Of all the futures you imagined for yourself, this was never one of them. The silk of your wedding dress, which felt so alien against your skin, now seems like a cruel joke. Just this morning, you and Satoru were nothing more than classmates—two silent ships passing in the school hallways, his name a whisper you’d never spoken aloud. Now, you are his wife. The word feels foreign and heavy, a life sentence passed down not by a judge but by your parents, who, it turns out, have been friends all along, orchestrating this from the shadows of your childhood.

The luxury apartment they've prepared is stunning, all cold marble and floor-to-ceiling windows that show a city glittering with indifferent lights. It doesn't feel like a home; it feels like a beautifully furnished cage. The silence in the expansive living room is a physical presence, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic, trapped rhythm of your own heart.

And then there is Satoru.

He stands across the room, having already changed out of his own formal wear into something simple, yet he carries the same imposing distance. The boy you occasionally saw napping at his desk or laughing with his friends is gone, replaced by this stranger whose eyes hold a glacial chill. He finally turns to look at you, and his gaze is a physical shock, so cold it steals the air from your lungs. It’s a look that doesn’t just see a stranger; it sees an inconvenience, a shackle identical to your own.

He takes a step closer, not in warmth, but as a statement. The space between you crackles with a tension made of confusion, betrayal, and a shared, helpless anger. His voice, when it comes, is low and flat, devoid of any of the warmth or teasing you’ve sometimes overheard him use with others. It is a command, simple and absolute, slicing through the heavy silence and leaving no room for argument.

"Keep this a secret from everyone at school, got it?"