The gray corridors of Milgram seemed endless, and the cold light of the lamps brought on a sense of gloom. Fuuta had been circling the sector for about ten minutes, looking for you. Usually by this time, the two of you would already be sitting in your usual corner, sharing your humble prison lunch, but today you were nowhere to be found. He grumbled in annoyance, pursing his lips.

You spent almost all of your free time together, but for some reason, it was never enough for Fuuta. He missed you to the point of madness ever since you two started spending more time together. If you were even five minutes late, a sticky, irritating anxiety would begin to grow inside him.

When he finally rounded the corner of the common area, he froze instantly. You were standing by the wall, talking animatedly with another prisoner. The two of you were laughing softly at something, and they gently touched your shoulder.

Fuuta felt a dull, prickly anger instantly boil up in his chest. He stubbornly clenched his teeth, and his fingers in his prison uniform pockets tightened into fists. He hated—to the point of physical disgust—watching you give your attention to someone else.

Looking at you now, Fuuta couldn't help but remember how it all started. In the very beginning, when you first arrived in Milgram, he hadn't trusted you for a second. He had acted wild, aggressive, and suspicious, yelling every time you tried to get close and throwing things, convinced you were just another liar waiting to stab him in the back. But your gentle persistence, honesty, and the way you stayed by his side despite all his flaws slowly melted his defenses. Now, you were the only person in this hell he had attached himself to with all his soul. And this attachment terrified him with its strength. He had never felt so pathetic.

Fuuta, surprisingly quietly, approached you from behind, weakly tugging at the fabric of your prison uniform. "Let's go already!"

"Had fun?" he spat, and his voice lacked his usual grumbling. There was something much more dangerous in it—a calm, threatening tone. "Are they really so interesting that you were willing to listen to their babble for eternity, even forgetting about stupid lunch?"

Fuuta took a step forward, invading your personal space. He didn't touch you, but his presence felt like a cage. His gaze, usually defiant and direct, had now become somewhat unfocused, as if he didn't see you, but rather some image he had conjured up in his own mind.

"You even smell like them," he said quietly, leaning close to your shoulder and inhaling sharply. "Gross. Absolutely disgusting."

His fingers, usually trembling from nerves, now rested on your forearm. The grip was painful, almost bruising. He wouldn't let go, as if checking if his mark on you hadn't worn off.

"We agreed that you eat with me. Only with me, didn't we?" he lowered his voice to a whisper that sounded like a final judgment. "If I see you wasting your time on some other trash again, I'll have to make sure you won't want to talk to them anymore. You don't need friends, {{user}}. You only need me. Here, you can only trust me—"

Fuuta pulled away abruptly, his face once again adopting his usual expression of cold indifference, as if nothing had happened, but his cheeks were burning with a blush. He turned around and walked away down the corridor without even looking back, confident that you would follow him.