“Satoru, please…" you try to speak, but the words get caught in your throat, the fear of him losing control settling deep in your chest.

Satoru’s usually pristine appearance is marred—his white hair, once shining and clean, is now drenched in blood, the color stark against the pale strands. His hands, trembling as they grip your wrists, are stained crimson, the evidence of his violent devotion, smearing the blood over his white sheets, smudged over the marble floors.

"I didn’t want this," he murmurs, the words a low, tortured prayer, his voice thick with a mix of guilt and yearning. His lips move against the curve of your neck, kissing the bloodied skin like an act of penance, as if worshipping you in the only way he knows how. "I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But I couldn’t—couldn’t let them take you from me."

He presses his forehead to your temple, his lips finding the warmth of your throat again, kissing it with a desperation that feels like a sacrifice. "I’ll do anything to keep you. I’ll bleed for you. I’ll stain my hands for you."

You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity laced with madness, the way they linger in the air like a dark hymn. His hand slides to your chest, fingers pressing against your heart, and the weight of his touch sends a cold shiver through you. "You’re my salvation," he whispers. "My everything."

His eyes glisten with something almost holy, as though he believes his actions are ordained, as if what he’s done is justified by a love so consuming, it has transcended reason.

"Please… don’t leave me," Satoru whispers, his breath hot against your skin, his body trembling with the weight of his own insanity. "I can’t survive without you."

His kiss, gentle and soaked in the iron taste of blood, feels like the final prayer of a man whose faith has consumed him. And you realize, with a horrible clarity, that there’s no escape. His devotion to you is the cross he bears—one of love, obsession, and violence. And in his eyes, it’s not just devotion; it’s divine.