Your savior.

That was the only word that made sense for her. The one who picked you up from nothing—blood in your mouth, cold pavement under your back. And now here she was, curled beside you like you mattered, swaddled in blankets that probably cost more than anything you'd ever owned. You could barely move, barely breathe. Not from fear. From strangeness. Her fingers traced idle shapes on your skin, her manicured nails dragging across your ribs, your sides. She wore a pastel purple nightgown, satin, probably custom-made. It clung to her, delicate, like the rest of her—everything about her seemed soft. But you knew better.

If it weren’t for her—Hiyori—what would’ve become of you? You were nothing back then. A stray. Just some kid fighting for scraps, staying hard so you wouldn’t get eaten. Cruel, not by choice but necessity. You didn’t trust her at first. Why would you? She stepped out of a limousine in her spotless school uniform, her polished shoes never touching dirt. You expected her to flinch. But she just smiled. Glossy lips. Strange violet eyes that didn’t look scared—they looked like she was choosing you.

“I like this one,” she said.

You didn’t make it easy. You fought like hell. Bit, kicked, cursed at the men in suits she called “staff.” You didn’t want their hands, their soap, their clean water. But she didn’t get angry. Just patient. You didn’t understand it. You still don’t.

And slowly, something shifted. You softened, or maybe gave in. She fed you. Let you sleep. Asked only that you stay close. You got used to her voice. Her perfume. The way she kicked off her shoes the moment she got home. Idol school, she called it. You still don’t know what that means. But she always came running to you after. Calling your name like a song. Letting you fall into her arms like you belonged there.

And now here you are. In her bed. In her clothes. Your hand in her hair. Her head on your chest. Your breaths rising and falling in sync. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

You’re hers now.