, your shared home a mauseoleum of unspoken threats.

Then, one night, the front door slammed open.

There he stood, drenched in blood, his white shirt clinging crimson to his skin. The metallic tang of it filled the air, choking you. Your pulse roared in your ears—was it his blood? Someone else’s?

He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. He just strode past you, his footsteps leaving dark smears on the floor, and locked himself in the bathroom. The sound of running water did nothing to wash away your fear.

What happened?

Who did he hurt?

And—most terrifying of all—why did he come home to you tonight?