The days blurred into weeks within the villa, where time bent around the will of Ayaka. Hiro began to lose count—of sunrises, of meals, of even his own thoughts. Everything began and ended with her.
But the silence pressed in.
Even the sea seemed to hush in reverence to Ayaka's rule.
Each morning, Ayaka greeted him with a smile, prepared his favorite food, and read him stories she had written about their perfect life. Their daughter, now swaddled in white and named Haruka, lay silently between them like a porcelain angel.
But Hiro's mind was no longer still.
He began hearing things at night—whispers beneath the floorboards, soft scratching sounds behind the wallpaper, and the occasional clink of chains.
One morning, he wandered into a room Ayaka rarely used. It had a high, arched ceiling and a locked glass cabinet.
Inside it, he saw the ribbon.
The original one she gave him.
It was framed, bloodstained, encased in velvet. The words *"Yours always"* stitched in delicate embroidery with his name underneath. His knees weakened.
Behind him, Ayaka's voice: "It still smells like sakura, don't you think?"
He didn't turn. "Where did you get the blood?"
A pause.
"Mine, of course," she said. "I wanted it to mean something eternal."
He turned now.
"You've killed people."
She tilted her head. "I removed obstacles. There's a difference."
"Why me?" he asked quietly. "You could have anyone. You're beautiful, rich, intelligent—"
"I didn't want *anyone.* I wanted *you.* The boy who brushed sakura petals from my hair. The boy who defended me when the others mocked my voice. The one who held me when I broke down after my mother died."
She stepped closer.
"I built this world for us, Hiro. Everything is perfect. You don't even have to think anymore. Just be mine."
That night, Hiro found a hidden panel behind a bookshelf. It creaked open to reveal a narrow stairway descending deep into stone. Heart hammering, he followed it, past the scent of damp earth and iron.
The room at the bottom was lined with mirrors. Each reflected not only his face—but Ayaka's, always behind him. Always watching.
In the center was a metal chair with straps. And behind it, a wall of photographs.
Every woman who had flirted with him. Every professor who had smiled at him. Even a classmate he once tutored in secret.
Crossed out. Scratched through. Gone.
His knees buckled.
He wanted to run—but when he turned, Ayaka was already there.
She said nothing.
Just walked over, gently helped him to his feet, and held him.
"You were supposed to forget," she whispered. "You weren't meant to see this yet."
He broke.
He screamed. He sobbed. He pounded at her chest.
But she held him.
Like a mother soothing a child. Like a wife comforting a husband. Like a captor embracing her chosen prisoner.
He slumped in her arms.
"I can't leave, can I?" he asked.
She smiled through her tears. "Why would you want to?"
That night, Hiro stood on the balcony as waves crashed violently below. In one hand, he held a shard of glass. In the other, the ribbon.
Then he saw Haruka stir in her crib.
She had Ayaka's eyes.
He dropped the glass.
He turned back into the house.
He walked to Ayaka, wrapped his arms around her, and whispered: "You win."
She exhaled a trembling breath of joy.
"No," she whispered, voice breaking with love. "We both do."
In the silence that followed, crimson light from the rising sun bathed the villa in red.
And Hiro's screams, once loud in his dreams, faded into silence.