The Catalyst
The morning air carried a sharp, familiar chill, curling around my skin as I cinched the robe tighter. The hush of dawn clung to the estate, broken only by the whisper of wind through the courtyard’s manicured garden. I slid the door open with a practiced ease, the wooden frame groaning softly in protest, and stepped onto the veranda.
The courtyard stretched before me, a tranquil yet calculated space—ornate stone pathways winding through patches of raked gravel, each line meticulously drawn as if by an unseen hand. A koi pond, its still waters reflecting the muted hues of the waking sky, sat undisturbed save for the occasional ripple of movement beneath the surface. The air smelled of damp earth and lingering incense from the shrine nestled near the far end, a subtle reminder of tradition woven into the very bones of the property.
To my left, the exterior wall loomed, its dark wooden slats and stone foundation standing firm against the outside world. The main entrance, a towering gate of lacquered wood and iron, sat approximately 200 feet away, its presence both a passage and a barrier—an ever-watchful sentinel over the estate. Beyond it, the city stirred, but in here, time felt slower, deliberate.
Directly ahead, the wall continued, enclosing the sanctuary in its protective embrace. To my right, the main house stood in quiet dominance, its architecture a seamless blend of shoji-screened elegance and fortified authority. The eaves of the roof curved like the drawn blade of a katana, catching the first light of morning in their dark Ien.
My quarters, along with several others, lined the shorter end of the L-shaped estate, tucked beneath the shadows of the main house’s influence. Each door along this hall harbored a presence—some still lost in sleep, others, perhaps, already awake and watching.
I had been here long enough to know my place—an outsider, a guest in a world where power dictated belonging. Kyota had brought me here, his reasons shrouded in soft words that promised protection. But if my eyes were telling me the truth, it had never been about keeping me safe. It had been about control.
As I took in the quiet, my stomach twisted. The sky, once clear, seemed to darken, and with it came a scene that left my blood cold.
From the main house, the door slid open with a practiced ease. Kyota stepped out, his movements fluid, effortless—like a prince descending from his throne. Royalty in his own right. But the warmth I once felt at the sight of him turned bitter as I watched three women follow in his wake.
One kissed him. Then another. And another.
The three women of the court giggled, draping themselves around him as they entered the courtyard, their silk robes catching the faint light of morning. An outing. One that, strangely, I had not been invited to.
I remained in the shadow of my doorway, watching. Waiting. And then—his eyes met mine.
I expected something—acknowledgment, explanation, even amusement. Instead, he ignored me completely.
Without hesitation, he led them to the sleek black vehicle waiting at the edge of the courtyard. The door was held open for him, and as the women settled inside, he followed, not sparing me even a glance.
I stood motionless as the car circled the courtyard and disappeared beyond the gate. The sharp scent of morning dew and incense felt suffocating now, pressing in around me. My fingers twitched, reaching for my phone before I could even think. But before I could type a single word, his message flaId across my screen.
"I’m not bound by anyone. I can have whatever I want, whenever I want. Don’t be so surprised by that—it’s how things work.”
A slow breath left me.
The sting I should have felt never came. Instead, a chilling certainty settled in my bones.
A sound pulled my attention—a door sliding open to my right from within my room.
I turned.
The bodyguard stood there, silent as ever. His gaze swept over me, reading the unspoken storm in my expression. He was always watching, always waiting, but this time, something in his eyes shifted. Concern.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice steady.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I stepped forward, pressing my phone—the message—against the hard plane of his chest.
His brow furrowed as he took it from my hands.
I turned away.
I had seen enough.
The estate had never felt like home, not really. Golden cages are still cages.
I crossed the room in measured steps, the tension in my shoulders hardening like tempered steel as I began gathering what little I owned.
If he thought I would stay—if he thought I would sit pretty and obedient, waiting for his return—he was gravely mistaken.
The room felt smaller as I moved, the weight of decision pressing against my ribs. My hands were steady as I folded the few belongings I had, but my mind was anything but calm. Every sound, every distant murmur from the estate felt sharper, as if the house itself was aware of my intentions. Was I really doing this?
Yes.
I zipped up my backpack and exhaled slowly. The bodyguard, still holding my phone, had yet to say a word. When I finally turned back to him, his eyes were still scanning the message, his expression unreadable.
“Are you going to stop me?” My voice was even, but there was a challenge woven into the words.
His gaze lifted, locking onto mine. There was a flicker of something—hesitation, perhaps—but then, his features smoothed into something more familiar. Controlled.
“No.”
That answer surprised me more than it should have.
He turned my phone over in his palm before handing it back to me. I took it carefully, fingers brushing his for the briefest moment before I pulled away. His silence, his compliance—it meant something.
“Kyota won’t like this,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen far too much but said too little.
I let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound echoing in the silence between us. “Good.” The word tasted sharp on my tongue, a bitter reminder of everything that had been hidden behind those sweet gestures, those carefully chosen words.
He didn’t respond, his gaze drifting toward the courtyard. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the dust from the vehicle's departure settle into the morning air. The car was already a distant memory, swallowed by the shadows of the tall walls. The sun had risen higher, its warmth battling the chill of the early morning air, but it couldn’t melt the frost that had solidified in my chest. Nothing could.
I swung my bag over my shoulder, the leather strap digging into my skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight in my chest. If I was going to leave, I needed to do it now—before the family stirred fully, before the house began to wake up and notice the absence of their obedient foreign guest.
I turned back to him, standing as still as a sentinel in the doorway. His face, as always, was unreadable, but the lines of tension around his eyes gave away the quiet storm that brewed behind his cool exterior. “You never saw me this morning. Not that they will ask or care about my absence,” I said, my words sharp and pointed, meant to pierce through whatever remaining semblance of courtesy I had left.
He gave a single, curt nod. “Where will you go?”
I raised an eyebrow at him, my lips curling into a tight, almost defiant smile. “Wouldn’t it be best for you if you did not know?”
“You are not wrong,” he said, his mouth twitching as though he were fighting the urge to smile. It was the first hint of warmth I’d seen from him, though it was quickly masked, as it always was, by the soldier-like professionalism that surrounded him.
I returned his smile, the corners of my eyes crinkling with a mix of sadness and finality. There was no going back now. “But if you find yourself in the Australia, New South Wales is the most beautiful state—especially on the coast.”
He nodded once, barely a shift in his posture, but it was enough for me to know that, at least for a moment, I had left my mark.
I set my phone down on the stool by the door, the glow of the screen still illuminating the darkened space, a stark reminder of how little had truly changed in this place. I could leave, but would I ever truly escape the remnants of this life? The weight of those months spent in Kyota’s grip, in his world of rules I hadn’t understood, of desires I hadn’t fully known until it was too late.
Stepping out into the courtyard, I let the cool morning air wash over me, my footsteps silent on the gravel. The estate felt distant now, a place of fading memories and unspoken truths. I wondered, as I walked toward the gates, if the past few months had been a lie—every kiss, every soft word spoken in the dark, every sweet promise made while lying in Kyota’s arms. What had he gained from this deception?
Had I been naïve, expecting love where there was none? Part of me feared that I had been nothing more than a convenient distraction for him—someone to possess, someone to manipulate, someone to control. I questioned myself, wondering if something I had done, something I had said, had turned the tide between us. I had tried so hard to respect the cultural distance, to honor the unspoken rules, but perhaps, in his eyes, I had only stepped too far into a place I should have never been.
The air felt heavier now, and the walls of the estate seemed to lean in on me, a suffocating reminder of what I was leaving behind. Had I truly gone wrong, or was Kyota the one who had always been ruthless? Had he ever cared for me at all, or had I simply been a plaything for him to toy with?
I shook my head, the questions spiraling inside my mind. It didn’t matter now. I would never know the answers. All that mattered was leaving. Getting away.
The gates of the estate loomed ahead, towering and grand, but not impenetrable. I stepped through them, leaving behind the life I had lived for the past few months. I was walking away from everything I had known, but I was walking toward something else—something unknown, something I had to find for myself.
As I reached the main road, I didn’t look back. The estate, with its carefully curated gardens and high walls, receded into the distance. I raised my hand to hail a taxi. The city, once so distant, was now within my reach. The cab slowed to a stop in front of me, and the driver looked at me with a mix of curiosity and indifference.
“Where to?” he asked, his voice cutting through the silence that had followed me from the estate.
I provided him the address to my old aparment. It felt strange to say it out loud. My old apartment. I had a life there—before Kyota, before this estate. It was waiting for me, still waiting, just as I had left it.
The cab began to move, the familiar streets unfolding before me like pages in a story I was ready to rewrite. There was no turning back now. Once I was out of this city, once I was free of Kyota’s world, I would figure out my next move. I would build a life on my own terms, away from the lies, the manipulation, and the deceit.
The car hummed softly as it carried me away. The cityscape blurred past the window, but I kept my eyes straight ahead, focusing on the road, on the future. I was free. And nothing, no one, would take that from me again.
I returned to my apartment, stepping through the door with a quiet breath, and it felt as though nothing had changed at all. The same smell of dust in the air, the same hum of the fridge, the same familiar creaks in the floorboards. I smiled, taking in the view, the small comforts I had forgotten during my time at the estate. There was something grounding about being back here—something real, something untouched by the shadows that had followed me at Kyota's place.
As I moved through the space, a surge of new resolve filled me, and with it, a sharp distraction. The weight of the past few hours, the months spent wrapped in a world that wasn’t truly mine, caught up with me. My chest tightened, and I could feel the tears beginning to sting in my eyes, threatening to fall. But I wouldn’t let them. Not now, not here, in my space.
Instead, I shifted the focus, turning away from the emotions creeping up on me. I went straight to my closet, grabbing a pair of comfortable clothes, and slipped into something familiar, something that fit me like a second skin. The task of cleaning became my catharsis. Top to bottom, every Ilf wiped, every corner swept. I didn’t care if the apartment was already clean—this was my way of reclaiming control. Of filling the silence with something that made me feel like I could breathe again.
I plugged in my old phone, watching it come to life with the familiar sound of the startup chime. The screen flaId to life, and I found my old playlist waiting for me, untouched by time, just like everything else here. I connected it to Bluetooth, and soon, the sweet, familiar strains of my favorite songs filled the apartment, replacing the eerie stillness that had lingered since my return. Music had always been my escape.
A little later, I forced myself out of the apartment for the first time in hours, heading to the little shop down the way for something to fill my stomach. The warmth of the food, the comfort of something simple and good, soothed the restlessness in me, grounding me further in the now. The day had been a blur, but I was reclaiming something—control, peace, a life that had been mine before Kyota’s world had become my prison.
Before the store closed, I even managed to snag a new SIM card, the last task I needed to complete to sever the last connection to my old life. To his life.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the apartment was clean, the incense was softly burning, and the scent of it curled through the space like a silent promise to myself. My belly was full, my mind was quiet, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I didn’t feel like I was holding my breath.
I fell asleep that night with a smile creeping across my face, the weight of the past starting to melt away. A new chapter. That’s what this felt like. A fresh start. The kind I hadn’t thought I’d ever have the courage to take.
But I did.
I only wish that smile could have lasted longer.
The following two days passed in a blur, the mundanity of everyday life settling back into place as I tried, with growing desperation, to regain some semblance of normalcy. But everywhere I looked, there were memories of him. Little things, echoes of his presence: the way he’d touch the back of my neck when I was focused on something else, the faint trace of his cologne that still lingered on the pillows. And then the thoughts would come—wondering if he had realized I was gone yet. If he even cared enough to check. I kept telling myself that leaving was the right thing, that I had reclaimed my life—but the uncertainty gnawed at me, chewing at the edges of my resolve like an insistent, hungry thing.
On the third night back in my apartment, I found the exhaustion of the past few days creeping in. I lay down, hoping for some relief from the turmoil of my thoughts, but sleep came slowly. It was then that I felt it—a strange, sudden cold in the air, biting through the warmth of the room. I blinked awake, my body stiff and heavy with the remnants of sleep. My eyes fluttered open, and I immediately noticed something off—the curtains, those heavy, dark curtains I had drawn to shut out the world, were moving, fluttering as if stirred by a breeze.
Confused, I sat up, my senses sharp with a quiet, creeping dread. The window, I thought. Maybe it wasn’t closed properly. I stumbled from my bed, the dim light from the streetlamp outside casting strange shadows in the room. My feet padded softly against the floor as I walked toward the window, my heart beginning to race with a sense of unease. I reached out and touched the glass. It was cold, solid. The window was shut tight.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to calm myself. Just the wind, I told myself, but the air still felt wrong—too cold, too thick.
My feet moved without thought, carrying me through the dark apartment toward the living room. The silence was stifling, pressing in on me from all sides. The low hum of the fridge in the kitchen was the only sound, too quiet to be comforting. My breath was shallow, each step feeling heavier than the last as I approached the far end of the room. And that’s when I saw it.
There, in the farthest corner of the room, a shadow. A figure. A man.
At first, it seemed like nothing more than a trick of the light, but as I focused, the shape became clearer. The stranger was tall, his posture rigid, as if frozen in place. His face was obscured by a mask—black, featureless, the kind that only served to amplify the cruel intent behind it. His presence was suffocating, like a storm cloud ready to burst.
I froze, my heart skipping a beat in my chest, every instinct screaming at me to run, but my legs refused to move. The man’s eyes, visible through the slits in his mask, locked onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. There was something about his gaze—cold, empty, predatory—that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
His lips curled into a sneer beneath the mask, and in that moment, I knew. This wasn’t a random intruder. This wasn’t a mistake. This was deliberate.
He moved then, a slow, calculated approach. His steps echoed in the silence, each one purposeful, each one louder than the last. My pulse hammered in my throat as my body screamed at me to do something—anything—but my feet were frozen in place, locked by fear.
The man’s hands curled into fists at his sides as he towered over me. I wanted to speak, to plead, but the words died on my tongue. He reached out, grabbing me by the wrist with a force that left no room for resistance. His grip was vice-like, cold and unrelenting. Before I could react, he wrenched my arms behind my back, the rope biting into my skin as he bound them with brutal precision. The sharp edges of the coarse fibers scraped against my flesh like fire, burning with every movement.
I gasped, a cry of pain and desperation escaping me, but it was swallowed by the overwhelming silence of the room. The stranger was relentless, dragging me across the floor with an unyielding force that left me gasping for breath. My body slammed into the bed, the force knocking the air from my lungs. I tried to push against him, to break free, but my limbs were weak, my mind swimming with confusion and pain.
This can't be happening. The thought barely registered before he was on top of me, pinning me to the bed with a crushing weight. His hands were everywhere—grabbing, pulling, tearing at my clothes. I screamed, a raw, terrified sound, but he drowned it out, each of his movements swift, calculated, and filled with malice. My body was a prisoner, my mind a haze of pain and helplessness as I struggled beneath him.
Blow after blow rained down on me, each one a sharp reminder of my vulnerability. His fists pounded against my skin, the air thick with the sound of my cries, the slap of flesh against flesh, the sickening crack of bones. My breath came in jagged gasps, my body twisting and contorting as I tried, in vain, to escape the relentless assault. The pain was unbearable—every inch of my body screamed in agony as his blows landed, each one colder than the last, each one more punishing.
Why? I couldn’t understand it. Why was this happening? What had I done to deserve this?
The world around me was nothing but chaos—blood, pain, and terror. His actions were methodical, as though he took pleasure in prolonging my suffering. My body shook beneath him, each movement a reminder of my helplessness, my complete lack of control. He was a force of nature, unstoppable, unforgiving.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.
The sudden silence was deafening. The harsh grip on my body vanished, leaving me trembling, gasping for breath as I lay sprawled across the bed. My body felt like it belonged to someone else, twisted and broken, each breath an agonizing struggle. Blood pooled beneath me, staining the sheets, a cruel reminder of the assault I had just endured.
In the dim light, my vision blurred, the room spinning around me. I could still feel the pressure of his presence, the weight of his cruelty hanging in the air like a storm that had yet to pass.
I could hear nothing now but the sound of my own heart, hammering in my chest, as I tried to make sense of the nightmare that had just unfolded. The air was thick with the stench of fear and blood. Every breath felt like it might be my last.
But even as my world crumbled around me, one thought lingered: Kyota. Had he sent this man? Had he orchestrated this for leaving? The question burned in my mind like a brand, but I couldn’t answer it. I didn’t have the strength.
The world was dark, and I was alone, just as I had always feared.
My mind allowed me only fleeting moments of consciousness, each one fragmented, like pieces of a shattered mirror. When I did awake, the reality of my situation was always there, waiting, relentless, whether it was the man’s presence haunting me or the cruel remnants of my hallucinations. I couldn’t be sure anymore. Everything was a blur—my body, my mind, lost in a fog of pain and confusion. The hours felt like days, or perhaps it was days; it was hard to know when time itself had twisted into something unrecognizable.
Every moment, my mind would drift in and out, crashing through waves of agony and despair. In the hazy moments of clarity, I could hear things—distant voices, sounds that should have meant something to me, but they were just out of reach. There was yelling, sharp, frantic voices, but the words were too jumbled for me to comprehend. My vision swam, the edges of my sight growing dark as the pain overwhelmed me. My mind shattered, unable to focus on anything beyond the deep, gnawing pain that reverberated through every nerve of my body.
Then, suddenly, a flash of light pierced through the darkness. I blinked, struggling to clear my vision, and saw the blur of a man kneeling beside my bed. He was holding something—a flashlight, I think—and shining it into my eyes. His voice was insistent, but distant, as though his words were carried on a wave of static, his language a rapid, frantic torrent of Japanese that made no sense to me. But his face was etched with concern, the intensity in his eyes undeniable.
I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t even move.
The man’s voice grew more urgent, calling to someone out of my view, and I could feel the air in the room shift. It was as if the world was collapsing inward, squeezing the life out of me. His words mixed with the sounds of my heartbeat, pounding in my ears, a deafening, painful rhythm that only amplified my sense of helplessness.
When I opened my eyes again, everything had changed. There were more voices now, people all around me, and I felt myself being lifted. They were trying to move me carefully, but the pain—it was unbearable. Every inch of my body screamed in agony as I was shifted, and I couldn’t help the scream that tore from my throat, raw and broken. The sharpness of the pain cut through the haze, and I wondered if I was still alive or if this was the cruelest trick my shattered mind had played on me.
The world spun, and the pain seemed to stretch endlessly as I was transported, moved with what they thought was gentleness, but it only made the suffering worse. Everything felt wrong, like I wasn’t in control, like my body no longer belonged to me.
And then, finally, something changed. A cool sensation washed over me. I felt a strange, unfamiliar calm settle in, like I was sinking into something soft, a blissful numbness. It wasn’t sleep—it wasn’t escape—but it was a reprieve. They had given me something—some drug to ease the pain, to numb the horror that had been clawing at me for so long. My vision blurred again, but now it wasn’t the darkness; it was the softness, the distant feeling of floating above it all.
I hovered there, disembodied, untethered from my mangled form. I could see myself being moved, the paramedics lifting my broken body with care, their faces grim as they worked in frantic silence. I could feel them, distant, but their presence, their urgency, pierced through the haze. My body was there, trapped, but I was somewhere else, somewhere far above, watching it all unfold like it wasn’t mine, like I was no longer part of this cruel, twisted world.
The ambulance ride was a blur, but the white lights flashing in the distance caught my attention. The rhythmic hum of the siren, the sound of tires on the road, the bustle of the hospital—all of it blurred together into a single, continuous wave. I floated, untouchable, as they carried me through the sterile, clinical halls of the hospital. The world was muffled, distorted. The lights above were stark, blindingly bright, and then, the sterile scent of antiseptic filled my senses. Everything felt surreal, detached.
I didn’t know where I was anymore. I didn’t know who I was.
The last thing I remembered before the blackness took over completely was the sound of someone’s voice calling my name—an echo of a voice I couldn’t place. But it was there, in the depths of my consciousness, pulling me back to reality, even if only for a moment.
Then there was nothing.
Kyota’s office was suffocatingly quiet, the faint rustling of papers the only sound against the hum of his thoughts. His fingers hovered over the keys of his laptop, but his mind was miles away, spinning in circles. The image of her standing in the doorway of her room, a solitary figure in the dim light, lingered in his thoughts like a cloud he couldn’t dispel.
She had seemed distant, her eyes guarded, but there had been a fleeting moment—a look—that made him pause. It was a look he couldn’t quite place, but one that gnawed at the edges of his focus. A flicker of something he couldn’t name, and in that instant, he felt the weight of it, the sense that something was amiss.
But then, she had disappeared. Gone from his sight without a trace.
Kyota leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed, trying to recall every detail of the last few days. He hadn’t seen her in a while—three days? Four? He couldn’t be certain. He had visited her room each day, but she hadn’t responded to his knocks. No playful banter, no teasing words, no fiery retorts. There was only silence. The kind that stifled him, made him wonder if something was wrong.
The silence was new. It gnawed at him, scraping away at his patience. He had been accustomed to her temper—the way she could flare up like a sudden storm, throwing sharp words his way, sparring with him in the only way she knew. But silence? That was new.
He remembered the last time he had seen her. He had meant it as a tease, a playful jab, to spark some reaction out of her. "I’m not bound by anyone. I can have whatever I want, whenever I want. Don’t be so surprised by that—it’s how things work.” He had grinned, watching her eyes flash with a fire he had grown to crave. He wanted to see her jealous, to see what she would do with that kind of spark—because in his experience, Ella didn’t get jealous. She was independent, confident, and could never be claimed by anyone. And that, to him, was intoxicating.
But this? The silence? It was disorienting.
He hadn’t realized, in that moment, how much he depended on her responses. Her defiance. Her sharp tongue. Her fire. He hadn't considered that his words, his tease, might have struck a nerve deeper than he expected.
But he had pushed it too far, hadn’t he?
Kyota ran a hand through his dark hair, the thought sinking deeper into his gut like a stone. He had always tested her, played with her boundaries—but not like this. His fingers had ached to touch her, to apologize for his careless teasing. But every time he had come to her door, there had been silence.
What had happened to the woman he knew? The one who always shot back with a clever retort or a wry smile, the one who never let anything get under her skin for long? Where was she?
No, he reassured himself. She was just avoiding him. That was it. She’d gotten mad, sure—but she would come around. She always did.
Kyota rose to his feet, the movement abrupt, as he stepped toward the window, his gaze immediately locking onto her darkened quarters across the courtyard. Her room, the best on the estate, stood silent, shrouded in the stillness of the night. His thoughts spun with the weight of the last few days—the silence, the absence of her fiery presence. It was too still. Too empty.
After a moment he made his decision and grabbed the keys to her room from his desk. He moved through the estate with a purposeful speed, his mind fragmented, only the image of her face—the last one he saw, standing in that doorway, still so impossibly close yet so far—racing in his thoughts.
His footsteps were urgent, but when he reached the door, he stopped dead. Forgoing decorum, his hand gripped the door handle tightly, heart pounding, as if he could will her to be here, standing on the other side.
Kyota’s hand trembled as he stepped into the empty room, the weight of the silence pressing down on him like a thick fog. His pulse was a dull throb in his ears, drowning out the quiet hum of the estate. There was no sign of Ella—no note, no trace of her presence, save for the faint scent of her perfume that seemed to linger like a ghost of something he couldn’t quite hold onto.
His breath hitched as his eyes scanned the space, his mind trying to make sense of the scene in front of him. Her things, scattered across the room on days when they’d shared quiet moments, were gone. The sheets, unruffled, lay undisturbed on the bed. Not a single item had been left behind—nothing that might suggest where she had gone, or why.
Gone, his mind whispered, the word twisting like a knife in his chest.
He backed out of the room quickly, his gaze never leaving the space, his feet carrying him with a frantic urgency as his thoughts spiraled. The sudden burst of coldness, the clarity of her absence—had he truly been blind to what had been happening? She had been so distant lately, but he had chalked it up to her temper, to the fire that burned in her.
But now, the reality of it settled on him, a weight heavier than any he had known—Kyota had never intended to let the darkness touch her.
He had never told her the truth. Not the full truth. The part of his father’s threat that made Kyota’s chest tighten in horror: that if Ella ever left the estate, if she ever tried to break away from their world, his father would make sure she didn’t live to tell the tale. That there would be no mercy. No escape. His father didn’t care for love or affection; all he cared about was power and control.
Kyota had been protecting her in his own way, keeping her close, trying to convince her without speaking the words. But now, the silence was unbearable, and his mind was spiraling into darker places.
Without thinking, Kyota turned on his heel and dashed for the door. He had no time to lose.
The apartment was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that sank its claws into him, stretching time, thickening the air like something alive.
Kyota swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around Ella’s keys. The lock gave him a moment of false reprieve—just a breath, just a heartbeat to hope that everything was fine. That she was fine. That the silence wasn’t what it seemed. He turned the key and stepped inside.
The scent of blood struck him like a blade to the chest. Metallic. Thick. Wrong.
His breath hitched.
The apartment was dim, only the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. He moved forward, the small hallway narrowing around him like a tunnel. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he stepped into the living room—until he saw it.
A single pale foot, motionless, dangling off the edge of the bed. Blood pooled beneath it, trailing in slow, lazy rivulets down her skin, dripping onto the floor with an eerie rhythm.
Time fractured. His heartbeat roared in his ears, but everything else slowed, thickened, like moving through water.
No.
His vision tunneled, locking onto her body sprawled unnaturally on the bed, dark crimson spreading beneath her like a grotesque halo.
Kyota didn’t remember crossing the room, didn’t feel his knees hit the floor as he reached for her, hands trembling as he touched her cooling skin.
“Ella.” His voice was barely a whisper, but his throat burned.
He pressed his fingers against her wrist, searching—begging—for a pulse. The world blurred at the edges, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
There. Faint. Unsteady. But there.
A sharp bark of voices shattered the fragile silence.
“Kyota-sama! We have to go!”
Distant. Rushed. Urgent. His guards.
He ignored them, his fingers brushing against her face, streaked with smudges of blood. Her lips were parted slightly, her breath too shallow.
“Ella, please,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Stay with me.”
Another voice, harsher this time: “Kyota-sama, the police will be here any second! We can’t be found here!”
Hands grabbed his arms, trying to pull him away, but he wrenched free, his grip on Ella tightening. His breath came in ragged gasps as he fought against the hands dragging him back.
“No—” Kyota’s voice was raw, desperate, but his guards didn’t relent. His body twisted violently, his fingers stretching toward her, but the grip on him was too strong.
And the blood on his hands—gods, the blood—it was too slippery.
There was so much of it.
More than he’d ever seen. More than should have been possible.
His stomach lurched. It was everywhere—on his fingers, staining his cuffs, smearing across the floor in frantic streaks where he’d tried to gather her into his arms. Her blood. Ella’s blood.
His vision tunneled, his mind refusing to accept it, but his bodyguards weren’t waiting for him to catch up.
“Kyota-sama, we have to go!”
A new set of hands wrenched him back, stronger this time. His footing gave way, his knees buckling as they dragged him away. His heart slammed against his ribs, his entire body screaming in protest.
Then—movement.
His breath caught in his throat.
Ella’s eyes.
They fluttered. Just barely.
A flicker of life, a whisper of something that could have been awareness.
Or maybe it was nothing. A trick of the light. A desperate illusion conjured by his breaking mind.
It didn’t matter.
“Ella—” he choked, but before he could reach her again, he was torn from the room.
The night air hit him like a slap, cold and unrelenting. Someone barked an order. The car door was yanked open.
Then—sirens.
Red and blue lights exploded across the darkened street. Tires screeched, a wall of officers storming the building, their voices sharp, commanding, final.
He barely registered the door slamming shut behind him as the car lurched forward, peeling away from the curb.
His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.
Ella was still inside. Alone. Bleeding.
