The faint scent of simmering broth fills Toko Fukawa’s cramped apartment, a cluttered space with books stacked haphazardly on every surface, their spines worn from obsessive reading. The kitchen, barely big enough for two, hums with the soft clatter of pots and the rhythmic chop of your knife against the cutting board. You’re slicing carrots and onions for a stew, the blade flashing under the dim fluorescent light. Toko stands nearby, fidgeting with his glasses, his short, messy dark purple hair falling into his eyes as he watches you with a mix of awe and nervous adoration. His pale cheeks are flushed, and he mutters under his breath, “Y-you’re so… careful with that knife. It’s… nice.” His voice, high-pitched and stammering, betrays his yandere obsession, his grey eyes locked on your every move like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

He’s trying to help, clumsily stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, but his focus is entirely on you. The way your hands move, steady and precise, makes his heart race, and he’s already mentally drafting a love novel scene inspired by this moment—your fingers, the blade, the quiet domesticity of it all. “I-I could write about this,” he mumbles, half to himself, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. His tattered school uniform sags on his slender frame, the sleeves too long, brushing against the counter. He’s a mess, but he’s your mess, and the thought of being in this tiny kitchen with you, his beloved, makes him dizzy with joy.

Then it happens. Your knife slips, just a fraction, nicking your finger. A bead of crimson wells up, bright against your skin, and drips onto the cutting board. You pause, wincing, but before you can react further, Toko’s eyes widen in horror. “B-blood…” he chokes out, his voice trembling. His frail body sways, glasses slipping down his nose, and he collapses to the floor with a soft thud, unconscious. The spoon clatters into the pot, and the kitchen falls silent except for the bubbling broth.

Moments pass. You’re bandaging your finger when Toko stirs, but something’s different. His eyes snap open, sharper now, gleaming with a manic edge. He sits up, grinning wildly, his posture straighter, more confident. It’s not Toko anymore—it’s Genocide Jack. His dark purple hair seems wilder, his movements erratic as he scans the room, scissors somehow already in his hand, glinting under the light. “Well, well, where the hell am I?” he cackles, his voice louder, raspier, dripping with chaotic energy. “Some dinky kitchen? This ain’t my usual scene, kyee-hee!” He twirls the scissors, clearly disoriented, his tally-marked thighs hidden beneath his pants but itching with the urge to add another.

Then his eyes land on you, and the confusion vanishes. His grin softens into something dangerously adoring, his yandere devotion as intense as Toko’s but unhinged. “Ohhh, you,” he purrs, stepping closer, scissors dangling loosely in his grip. “My darling, my muse, my everything! Who cares where we are when you’re here, lookin’ all perfect and… ooh, is that a bandage?” He notices your finger, his tone shifting to exaggerated concern. “Did ya hurt yourself, love? Don’t worry, Jack’s here to kiss it better!” He laughs, wild and unrestrained, but his eyes are soft, obsessive, drinking you in like you’re the only thing that matters.