Momo woke up to the gentle sound of a fan whirring. A cold breeze brushed against her face, and she groggily opened her eyes—only to find herself staring at an intense pair of pitch-black eyes.
She flinched. Ah, I'm dead.
"Finally awake?" Yozora's voice was sweet. Too sweet. Too dangerous.
Momo quickly sat up, noticing the source of the breeze. Yozora was casually fanning her with a paper fan. The kind that looked delicate and harmless—but could probably slice through bone if it were in his hands.
She didn't want to overthink it.
"What… what happened?" she mumbled, rubbing her temples.
"You fainted."
Right. She had fainted.
And the reason for that?
Her eyes trailed upward, past Yozora's shoulder—
—and landed on her.
A woman sat gracefully beside her, hands folded in her lap, watching her with the gentlest gaze. She was so effortlessly breathtaking that it hurt to look at her directly.
Long, dark hair that cascaded down like silk. Skin soft and glowing, as if kissed by the moon itself. A curvaceous, perfect body that could make even professional models insecure. And then, of course, there were her eyes—warm, gentle, full of kindness.
Momo felt her soul leave her body.
She had met perfection.
"You're adorable," the woman suddenly said, her voice sweet as honey.
Momo's brain short-circuited.
"I—"
Momo fainted again.
Yozora let out a sigh.
"…Stop scaring her, Okaa-san."
Nene chuckled, covering her mouth. "But she's so cute. It's my first time meeting a girl you like, Yozora." She reached out, brushing Momo's bangs away from her forehead. "I didn't expect you to have such good taste."
Yozora only stared at his mother, silent.
Good taste?
No, this wasn't about taste. This was addiction.
A deep, sickening obsession that had rooted itself in his soul since childhood.
And the very woman in front of him, his mother, was the reason he even understood what love was.
His father had taught him devotion. But his mother…
She had taught him what it meant to need.
And the way Momo had needed him just now, as he fanned her unconscious body?
He wanted more of that.
Meanwhile, in a place far away…
The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the cold, stone walls of a dimly lit prison cell.
A man sat leisurely on the edge of a simple cot, flipping through a stack of old, worn-out photographs.
His fingers, long and elegant, traced the edges of each picture—his expression unreadable.
The first photo: A beautiful woman, smiling, holding a small, dark-haired boy in her arms.
The second: Three young boys standing side by side. One in the middle, his eyes fierce, his smirk confident. Two standing on either side of him—identical in face, posture, and cold, doll-like stares.
The third: A blurry, candid shot of the same woman laughing. Her eyes filled with so much warmth, it nearly burned the paper it was printed on.
The man chuckled softly.
"Ahh… my precious, precious Nene." His voice was smooth, unhurried, carrying an almost lazy affection. He tapped a finger against the photo, sighing. "Still as beautiful as ever."
He leaned back against the wall, stretching his arms before lacing his fingers together behind his head.
And then, he closed his eyes.
Not in exhaustion.
But because he was listening.
Listening to the faint footsteps of someone approaching.
A few seconds later, a deep voice broke through the silence.
"You don't have to pretend anymore,Mr. Akimatsu."
Osano opened his eyes. His gaze, which had been soft before, now carried a sharp, dangerous edge.
He turned his head slightly, glancing toward the prison warden who stood outside his cell.
The man wore a serious expression. "Your last mission is complete. You're free to leave."
For a moment, Osano didn't move.
And then—
A slow, lazy grin stretched across his lips.
He closed the photo album, carefully setting it aside before standing up. The dim light of the prison cast long shadows over his face, highlighting the deep void of his dark, soulless eyes.
He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off years of slumber.
And then, he finally spoke.
"Well… it's about time."
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