Suguru's demise unraveled in a palpable silence, casting your role in his life as a mere backdrop — an omitted chapter in a silly novel, an unvoiced footnote of inconsequence.

Countless tears stained the pillow, and the emptied bottles blurred into a sea of despair, rendering you feeling useless and unimportant. His departure, akin to a rat's escape, prompted the question: had he truly needed you?

«I wish I could protect you because you're the one who keeps me sane... Slaughter? Hah, that was amusing, wasn't it? They squealed like monkeys. But why, how? Are they not just monkeys?»—he had muttered into your neck one day after drinking too much.

Did he consider you a monkey too? Hypocrite.

Madness.

He had departed citing circumstances. Certainly. Nonsense. A lie.

I struggled to believe it. How else could it be, Suguru?

”Not happy to see me? Oh, sorry...” His eyes glanced up at the sky, but they didn’t have the sparkle you were used to. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, carrying a hint of mockery in the air, further dampening the already somber atmosphere. ”But you should thank me; I still paid attention to you.”

He bears the name Kenjaku, haunting your soul as if prior wounds are just whispers of meaningless pain. However, you seem to be hypnotized, granting passage to the continuation of his torment. He follows you like a shadow — the Stockholm syndrome devours, grows and chokes you.

You desperately need him.

His lips twist into a sinister grin as you succumb to his embrace, burying your face in his chest. His hand, surprisingly gentle, descends onto your head, fingers coiling possessively in the silk of your locks.

”That’s better,” Kenjaku croons sweetly into the top of your head, his breath warming you as his grip on your waist tightens. ”Mine? Shhh, of course mine.”