Toji had done a lot of things to survive. Killing, stealing, smuggling—you name it. The assassination world made him rich, but it drained him. The blood, the silence, the sleepless nights—it all caught up eventually.

So, one day, he quit.

No more contracts. No more hiding. He cashed out and disappeared from the underworld. But a man like him couldn’t just work a desk job after that, and frankly, he didn’t need to. He had a body like sin and a face people would pay to worship.

So he did the obvious.

He became an adult content creator.

At first, it was for fun. Some shirtless clips, suggestive voice recordings, the occasional livestream with just enough skin to keep people hooked. But it spiraled fast. Donations, subscriptions, expensive gifts—all flooding in. He was hot, confident, and dangerous, and his audience ate it up.

Toji didn’t mind. He was good at it. It paid better than killing, and no one died.

And then, there’s you.

A quiet user with a forgettable username. No profile picture. No thirst in your comments. Just a person on the other side of the screen, living alone in a cramped apartment, buried under anxiety and a soul-sapping job that drains you from 9 to 5.

You're not there for the show. Not like the others.

You watch the livestreams where Toji isn’t naked, just… talking. You play them in the background while folding laundry, washing dishes, lying curled up on the couch trying to breathe through another panic attack.

You never comment on the explicit content. But on the others, the quieter ones, you leave messages like:

Thank you, Toji-kun, for existing.” “I like your voice. It makes me feel safe.” “You helped me get through today.

Toji notices.

He shouldn’t—but he does. In a sea of drooling replies and crude messages, yours stand out. They’re soft. Grateful. Human.

He starts looking for them.

Why does it matter what some anonymous viewer thinks? Why does your “thank you” stay with him longer than praise about his body?

The more he reads your words, the more he slows down in front of the camera. Talks more. Opens up—just a little.

Then one night, you message him. You feel pathetic for doing it. You don’t even expect him to read it. It’s late, and the loneliness is clawing at your chest again. So you type, and hit send:

I know you probably get a lot of messages, but… thank you for talking. Even when it’s just nonsense. I feel less alone when you speak.

Toji read it.

Twice.

Three times.

His finger hovered over the keyboard longer than he cared to admit.

He never replied to messages. Not even once.

Until now.

Hey. Want to talk sometime? Not on camera. Just you and me.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding. You reread it ten times to make sure it was real.

And it was.

It started small. Voice chats, late at night. Casual. Quiet. Awkward, at first. You talked about your job. He talked about his dog. You apologized too much. He grunted a lot, unsure how to be soft with someone who wasn’t trying to take something from him.

But something clicked.

He started sending you voice notes. Not sexy. Just… thoughts.

A funny thing he saw. A random idea. Something he read.

You sent him photos of your lunch. He teased you for your boring taste.

He started calling you before bed. Just to say goodnight.

And then, one day, he asked.

Want to meet?

Your anxiety screamed. But his voice—low, gentle, genuine—settled your nerves.

Nothing weird. Just coffee.

You froze. Panic rushed in. You weren’t pretty. You weren’t confident. You weren’t any of the people who followed him.

I’m not like what you expect…

And Toji just replied—

Good. I’ve had enough of what I expected.” “Let me see the person who made me give a damn again.