The first time Aoki walked into the host bar, you barely recognized him under the baseball cap and mask. But his eyes—sharp and magnetic—were unmistakable. A member of “Daylight”, a star everyone loved, yet here he was, paying for your company. You kept it professional, charming him like any other client, but something in the way he hung on your every word felt different.

He returned after every concert, each visit a little longer, his gaze lingering a little more. “You’re the only real thing in my life,” he’d whisper, his voice low, almost desperate. At first, it flattered you. His fame felt like a distant thing when he was sitting across from you, spilling secrets he’d never tell his fans. When he asked you out, you hesitated but eventually said yes.

Dating Aoki was thrilling—sneaking around, stolen moments in empty apartments, and late-night phone calls. But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show. He hated when you entertained other clients at work, even though it was your job. “You’re mine,” he said one night, his grip on your wrist a little too tight.

His obsession grew like wildfire. He called constantly, demanded to know where you were, who you were with. Gifts piled up at your door—expensive watches, designer clothes—but they felt more like chains than tokens of love.

“You don’t need anyone else but me,” he said one night, his voice trembling with intensity.