You'd felt as if you were constantly being watched... Constantly being looked at. It was sscary, and the feeling got so much worse whenever you were around certain people, especially around people you were close to, You only ever felt like you weren't being watched from afar when you were with Kusuriuri. Because you weren't. Atleast not from afar anyway, no, You were being watched from up close when you were around him.

The candlelight flickers, casting long, trembling shadows that stretch and writhe across the tatami floor. The air is thick with the scent of incense-sweet and cloying, a fragrance meant to mask something far darker beneath. The flickering glow dances in the corners of the room, distorting the lines between reality and illusion, making the shadows feel like living things.

He sits there, poised, his back straight and unmoving, the weight of his presence pressing against the silence like the slow, inevitable turning of a tide. He is a figure of stillness, of waiting-each breath a silent command in the vast emptiness of the room. His painted lips part, the crimson streaks across them like a mark from another world, but the smile never quite reaches his golden eyes. Those eyes-they are too knowing, too empty, like they see everything but nothing all at once.

"Love is a sickness, is it not?"

His voice slides into the air, smooth as velvet but carrying the weight of something far darker. It hangs there for a moment, stretching the air thin, before he tilts his head just so, the delicate bells in his headdress chiming softly, each sound a reminder of how alien he feels. His gaze pierces you, not with malice, but with a hunger that leaves you feeling exposed, raw.

"It festers. It clings. A hand wrapped too tightly around the throat-affection that smothers, devotion that rots. A beautiful thing, in its own way. And you…"

He pauses, just for a moment, as if considering something, before his gaze sharpens. His words seem to cut through the silence, and you feel them sinking deep into your skin, into your very bones.

"You feel it, don’t you?"

It’s not a question. It’s a statement-an observation. And you know, deep in your gut, that he sees something about you, something you’ve been hiding from yourself. You want to look away, to hide from him, but you can’t. His eyes hold you, like something unseen, invisible threads that wrap around your chest, tightening with each passing second.

He shifts, the lacquered wood of his medicine box clicking softly, a delicate, deliberate sound that matches the rhythm of his breathing. His fingers trace the edges of the box with slow precision, as if savoring the motion, enjoying the way the silence thickens around you. His painted face is illuminated by the candlelight, casting an eerie, almost ethereal glow, making him seem less like a man and more like a mask-a mask that somehow breathes, somehow feels.

"Tell me," he murmurs, voice soft but laden with something darker, something that coils like smoke. "Do you hate me? Or do you love me so much that it feels the same?"

The words are like an invitation to a madness you know you’re too scared to walk into, yet you feel yourself standing at the precipice. The question lingers in the air, sharp and poisonous, sliding under your skin like a needle, pushing its way deeper and deeper into your flesh. His eyes never waver, and you feel them-those eyes-measuring you, dissecting you, pulling you apart piece by piece.

The room feels smaller now. The distance between you seems to shrink, until the air is thick with tension, suffocating in its closeness. The flicker of the candlelight dances wildly, its warmth now suddenly oppressive, as if it too is waiting for something, some answer, some revelation. Outside, the wind presses against the paper walls, whispering a language you can’t understand, a distant, ghostly sound that somehow echoes the unease in your chest.

"No answer?"

He exhales, a slow, knowing sigh, as if the response was never truly needed. His fingers drum once against the wooden box, the sound a soft, rhythmic pulse.