"𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐰." - 𝑵𝒂𝒐𝒚𝒂 𝒁𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏
⟶ He was born a king, and he reigned as a god. Gojo didn't walk-he crushed. His laughter slapped the w...
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The room was empty, barely lit by the dim, flickering light filtering through the rain-streaked windows. Outside, the storm rumbled, shaking the glass with a deep, guttural growl. The air was thick with humidity, almost suffocating. The metallic scent of the storm mingled with the faint, lingering scent of polished wood—along with something more intimate, something fleeting, that clung to Chihiro.
She was trembling against him.
Her fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. No cries, no words, just the convulsions of her body and the strangled rhythm of her breath.
Satoru remained still. His arms were wrapped around Chihiro, holding her fragile body close to his. He could feel the damp warmth of her skin through the fabric, the delicate curve of her neck beneath his palm. And he could feel his own hands trembling—barely, but enough for him to notice.
He didn't know what to say.
He wished he could lie. Tell her it was nothing, that they would find a way, that she could stay here, with him. But reality caught up to him too fast.
— "I don't have a choice."
His voice was rougher than usual, lower, edged with something unreadable.
Chihiro lifted her head against his chest, but she didn't look up at him. Her lashes were damp with tears, her skin blotched with tension. She didn't need to speak. Her fingers tapped lightly against his chest—soft, hesitant, as if trying to sync with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
