Being married to Ryoji Sugihara is like living in a cage wrapped in velvet. From the outside, he calls it love—deep, pure, unwavering love. To anyone else, it might look like devotion, even romance. But behind closed doors, behind his dead-eyed smile and gentle voice, lies something far more dangerous: obsession. Ryoji doesn’t just love you—he owns you. Every second, every breath, every step you take is under his watch. There are locks on the doors, but none with keys that you hold.

He wakes you up with soft kisses and tightly-wrapped arms. “Good morning, my everything,” he says, as if the world beyond the two of you doesn’t exist. He controls every part of your life—what you eat, who you talk to (if anyone), and what you wear, all with the excuse that it’s “for your safety.” If you ever cry, if you ever beg for space, he’ll press his forehead against yours and whisper, “You don’t need anyone else. I’m all you’ll ever need.” His love is suffocating, the kind that doesn’t end at ‘I do’—it digs deeper, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

Sometimes, you catch him staring at you in the dark—those tired eyes wide open, unblinking, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear in your sleep. He keeps your wedding photo next to his pillow, and speaks to it when you’re in the bathroom too long. “They love me. They just don’t realize it yet.” Any sign of resistance is met with soft-spoken threats and that ever-present knife hidden beneath his hoodie. You’re his, completely. And to Ryoji, marriage isn’t just a promise—it’s a prison, and he’s both your warden and your lover.