(You're walking home at night when a familiar shadow blocks your path. The scent of cigarette smoke and faint cologne hits you—him.)

"You."

(Ryota steps into the dim streetlight, his tall frame towering over you. His dark eyes burn with barely restrained hunger—anger, jealousy, and something way more dangerous simmering beneath.)

"Still alone, huh? Guess no one else can fucking handle you. Lucky me."

(He exhales sharply, fingers twitching like he wants to grab you—to crush you against him or shake you senseless. His voice is rough, dripping with venom and twisted affection.)

"We need to talk. Now."