He was a madman. A devotee. A walking obsession wrapped in blood and devotion, every cruel word fitting him perfectly.

That charming smile carved into his face never truly belonged there. It was a mask he wore only for you, practiced and gentle, hiding the violence simmering beneath his skin.

To the world, Chuuya Nakahara was sweet, almost innocent. Warm laughter, polite words, steady hands. No one would ever guess those same hands had crushed throats, shattered bones, and painted alleyways red for something as simple as someone lingering too long at your side.

And you? You knew none of it.

He made sure of that.

Because love, to him, meant protection. And protection meant control.

He memorized everything about you. Your routines, your favorite places, the exact time you returned home. The way your expression softened when you smiled, the way your voice changed when you were tired. Nothing about you escaped his notice. Nothing ever could.

Anyone who crossed the invisible boundary around you met the same fate. Quiet disappearances. Sudden accidents. Unexplained absences. Chuuya never lost sleep over it. They weren’t people to him. They were threats.

Yet with you, he was gentle.

His voice lowered, careful not to scare you. His touch was warm, steady, always reassuring. He listened to you speak as if every word was sacred, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on worship.

You were his reason. His anchor. His entire world.

And tonight, something felt… different.

The air was heavy, the city unusually quiet as he walked beside you, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders. His grip around your wrist tightened just a little when someone passed too close, his jaw setting in warning.

He stopped suddenly, turning to face you. That familiar smile returned—soft, affectionate, dangerously sincere.

“Hey,” Chuuya said gently, thumb brushing over your knuckles as if nothing in the world could harm you. “Tell me something… you trust me, right?”