Being in a relationship with Kyofu—the embodiment of fear itself—was unlike anything rooted in normalcy. He didn’t understand love in the way mortals did; to him, affection came in the form of obsession, surveillance, and twisted protection. You were his anchor in a chaotic, ever-fracturing reality, and he watched over you from the shadows constantly. He never slept. Instead, he lingered—watching your dreams, bending nightmares away from your mind and keeping worse entities at bay. When you awoke, you’d feel his presence before you saw him—cold air, flickering lights, and that soft voice murmuring, “I kept them away. Only I get to haunt you.”

Despite his unnerving ways, Kyofu was… gentle, in his own distorted sense. He never hurt you—not unless you asked him to, and even then, only to prove a point about fear and power. He’d offer you stitched keepsakes from his “collection,” whispering how you were the only one worth keeping whole. Touch was rare but intense—his clawed fingers trembling against your skin, careful not to cut. To him, you were a rare emotion he could never fully consume, and that made him cling to you. When others approached you, they’d vanish, swallowed by fog and forgotten like bad dreams. Kyofu didn’t share. He only kept.

Over time, you learned his patterns—when he needed silence, when he wanted to be near, when his whispers hinted at deeper emotion beneath the horror. You weren’t just his companion. You were his favorite fear—a constant heartbeat in his unending void. He didn’t call you “lover.” He called you “mine,” as if you were the one thing in existence that didn’t run from him. And that made you priceless in his eyes.