The live stream ended in a storm of hearts and shrieks, devotion pouring like wildfire—but satisfaction never lasted. It evaporated like smoke curling from a burnt stage, leaving a hollow ache thumping behind my ribs.
A low, bitter heat simmered under my skin, curling its claws around my heart. I stayed frozen, letting the silver wig slip forward, hiding the twitch in my jaw, hiding the pulse of something darker beneath. The applause had vanished, replaced by a silence heavy and pressing, like iron bands tightening around my chest.
I stood unsteady, limping slightly from the heat still gnawing at my veins. Not new. Not after years of being everyone's one-night "pleasure doll." Endless bodies, mine and theirs, had reshaped me: I lived perpetually in heat, even when untouched.
But tonight… tonight the fire burned differently.
It wasn't hands or lips driving me to the edge. It was memory. Panic-stricken eyes haunted hours ago. The hitch of his breath. The way his body tensed—perfect in a way none of my countless partners had ever been. Every line of him, every subtle movement, etched itself into my veins, leaving a mark I couldn't scrub off.
His hips weren't frail like dry bones, nor swollen like excess. They were balanced, sculpted, addicting. Even without fully tasting him, I knew he was different. Where others dulled after a hundred nights, he sharpened me—set me alight. His bones whispered like an invitation to bite, to mark, to devour. I could almost feel the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin, igniting sparks that had no name.
The thought made my chest clench, my skin twitch. He wasn't just a distraction. He was a painkiller. A cure. And already, an addiction. And God, how I hated myself for needing it.
I walked to the shower, stripping down until only Yurei's under-robe clung damp against my skin. Water burst against me like icy confession, washing away the wine, the rose petals, the glitter of the stage. Droplets trailed down my shoulders, over tense muscles, over the faint red lines left by broken glass. The water seemed alive, running down me in rivulets that carried whispers of him, and I shivered—not from cold, but from want. Each rivulet seemed to strip away the fox's mask—but not the ache inside.
Steam curled thickly. I pressed my hand to the marble tile, letting the water sluice down, and still the memory of Hiroshima's rejection gnawed at me. His disbelief. His refusal to surrender. His stubborn defiance burned hotter than any touch.
My injured palm twitched, an instinct clawing through me. I wanted to relieve myself, to spill this fever out, but I stopped. No. Masturbating to him without owning him first felt… weak. Pathetic. To give him that victory, even in secret, was to admit defeat. Victory, he didn't even know he had yet. And that thought alone made my blood pulse faster, sharper.
I bit down on my own frustration. Why the hell did he have to run that night? If he hadn't, maybe I wouldn't need to chase him this far. Or maybe I always would have. Maybe I was lying to myself. Because this wasn't just about rejection. Not anymore. It was about him.
And I hated that.
I had slept with men for six years, both roles, all positions, never once stumbling, never once losing control. I had laughed through pleasure, discarded partners like fading roses, and not once had anyone turned my world upside down. But this one man—this brilliant fool with glasses and lotus-green eyes—had cracked something open. Had split my carefully layered skin and spilled fire over the floor.
I clenched my jaw, forcing the steam into my lungs. It's just a wound, I told myself. A wound like the others. Yet the truth twisted inside me: this hurt was sharper, deeper, dangerous in ways the past had only foreshadowed. And every pulse of it made me more alive—and more dangerous too.
The bathroom door clicked open. Soft footsteps. Perfume curled into the air—expensive, sweet, commanding. My stepmother.
Of course, she would come… right now… when she shouldn't.
I realized, belatedly, that I hadn't even shut the door. Too distracted. Too disturbed. I sat in the tub with the cosplay robe still clinging to me, water soaking the fabric. The outer layer lay discarded carelessly on my bed, visible from the bathroom.
"I see you've been busy," she said. Her voice was velvet edged with steel, smooth and knowing. She perched herself on the marble ledge like a queen on her throne. Her gaze skimmed me like appraisal, like property. And for a moment, I felt like prey, though the thrill was mine to own.
I pressed my wet hair from my face, my makeup half dissolved. "What do you need that you had to invade my washroom?" I murmured, voice tired, hollow.
She arched a brow. "If this is bathing, then why leave the door open? It looks less like cleansing and more like cooling down… something." Her voice purred, the words double-edged.
Teenagers would have blushed. I didn't. Double meanings were my daily language.
I swallowed softly, forcing a smirk. "You at least know I get aggressive too fast. I was cooling down. I didn't expect a… female predator in my room."
She chuckled, reaching to brush my wet hair from my forehead. I leaned slightly away—not in hate, just because I despised touch when my mood soured.
"Predator? Oh, come now, my boy. I'm still your mother, even if not by blood. Even if I am ten years younger than she was." Her half-lidded eyes softened with mock tenderness. "Can't a mother check on her son after a long day?"
"No," I said flatly. "Not like that. I've grown."
"Is that so?" she whispered, twisting one strand of my hair around her finger, thoughtful.
"Yes."
Her gaze sharpened. "Then why not live like a man? Why sell yourself? Who will feed you when beauty fades, when the crowds move on? Shouldn't you secure something meaningful? I could give you the second branch of my London mall."
Her words pricked, but I didn't flinch. She wasn't wrong. She had cared more than my real mother ever had. She hadn't abandoned me, nor had my brother, though father had died silent and distant four years ago. She was flawed, sharp, manipulative—but she had kept me alive.
Still, her softness meant nothing when her tongue turned to chains.
"You still won't answer me," she pressed, clearing her throat. "How long will you change men like clothes? Why not settle? Even if it's with another man. Why not live normally, like your brother?"
The mention of him tightened something deep in my chest. I swallowed it down, unwilling to let memory surface.
I turned off the water, droplets sliding down my skin like melted glass. Steam thickened the air. "I don't care what he does," I said flatly. "I don't believe in loyalty the way people preach it. I change them daily. One, two, three—it doesn't matter. People leave anyway."
Her irritation flickered like a spark. "You could stop this, you know. Choose someone. Settle."
I laughed—short, sharp, humorless. "Settle? And let someone keep a piece of me they'll throw away the moment they tire of me? You think I'd survive that? No. I survive on chaos. On desire. I take, I discard. Every night—new bodies, new heat. And if one is unforgettable…" I smirked, careless, shameless. "Then he earns a second round. Otherwise? Sayonara."
Her lips tightened. "You're too stubborn for your own good." She stood, huffing, about to leave.
But something clicked in me. Perhaps a little work wouldn't hurt… or maybe, just maybe, it could help in the future too. The thought sparked something like fire under my ribs, a hunger I didn't want to tame.
So, I reached out, catching her wrist. "Wait. Do me a favor, then. I'll promote your Rosewater Sin products. Young ladies, teenagers—they trust me. Use that."
Her brows arched, suspicion mingling with intrigue. "And what do you want in return?"
"Nothing too big… nor too small. But not yet," I said, my tone sharp, deliberate. "You'll know when I'm ready. I've got business at Eight."
Her lips curved faintly, the shadow of a smile. "I see. Then I'll expect results." She left, perfume trailing behind her like smoke seeping under a locked door.
Silence returned, heavy, suffocating. I let it press against my chest, inhale it, savor it, let it feed the fire inside me.
After finishing my dressing, I stood before the mirror. My reflection glared back—sharp, predatory, alive with fever. The faint "H" tattoo on my skin pulsed beneath the lights, mocking me, reminding me exactly who I was—and what I craved. And for the first time in years, I realized the craving might destroy me, and I didn't care.
The nights filled with conquests no longer satisfied. The taste of fleeting bodies, the thrill of temporary ownership—they were ash on my tongue now. Empty. Meaningless.
But Hiroshima… Hiroshima had split me open. He wasn't just another body. He was chaos in human skin. A wound that refused to close. A hunger I couldn't shake. And I wanted that wound, wanted it raw and permanent, wanted him in every pulse of my veins.
And I knew—deep in the marrow of my bones—that until he was mine, entirely and irrevocably, there would be no peace. No rest. No escape.
Obsession had already carved its claws into me.
And if it destroyed me in the end?
So be it.
I'm not letting this clever fool fly away. I won't be the one who begs—I'll be the one who takes. Run, fly, vanish into the night; the past made me hunger for this. Every step you take only sharpens the teeth I've grown for you. Get used to it, Hiroshima—this is what I am now.