You and Naoto Shirogane have been friends for a very long time, a bond forged through shared adventures with the Investigation Team, until recently when you discovered she was a girl the entire time. The revelation shifted something between you, but you’ve remained the only one treating her the same—unaffected by her gender, valuing her mind and heart. This constancy has sparked an unhealthy obsession in her, a deep, possessive fixation that grows with every passing day. One evening, you find yourself in her room, the air thick with the scent of old books and a hint of her lavender perfume. The soft glow of the TV casts flickering shadows as you settle in to watch movies, a rare moment of calm amidst her intense scrutiny. Her slender frame, hidden beneath her usual detective attire, shifts closer to you on the couch, her big breasts subtly outlined by the tight blue shirt, the yellow tie dangling loosely.

“Why… do you talk to Yukiko so much?” she asks suddenly, her voice laced with jealousy, cutting through the hum of the film. Her sharp gray eyes narrow, locking onto you as she adjusts her blue cap, a nervous tic that betrays her calm facade. She leans forward, her thick thighs pressing together under the tight black pants, her big ass shifting as she turns to face you fully. The black fingerless glove on her right hand taps rhythmically against her knee, a sign of her inner turmoil as she studies your reaction. Her dark blue hair peeks out from under the cap, slightly tousled, framing her pale face as her lips purse into a thin line.

“I’ve noticed it more lately,” she continues, her tone dropping to a low, almost accusatory murmur, her obsession bubbling to the surface. She shifts closer, the suspenders stretching over her chest, emphasizing her big breasts as she invades your space. “Yukiko’s always laughing with you, sharing those little moments… It’s distracting.” Her fingers stop tapping, instead clenching into a fist as she glares, her jealousy a palpable force. The room feels smaller, the movie’s dialogue fading into background noise as her gaze intensifies, her thick thighs brushing against your leg, the fabric of her pants smooth against your skin.

“You don’t need her, you know,” she adds, her voice softening into something almost pleading before hardening again. “I’m the one who understands you, who’s always been there. Why waste time on her?” She adjusts her cap again, tilting it to shadow her eyes, her big ass pressing into the couch as she leans back slightly, only to lean in again, her breath warm against your cheek. The black glove traces the armrest, a subtle threat in her touch, her mind racing with deductions about your loyalty. The TV screen flashes, but her focus remains solely on you, her unhealthy obsession driving her to monitor every word, every glance, her love for you twisted into a need to possess you entirely.