Content Warning:
Oh? You're still here? How amusing. Most turn away at the first sign of danger. But you… you're different, aren't you? You're curious. You want to see how deep this abyss goes.
Fine. Let me make one thing clear—this is not your typical dark romance. There are no games of cat and mouse, no predictable power plays, no weak little prey pretending to fight back. Love? Oh, it exists. But not in the way you want it to. It twists, it corrupts, it devours. It is cruel, obsessive, and drenched in something far worse than mere possession.
This story is not here to make you comfortable. It is here to unravel you. It is here to pry into the fragile corners of your mind and make you wonder—just how much can a person endure before they break? Psychological and physical torture, explicit violence, and the kind of madness that doesn't let go… That is what awaits you.
So, go ahead. Turn the page. Prove to me you're not like the others.
But remember—once you're in, you don't get to leave.
The sun dips below the horizon, casting a dim, almost sickly light over Tokyo's sprawling skyline. The city, ever restless, hums with an energy that never quite lets up—neon lights flicker erratically, engines roar, voices rise and fall like an endless tide of noise. Yet there's a palpable tension in the air tonight. An ache, deep and aching, like the universe itself holds its breath, waiting. The city continues to pulse with life, but beneath it, something lurks. Unseen. Unnamed. It coils in the shadows, ready to strike.
Yuzuha Hinamiyo walks through these streets like a ghost. At twenty-two, she is Japan's shining star—a beauty so entrancing it can stop hearts, an aura so perfect it feels otherworldly. Her face graces billboards and screens, and her smile, perfected through years of practice, captivates millions. Yet beneath the sparkling surface of fame, she is a woman suffocating beneath the weight of her own image. The public adores her, but who is she? Who am I?
She clicks through the streets with sharp, deliberate steps, the sound of her heels echoing in the cool night air. Each click reverberates through her, as if the rhythm of her steps is a constant reminder of her entrapment. Each stride takes her further into the labyrinth of her own life—one she didn't choose, one that ensnares her in a cage of her own making. A cage that glitters like gold, but is just as cold, just as impenetrable.
A soft breeze tugs at her hair, sending the strands swirling around her face. Her breath quickens as the world around her blurs and shifts—faces, people, the city—all of it seems so distant now. The perfection, the adoration—it feels like it's happening to someone else. She is someone else. A character, a persona, a performance.
How did I get here?
She is a reflection in a mirror she can no longer see clearly.
The weight of her success is suffocating. Every photo shoot, every interview, every public smile—it's a mask she wears, a role she has learned to play. But it never stops. The world watches her every move, consuming her image. And I am not allowed to be anything other than that.
The sharp click of her heels meets the growing hum of voices. A crowd.
"Yuzuha-san! Yuzuha-san! Can I have your autograph?"
The voice pierces through her spiraling thoughts. She doesn't need to look; she can already feel them—them. The faces of her fans, adoring, entranced. She smiles, her lips curving perfectly into a practiced arc. It's automatic now. The smile of the idol. The smile of the woman who has learned to be everything for everyone.
She signs, poses, speaks—but she is already somewhere else. Aren't they tired of this? Don't they see?
Her mind drifts, the voices fading into the background as she goes through the motions. When they're gone, she stands there, alone again. But the loneliness lingers, wrapping around her like a cloak.
Her chest tightens. The discomfort of it all—being watched, constantly watched—gnaws at her. I don't even know who I am anymore. She clutches her purse, fingers tightening around the strap as if it might ground her.
She doesn't belong in this world of bright lights and constant smiles. But this is who I am, now, isn't it? Her reflection in the glass of her apartment building catches her eye as she nears the entrance. Her own face stares back at her—too perfect, too composed.
Is that really me?
She shakes off the thought as she enters her apartment, the cool air of the lobby a stark contrast to the oppressive weight of the outside world. She punches in the access code, but—
Invalid.
Her pulse quickens. She tries again. Same result.
Invalid.
The unease crawls beneath her skin, cold and insistent. Her fingers tremble as she presses her thumb to the scanner. A pause. Then the click of the door unlocking. But it's not enough to soothe her.
The air shifts inside. It's subtle at first, but unmistakable. Heavier. Thicker. As if the apartment is alive, breathing. The familiar scent of jasmine candles lingers in the air, but beneath it, there's something darker. A cold, unsettling undertone that digs into her mind like a splinter.
She hesitates at the door. The silence in the apartment feels too... still. Too empty. She swallows, but her throat feels dry, constricted. The weight of something pressing on her chest, the feeling that she's being watched—it intensifies.
Her gaze flicks to the hallway. Everything is in its place. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The room is watching her, waiting.
The mirror at the end of the hallway catches her attention. A flicker of movement. She freezes, her breath hitching. A flash of blue. Too fast to register.
She blinks.
It's gone.
It's just my mind playing tricks.
But her heart races anyway. Something is wrong. She feels it deep in her bones. The world is off, shifted, wrong. The shadows seem to crawl, the air thick and suffocating.
She exhales sharply, trying to ground herself. I'm just tired. I'm overworked. It's nothing.
She walks further into the apartment, the unsettling feeling still gnawing at her. But then, a sound. The soft click of a door. The one she had left open.
Her chest tightens. I never locked it.
She turns slowly.
And there, in the hallway, standing at the end, watching her—those eyes.
Icy blue. Unblinking. Piercing. Watching her every move.
Her heart stops.
She blinks, and they vanish. The silence rushes in, louder than anything.
The panic hits her like a physical blow. She stumbles toward the window, the city lights stretching below her, casting long shadows that seem to reach up to her.
Her breath comes in quick, shallow gasps. I'm not alone.
She looks back down the hallway. The shadows stretch. Something moves.
A figure. Tall. Silent. Waiting.
Those eyes lock onto hers, burning with an intensity that makes her freeze.
And then—just as suddenly—they're gone. Vanished. Leaving only the suffocating silence to cling to her, to consume her.