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That morning, on October 30st, the college had warned everyone—yet again—to be careful: in the past few weeks, there had been several murders, and the adults were terrified.
But not the students. Nah. They weren’t scared of “some masked guy killing people.” In fact, that very evening, they had organized one of the most talked-about parties in the city. The center of attention was Todo Aoi, a fourth-year Sports Science student, notoriously behind on his credits. Megumi judged him for that, but not enough to say it out loud.
Megumi Fushiguro was a quiet, withdrawn type. Emo, people said. Maybe he really was. Despite everything, he had a small group of friends who were worth more than a hundred superficial acquaintances: Nobara, Maki, Inumaki, and Yuta. They had known each other since the first year, even if they attended different courses: Nobara studied Fashion Design, Maki Sports Science, Inumaki Nursing, and Yuta Law.
Megumi, on the other hand, had been clear about his path since he was a child: Veterinary Medicine. He liked animals more than humans. Humans were complicated. Disgusting, sometimes and knowing that a killer was roaming the streets only confirmed his belief.
He hated parties. That’s why he pretended not to hear his friends begging him to join them at Todo’s place. They had even gone so far as to threaten to call Gojo, his godfather, to convince him. Needless to say, Megumi had thrown them out of the house by force.
He loved them with all his heart, but that night he just wanted to be alone.
And “alone” meant sprawled on the couch, low lights, a blanket over his legs, and a horror movie ready on the screen. The smell of popcorn filled the room, accompanied by the crackle of melted butter.
Halloween was his favorite holiday. He loved the macabre, the thrill, the stories of monsters and killers. Not surprisingly, his favorite author was Mary Shelley.
Halloween night had now fallen over Tokyo like a black cloak studded with lights. The downtown streets teemed with costumed kids, electronic music blending with laughter and the smell of street food, but miles away, in the suburbs, silence reigned.
Megumi’s house was immersed in that unnatural quiet, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets and the wind rattling branches against the windows.
Megumi had chosen to stay home that night, far from the university party his friends would attend. He couldn’t stand crowds or the act of pretending to have fun. He had lowered all the blinds and carefully shut the windows, more out of habit than fear. Even though, in those weeks, the campus and local news were talking about only one thing: the Shibuya Killer. No one knew his face, but everyone knew his signature: victims slaughtered with a ferocity that seemed almost theatrical.
The fact that there was a serial killer outside should have scared him. Yet, somehow, it intrigued him.
He wondered what could drive a man to kill another. The motive, the way he struck… it was fucking disgusting. A former classmate and childhood friend of his, Hana Kurusu, had been murdered so brutally that even Megumi couldn’t think about it without shivering.
Yet, inside him, there was that sick part that wondered what it truly felt like to be in danger. To feel the adrenaline of having to run from a masked man threatening to slice you to pieces.
He swallowed. He was probably watching too many horror movies.
With a sigh, Megumi pressed play on the film chosen for that macabre evening: Friday the 13th. A timeless classic, one of his favorites. The TV lit up the room with bluish flashes, reflecting off the white walls and the dark hoodie he wore. In the kitchen, the popcorn popped rhythmically, filling the house with that warm, salty aroma. It was almost relaxing.
Almost.
Because, despite the silence, Megumi couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Maybe it was just his imagination; Halloween always had this effect on him. But the deserted street, the isolated house, and the thought of a killer on the loose didn’t help.
As the first notes of the soundtrack filled the living room, he got up with a dragging step and shuffled to the kitchen to check the popcorn.
He ran a hand through his spiky, raven-black hair and cast a careful glance at the window, firmly shut. There was no living soul outside.
The landline suddenly rang, making Megumi jump. The sound echoed off the silent walls of the house, breaking the rhythm of the popcorn still popping in the kitchen. He got up reluctantly, huffing, already guessing who it might be.
“Hello?” he said flatly.
“MEGUMIIII!” Nobara’s shrill voice filled his ear, followed by a cascade of music and voices in the background. “Oh my God, this party is C-R-A-Z-Y!”
Megumi held the phone slightly away, annoyed by the volume. “Judging by your screams, I’d say so.”
“Do you have any idea how many people are here? Todo basically invited the entire university, and of course everyone is looking at me because I have the best costume. Literally the Halloween queen.”
“I imagine,” Megumi murmured, already tired.
“Come on, don’t be a grump! You could’ve come, Panda was even looking for you! And—” Nobara’s voice dropped slightly, as if she remembered something. “Anyway… you locked everything, right? Doors, windows. You know I don’t trust leaving you alone in the middle of nowhere with that psycho out there.”
Megumi rolled his eyes, clutching the bowl of popcorn. “Yes, mom. Anyway, suure, the Shibuya Killer came all the way here just to kill me. Makes sense.”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Nobara snapped, and her serious tone for a moment clashed with the deafening music roaring behind her. “That guy is completely insane. And Hana…” She bit her lip, hesitating. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, okay?”
Megumi fell silent for a moment, struck by her sudden sincere tone. Then he sighed. “I’m fine. And I’m about to watch Friday the 13th. Happy?”
“No, because you’re a sociopath,” she shot back, and Megumi could almost see her furrowing her brows. “But fine, at least text me every now and then, idiot. Talk later.”
A female voice in the background—probably Maki—called Nobara, who immediately replied excitedly. “Coming! Okay, I have to go, don’t do anything stupid! Bye!”
And she hung up.
The house fell silent. Too silent.
He absentmindedly placed the phone near the stove and was about to pour the popcorn into a bowl when the phone rang again.
With an annoyed huff, Megumi grabbed the phone and answered without even checking who it was.
“God, Nobar—”
“Hello.”
Megumi froze, blinking. That voice wasn’t Nobara’s, not at all. It belonged to a man; it was husky, warm, and… sexy. He had never heard it before. He furrowed his brows, confused.
“Who is this?” he asked, instinctively glancing out the window.
“Who are you?” the unknown voice shot back, in an almost mocking tone.
“Who did you want to talk to?” Megumi replied, feeling irritation coursing through his veins. This guy had an attractive voice, sure, but the tone annoyed him. He knew it was probably a Halloween prank, so he suspected it was Nobara or Yuta, having asked some guy at the party to play a joke on him.
“What number do you have?” the voice asked, sounding amused at bothering Megumi that night.
“I think you have the wrong number.” Megumi cut the conversation short, hanging up the phone. He placed it back on the counter and, distracted, poured the now-warm popcorn into a bowl.
But the phone rang again almost immediately. Megumi bit the inside of his cheek, his heart racing slightly, and grabbed the phone, bringing it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Ah, sorry! I think I dialed wrong again.”
It was that voice again. Husky, calm, yet with a subtle thread of amusement that made him shiver.
“Then why did you call back?” Megumi asked, slowly making his way back to the living room.
The wooden floorboards creaked under his feet as he crossed the kitchen. This stupid call isn’t going to ruin my plans, he thought. Yet, something in that voice unsettled him… and drew him in.
“To apologize,” the voice replied, hypnotic, warm, as if it already knew the effect it had on Megumi.
He rolled his eyes, grabbing a handful of popcorn, trying to focus on the movie playing in the background.
“Alright, you’re forgiven. Goodb—”
“Wait, wait! Don’t hang up.” The sudden urgency in the tone made Megumi flinch, clutching the phone tighter.
No noise, no music on the other end. It was either a stranger—or Nobara had perfected her skills at the perfect prank.
“Why?” Megumi asked, confused, sitting on the couch and pulling his legs up, covered by worn sweatpants, to his chest.
“I want to talk to you a little more.”
Megumi felt a shiver run down his spine. That voice was deep, warm. A calculated, seductive intonation, as if it knew exactly what to say to keep him on the line. He shook his head, trying to push away the ridiculous feeling.
“I’m not your friendly voice, goodbye.” He cut the call again, leaving the bowl of popcorn and the phone on the table in front of the couch. Yet the phone called him with an irresistible electric tension running through his veins.
It’s probably just a prank, he told himself, trying to ignore it.
The phone rang again—
“What the hell.” Megumi muttered under his breath, leaning forward and grabbing the phone. “Hello?” he answered, this time with a harder tone.
“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” The same voice as before, yet… there was something incredibly sad in that tone, an almost exaggerated sadness.
“Who are you?” Megumi clenched his jaw, confused and strangely drawn to the mysterious voice, holding the bowl of popcorn against his side.
His reflection in the window glass was barely visible, dark, distorted by the night behind him. He inhaled slowly.
“You tell me your name, and I’ll tell you mine,” the voice murmured, sliding over Megumi’s eardrum like a caress.
The boy shrugged into his faded hoodie. He knew he was starving for attention, months without a boyfriend, and he wasn’t the type to go after the first person that came along. Yet, that sultry, confident voice destabilized him in an absurd way, making his heart race for no reason.
“Don’t count on it,” he replied, nibbling his lower lip.
God, he thought, pathetic. Flirting with a stranger? But a tiny invisible little devil perched on his shoulder and whispered with a smile: go on, what harm could it do? After all, it was a stranger. Who would ever know? He could take the chance.
“What’s that noise?” the voice asked, curious, alluding to the rustling and sounds coming from the television.
Megumi lowered the volume from 89 to 67, his heart beating faster.
“It’s a movie,” he replied distractedly, bringing a handful of popcorn to his mouth.
“Really? Which one?”
Megumi hesitated. He noticed how curious the voice was, so focused on the details. Something in that warm, slightly amused, yet incredibly magnetic tone had already captured him. That voice made him feel strangely at ease and uneasy at the same time.
“Nothing much, just a horror movie.”
“You like horror movies?” The voice exclaimed, strangely excited, as if Megumi had touched on a topic it was crazy about.
Megumi mumbled a distracted “Mh,” getting more comfortable on the couch.
The cushion beneath him creaked, and for a moment he feared even that echo might betray his nervousness.
“What’s your favorite?” the voice asked insistently, as if it really wanted to know everything about him.
Megumi shook his head, as if he had to think seriously about it. “I don’t know… maybe Halloween.”
“Ah, yes.” The voice seemed to savor his words.
“Yours?” Megumi asked, with a half-smile he couldn’t suppress.
He enjoyed talking to that voice, even though he knew he should stay on guard. But this time, he decided he didn’t want to think rationally. He wanted to enjoy it.
“Guess.”
“Mh, Nightmare?”
The voice laughed softly, a low sound that slid over him like velvet. “The one with the guy with blades instead of fingers?”
“Yes, Freddy Krueger.” Megumi nodded, aware the other couldn’t have known.
“Exactly. I like that movie, it gave me chills.”
Megumi realized he was staring at his reflection in the window. The TV illuminated the living room with flickering lights, and occasionally it seemed he saw a shadow behind the glass, a movement that wasn’t there.
His heartbeat quickened. Yet he couldn’t stop smiling. That voice was dragging him into a strange game: unsettling, yes, but also exciting.
“Tell me…” The voice dropped in tone, slower, almost a whisper that brushed the back of his neck. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Megumi swallowed slowly. He settled deeper on the couch, pulling his knees to his chest as if they could protect him. There, in the living room lit only by the TV, he felt his heart hammering in his ears.
“Are you assuming I’m gay?” he tried to joke, though his voice trembled slightly. “What makes you think that?”
A soft sigh from the other side. “Oh, darling… I know.”
Megumi held the cushion tighter in his hands. That “darling” crept under his skin like a forbidden caress. It was absurd that a stranger’s voice could have this effect on him.
“Why? Are you asking me out?” he tried to sound disdainful, but his tone was more curious than sarcastic.
“Maybe,” the stranger replied, and it sounded like he was smiling as he spoke. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Megumi felt his mouth go dry. “Mh, no,” he admitted in a low voice.
A shiver ran through him as he thought about how long it had been since someone had made him feel desired. He ran a hand through his raven-black hair, uncertain.
“You still haven’t told me your name.”
Megumi brought his thumb to his lips, biting the well-kept nail. “Why do you want to know my name?”
The answer came immediately, slowly, insinuating. “Because I want to know who I’m looking at.”
Megumi’s blood ran cold. He tore his gaze from the TV and stared into the darkness beyond the window. There was nothing out there. Or so it seemed.
Yet, that phrase made his chest vibrate: fear and attraction mixed in a toxic cocktail.
“You’re joking,” he murmured, but his voice betrayed uncertainty. A shiver ran down his spine, unchecked.
The stranger laughed softly, a low, deep sound that made his skin tingle. “You’d like that, huh? That it was just a joke.”
Megumi forced himself to swallow, sliding a little further down on the couch. He couldn’t stop listening to that voice, as if hypnotized.
“You’re just a creep on the phone,” he tried to say, but the words came out softer than he intended.
“Maybe,” the other admitted. “But admit it, I’m intriguing you.”
Megumi pressed his lips together. He should have ended the call. He really should have.
Instead, he stayed silent.
From the other side, a chuckle. “You like the thrill, huh? I can hear it in your voice.”
Megumi sighed softly, bringing a hand to his neck, trying to calm himself. But he felt his heartbeat getting stronger; his heart threatened to burst from his chest. With the same hand, he then grabbed a nearby brown cushion, pressing it to his chest.
“I see you holding that pillow.”
Megumi tensed instantly. His eyes darted to the window, then the front door, then back to the TV screen, which now seemed to light the living room with a too-bright, almost spotlight-like glow.
“How do you know that?” he whispered, trying to mask the tremor in his voice.
A silence. Then a slow breath on the other end of the line. “Because I’m watching you.”
Megumi swallowed dryly. He forced himself to laugh, a nervous laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but if this is a prank, it’s not funny.”
“Oh, darling, I’m not joking,” the voice replied, sweet as honey, yet sharp as a blade. “You’re beautiful when you’re scared, you make me want to do things to you that you could never imagine.”
Megumi’s heart skipped a beat. He wrapped himself tighter in his hoodie, almost as if the worn fabric could protect him. He tried to calm down and think clearly. He had a fucking psychopath on the phone, and by now he was certain it was no longer a joke. Or rather, that it never had been.
“I don’t know who you are.” He exclaimed sharply, jumping to his feet and running to the entrance, making sure the door was locked.
“You like it, don’t you? Me watching you.”
Megumi felt his cheeks heat up. He was crazy. Completely crazy. He should attack, call Nobara, call someone. But instead, he stayed there, phone pressed to his ear, breathing slightly ragged.
“Don’t talk shit,” he tried to retort, but his voice came out too low, too uncertain.
The other chuckled. “Oh, but you love it…”
Megumi closed his eyes, irritated with himself. Why was he still listening? Why did that voice affect him so much? It was warm, enveloping and there was a note of malice that made his stomach tingle.
“I can describe you,” the voice whispered. “Loose hoodie, lounge pants, messy hair…”
Megumi spun quickly toward the window but saw nothing beyond his own reflection. He felt exposed. With his free hand, he pulled the curtain shut tightly, blocking the view from outside.
“Enough,” he said, and his voice trembled.
“Why? Are you embarrassed? You know, it’s human to have dark interests.”
Megumi ran a hand through his raven-black hair, tugging it lightly. Every word from this man was a blade scratching at his composure.
He hated himself for feeling… aroused? No. It wasn’t arousal. It was adrenaline, yes. That rush in his chest that kept him alive, alert. Yet, there was something irresistible about this game.
“Who the fuck are you?” he growled softly, trying to regain control.
A silence, then a muffled laugh. “Who do you want me to be?”
Megumi bit his lip, furious. He shouldn’t feel like this. He mustn’t. Yet he felt goosebumps crawling across his arms. He was about to retort when a dull sound made him jump.
TOC.
He spun toward the living room window. Nothing. Just the darkness swallowing the garden and his own pale reflection in the glass. His heart hammered so hard he felt a ringing in his ears.
“What—what was that?” he whispered, more to himself than to the other.
From the other end, the man’s laugh. Low, slow, satisfied.
“Did you like the surprise?”
Megumi took a step back, hitting the wall behind him. He clutched the phone with both hands. “Where are you?”
“Close,” the voice replied, a whisper that seemed to come from just behind the door. “Very close.”
Megumi’s eyes darted toward the entrance, then back to the window. Every shadow outside seemed to move, every falling leaf felt like a step. He felt like he was about to lose his mind.
“It’s not funny,” he murmured, but his voice trembled too much to sound convincing.
“Oh, darling…” the voice on the phone sighed. “Aren’t we playing? I’d like to play hide-and-seek. It would be so thrilling.”
A shiver ran down Megumi’s spine. He was scared, yes. But there was also something dark and forbidden about this situation that he couldn’t ignore. He bit his lip, hating the way his heart was racing—not just from fear.
“You’re sick,” he tried to reply, his voice a bit firmer as his eyes continued to dart around the rooms. His house wasn’t big, so from the entrance he could see almost every room and corner.
“Maybe,” the other replied, amused. “But so are you, I can see it.”
TOC.
Another knock. Louder, closer.
Megumi stepped back abruptly, almost tripping over the coffee table. His eyes ran from window to window, searching for movement, a shadow, anything.
“Where the hell are you?!” he finally shouted, anger breaking through.
The voice laughed again, but this time there was something darker, a low tone that made him shiver. “You like this, Megumi,” it pronounced his name slowly, as if savoring every syllable.
Megumi’s eyes widened. He had never told them his name.
The silence in the house became deafening, broken only by the frantic beating of his heart.
“How… how do you know my name?”
From the other side, a whisper so low it seemed to come from the darkness behind him:
“I know you better than you think.”
Megumi slammed the red button, abruptly ending the call.
Silence.
Only the deafening pounding of his heart and the rustle of the wind outside.
“Okay, calm down,” he whispered to himself, but his voice trembled. He still gripped the phone tightly, his knuckles white. He tried to steady his racing heart, which now felt like a wild horse.
He moved toward the nearest window, pulling the curtain slightly aside: pitch black. The deserted street lit by a single flickering lamp. No movement. He passed through the living room and tossed the phone onto the coffee table.
He ran to the hallway window, then the kitchen window. Locked every latch twice, drew every curtain, checked that all handles were properly down. His breath quickened, sweaty hands sliding on the cold metal of the locks.
“He’s just an idiot—a fucking prank,” he muttered, though even his own words didn’t convince him.
He noticed he was trembling as he passed the hallway mirror: his reflection was pale, his green eyes wide with fear.
He ran up the stairs to check the upstairs windows, each step creaking as if betraying him. He peered into every room, closing everything, shifting curtains and pulling down blinds.
When he came back down, his breathing was ragged, his heart still in his throat. He felt safe for a moment. He had locked everything.
Or so he thought.
In his frantic run, he hadn’t thought about the back door.
The one he rarely used.
The one he had left ajar more than once when he went out to take out the trash.
A light breeze passed through the hallway, making a paper left on the table flutter slightly.
Megumi stopped dead.
The feeling of being watched hit him again with icy force.
Shit, he thought, swallowing in terror. This was fucking similar to the horror movies he watched at home and in his university film class. And fuck, he refused to die immediately like the blonde cheerleader in those films.
The phone rang again.
That sound cut through the silence like a knife.
Megumi jumped, watching it vibrates on the living room table. For a moment he thought about not answering.
Maybe, if he ignored it…
But the phone kept ringing. And ringing.
With hands that were shaking, he grabbed it and brought it to his ear.
“Hello?”
A breath. Then that voice.
“Megumi,” it pronounced his name with glacial calm. “Don’t you dare hang up again. Or I’ll slice you up just like I did with Hana.”
Megumi felt his heart freeze for a moment.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” he growled, even though his voice cracked with fear.
The other’s laugh was slow, dark. “I want to play.”
Megumi clutched the phone so hard his fingers hurt. “I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”
“Oh, poor little naive boy,” the voice sighed, almost amused. “You can try. But by the time they get here, I’ll have already finished with you. We’re in the suburbs; it’ll take them ages to arrive.”
Megumi cursed himself. For the first time he regretted isolating himself from the world. A chill ran down his spine. He looked around as if he might see the intruder appear from a corner at any moment.
“Listen, I don’t have time for your bullshit!” Megumi snapped, his voice cracking between anger and panic. “Leave me alone!”
The voice chuckled softly. “Oh, I love it when you’re scared.” A tense silence. Then: “Let’s do this: I propose a deal.”
Megumi froze, holding his breath.
“Let’s play hide-and-seek,” the voice continued, velvety and cruel. “You have five minutes to hide. If I manage to find you…” a pause heavy with malice “…well, I’d say it’s over for you.”
Megumi felt his blood run cold. “And if… if you don’t find me?” he asked in a whisper.
“Then…” the voice slowed, whispered, “I disappear. I leave your life. No more calls. No more tapping at your windows.”
Megumi’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. His hands trembled as he looked around, instinctively calculating escape routes. He was terrified. But there was also that nauseating thrill, a rush that made him feel more alive than ever.
“What do you say, Megumi? Want to play?”
“Go fuck yourself,” he spat, trying to sound tough.
On the other end, a laugh—low, almost affectionate. “Oh, you’ve got such a cute little mouth; yet so foul-mouthed.”
Then the voice suddenly turned cold: “Five minutes. Starting now.”
CLICK.
The call ended.
Megumi stayed there, the phone still pressed to his ear, breathing in broken gasps. He felt a knot in his stomach.
Five minutes.
He bolted down the hallway. Every creak of the parquet beneath his feet made him jump. He ducked immediately behind the couch, breathing slowly, trying to stay silent. He bumped into a nearby piece of furniture, which made a loud noise. Damn it.
“It’s just a game… it’s just a game…” he tried to convince himself. But the stranger’s voice echoed in his head, calm, confident, amused: I’m watching your every move.
Megumi swallowed hard, short of breath. He glanced at the front door: locked and secure. Good.
The windows? All sealed. Perfect.
The back door… oh God. He had completely forgotten it.
He rushed upstairs, desperately searching for a better hiding spot. Every step was an adventure: the curtains trembled in the wind, the streetlamp outside cast long shadows across the walls. It seemed as if something—or someone—was moving right there, in the folds of the shadows.
He slipped under the bed, pulling his legs up to his chest. He was barely breathing, feeling his pulse thudding at his temples. Every tiny sound outside his line of sight made him jump: a branch hitting the window, the wind making the door rattle, even his own breath seemed too loud.
Megumi closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t move. Every fiber of his body screamed to run, but he couldn’t afford to botch the hiding place. Not this time.
Then, a sudden noise.
The back door was moving slightly, just ajar. A shiver ran down his spine: it was there, he felt it. He knew it. Someone was walking through the living room. Slow, measured steps. Predatory.
Megumi held his breath. Sweaty hands gripped his hoodie as if they could anchor him to life.
The forgotten back door shifted a little. The wind? No. Someone had come in. He could feel it. Every fiber of his body screamed it.
One step drew closer, then another, marked on the downstairs floor. He realized his heart was thudding in his skull like a mad drum. He tried to control his breathing, but it was useless: every inhale seemed to betray him.
Then there was a deafening noise.
Something struck the living-room door, a loud, decisive sound. Megumi froze. Panic clamped his stomach.
He had to stay still. He had to hope those five minutes would pass without them finding him.
But he knew, deep down, it wouldn’t be easy to hide from someone like this.
A light sound made him jolt: heavy, purposeful footsteps climbing the stairs.
Megumi clenched his fists beneath the bed, his heart hammering like a crazed drum.
“Okay… okay… stop running,” he whispered to himself.
Every part of him screamed fear, but a flash of anger crossed his wide eyes. He wasn’t going to lie there trembling under that bed. Not this time.
He slid a hand to the edge of the bed and eased himself out slowly, his knees shaking, breath ragged.
“If you think you scare me, you’re very wrong,” he growled under his breath, trying to steel himself.
The footsteps came closer; the intruder’s tall shadow slid down the hallway, lit only by the weak streetlamp light filtering through the curtains.
Megumi grabbed a broomstick propped in the corner of the room. It wasn’t a weapon, but he could use it. He had to try.
Taking a deep breath, he flattened against the wall. His body ready for spring, eyes tracking every shadow on the staircase. Every fiber of him was taut, panic mixed with adrenaline: fear and determination combined.
“Okay, if you want to play… let’s really play,” he whispered, his eyes flashing with defiance.
The footsteps stopped for a moment. Then they resumed, slower, more threatening.
Megumi tightened his grip on the stick, ready to strike. He wouldn’t be afraid anymore. He wouldn’t hide.
Five minutes. And he was ready to fight.
Then… he appeared. Just for a moment, the white ghost mask and a long, black, spectral robe illuminated by the flickering chandelier light. The black eyes of the ghost mask stared at him, motionless, while the icy breath seemed to envelop the entire room.
A shiver ran down Megumi’s spine.
Fear. Terror.
And, incredibly, excitement.
It was him—the Shibuya Killer.
And in that hand… the knife gleamed under the flickering chandelier light.
Megumi noticed it, and for a moment a cold shiver ran through his back. Panic hit him like a punch to the stomach, but there was also that other shiver, that excitement that made him tremble.
His heart exploded in his chest. He had never been so aware of himself, his body, the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Panic was there, of course, but alongside it was a dark thrill that made him feel more alive than ever.
The killer stepped forward a few paces. The broomstick in Megumi’s hands trembled. Every small movement of the intruder seemed slow, hypnotic.
Then he stopped, almost as if contemplating him. Megumi could feel the cold radiating from the killer’s presence, the silence between them heavy as lead. He knew that even though he was pressed against the wall, the killer had seen him.
And in that moment, between fear and excitement, he realized he was feeling something completely new: a perverse thrill in facing danger.
The game had begun. And he would not stay under the bed waiting for death.
The Shibuya Killer’s voice echoed down the hallway, cold and mocking:
“Oh, darling, did you really think you could hide that well? I see you. Every tremble, every breath…”
Megumi tightened his grip on the broomstick, fear in his stomach transforming into anger.
“Fuck you!”
With a sudden lunge, he sprang from his hiding place, trying to surprise him with a sudden attack.
But that was exactly what the killer wanted. With a quick sidestep, he dodged the blow and, in a fluid motion, shoved Megumi against the wall, throwing him off balance.
Megumi tried to get back up immediately, striking the floor with the broomstick. The clang echoed through the room. The killer moved with unnatural agility, silent but deadly steps, the knife ready to block any attack.
“Not bad,” he said, amused, the ghostly mask close to Megumi’s face, “but you’ll have to do better if you want to survive.”
Megumi felt his heart explode, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Panic and excitement blended, making him tremble and smile at the same time.
There was no way out: he had to fight.
As Megumi tried to get back on his feet, the knife glinted in front of his eyes—the killer was ready to strike. Without thinking, Megumi delivered a lightning-fast kick to the killer’s shin, knocking him to the ground.
But the victory was short-lived. With a speed that made Megumi’s heart leap, the other rose and overwhelmed him, positioning himself on top. The knife was aimed at his chest, its shadow stretching across Megumi’s face like a grim omen.
Desperately, Megumi tried to block the armed arm, grabbing the opponent’s wrists. His hands trembled, sweaty fingers slipping, but he refused to give in. Every breath was short, strained—a mixture of fear and pure adrenaline.
With a sudden, violent movement, the killer grabbed Megumi’s hair, forcing his head backward. A sharp pain pierced his scalp as his head hit the floor with a dull thud. Dazed, Megumi felt his legs shake, his breathing reduced to a whisper.
And then that moment… that perverse thrill that made him shiver from the inside. The Shibuya Killer, tilting his head slightly, ran the knife along Megumi’s skin—from his lower lip down to his exposed neck.
The cold metal brushed against his skin, leaving a chilling, unreal trail. Every fiber of his body stiffened; goosebumps exploded along his arms and neck. Absolute fear and terror… but also a strange, intense excitement that left him breathless.
The killer’s almost breathless chuckle echoed like an icy whisper throughout the room. Every movement was precise, lethal, yet disturbingly captivating. Megumi felt his heart racing: he wanted to fight, to survive, but deep down, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from that presence.
The killer gripped the handle of the knife with both hands, raising his arms in a threatening stance. Megumi’s eyes widened; panic gripped his stomach, his throat dry.
“No!” he shouted, lunging forward with all the strength he had left, delivering a violent kick to the intruder’s chest. The killer’s body flew backward, smashing into a piece of furniture. Frames and books crashed with a deafening clatter, echoing through the room and making Megumi jump.
The boy didn’t stop. Legs trembling, forehead still throbbing from the previous impact, he sprang to his feet. Breathing short, heart pounding, but adrenaline gave him strength. With uncertain yet determined steps, he ran toward the stairs, descending to the lower floor.
The killer’s steps thundered behind him, frantic and menacing. Megumi felt the weight of fear mingled with excitement, and for a moment a shiver ran down his spine: that pulsing terror made every fiber of his body feel alive like never before.
Reaching the lower floor, Megumi grabbed a chair from the table and held it in front of him as an improvised barrier. The other approached, knife still in hand, breath heavy and controlled beneath the mask. Every step a warning, every movement a challenge.
Megumi stepped sideways, trying to gain space, but the other was faster, circling the chair and slipping in front of him like a shadow. The knife whistled through the air as it aimed to strike. Megumi dodged just in time, feeling the metal graze on his side.
“Fuck— Back off!” Megumi growled, his heart pounding wildly.
The killer chuckled under the mask, tilting his head mockingly. “Try to stop me… if you can.”
The struggle continued with sudden strikes, spins, and breaking objects. Megumi threw chairs and tried to grab anything he could turn into a weapon. The other moved like a predator, anticipating every move, pushing him to the limit, confusing and taunting him.
Every breath Megumi took was a mix of fear and thrilling excitement. His heartbeat hammered in his ears, but he wouldn’t give up. Not yet.
Suddenly, the killer made a swift, deadly step, shoving him against the kitchen table with surprising force. Megumi’s chest hit the wooden edge, sending plates and cutlery clattering across the floor.
Before he could react, the man took full control: he grabbed Megumi by the shoulders, spun him precisely, and pressed him chest-first against the table. Megumi struggled, but every effort was useless. The knife, still in the killer’s hand, gleamed threateningly near his face.
“See?” rasped the voice behind the mask. “I found you.”
Megumi’s heart thudded like a mad drum. Fear, adrenaline, excitement… all at once. Goosebumps ran down his arms and neck, his breathing quickened, his heart threatening to explode in his chest.
Wide-eyed, Megumi turned his head, his cheek pressed against the cold wood of the table, meeting the black eyes behind the mask. Panic flooded his mind, but he also felt intensely alive. There was no escape: every movement, every breath was under the killer’s control.
He felt crushed, his breathing shallow and ragged. The killer held him effortlessly, as if he were nothing more than already-captured prey. The cold, black-gloved hand pressed against his wrists, immobilizing him without effort.
The killer leaned slowly toward him, the white mask reflecting the dim kitchen light. Those black eyes, invisible in the dark sockets, radiated a presence that made Megumi tremble to his bones. Yet, he couldn’t look away: the figure behind him was… magnetic. The black suit clung to the killer’s muscular body, revealing the curves of broad shoulders, a strong chest, and narrow hips. Even with that nightmare mask, he was attractively forbidden, dangerous.
“Look at you shaking,” the killer whispered into his ear, his hoarse, slow voice a velvety scratch that caressed Megumi’s hearing like a sharp blade. “You get horny by being scared, don’t you?”
Megumi’s eyes widened, a shiver running down his spine. He didn’t know what terrified him more: the glinting knife just inches from his throat, or the provocative tone that seemed to read his mind. He tried to turn away, but the stranger grasped his face with the gloved hand holding the knife, forcing him to look.
“Stay still,” the killer murmured, tilting his head to the side with an almost curious gesture. “You’re so cute when you’re scared. Maybe I should keep you like this for a while.”
Megumi swallowed, his legs trembling, his heart pounding so hard it almost hurt his chest. He couldn’t deny the effect that tone and that closeness had on him: fear, anger… and something burning that tightened his stomach.
The killer slowly dragged the cold blade along his neck, down to the nape, pressing just enough to make him shiver. “Do you like it?” he asked, almost amused.
Megumi clenched his jaw. “Fuck you.”
A hoarse laugh echoed beneath the mask, deep and unsettling. The killer tilted his head again, bending even closer until he brushed Megumi’s ear. “Oh, what a sharp tongue,” he whispered. “Maybe I should teach you how to use it better.”
The killer’s warm breath tickled the skin of his neck, setting off a wave of heat mixed with terror. Megumi bit his lip, hating how reactive he was to it all.
“Are you enjoying this?” the man taunted, sliding the blade toward the edge of Megumi’s hoodie, grazing his back. “Because I am.”
Every muscle in Megumi’s body was tense, the urge to fight burning within him but at the same time paralyzed by that dominant, hypnotic presence. He gritted his teeth, trying not to show how his heart hammered in his chest. “Who the hell are you?” he spat, his voice low, charged with anger and arousal.
The killer chuckled softly, a sound that made his skin crawl. “Oh, don’t worry about the details—you’ll die anyway soon.”
The cold blade traced the edge of Megumi’s hoodie slowly, as if testing its resistance, while the free hand moved from the nape of his neck down the curve of his back, sliding slowly toward his hips. The boy stifled a jerk; his breathing became uneven.
“Don’t touch me,” Megumi growled, trying to lift his torso, but the killer pushed him down with decisive pressure. He fought to ignore a voice in his head, a sick, toxic voice that wanted this man to strip him and take him there, against the table, without mercy.
“Why?” the killer murmured through the mask, his tone mellow and amused. “Afraid of dying?”
Megumi bit his lip, hating how those words, spoken in that lascivious voice, were destabilizing him. “Tell me who you are,” he repeated, this time calmer, almost defiant.
The killer tilted his head, the masked face so close to his neck that he could feel the warm breath. “Mmm… I don’t think I want to, darling.”
The gloved hand grabbed his chin, lifting his head slightly to the side, exposing his neck. The blade slid there, grazing him with a light, almost sensual pressure.
“You know what’s best, Megumi?” the killer continued, lowering his voice. “That you’re trying to guess who I am…but the more you think about it, the more you realize it doesn’t matter. I’m making you feel alive—more than anyone else, right?”
Megumi clenched his fists, breathing hard. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.”
“Oh, but you already are.” the killer laughed, moving his hand over the warm, pale skin of Megumi’s flank, squeezing lightly. Then he pressed the knife to Megumi’s throat, making his skin crawl. “You know, I could kill you right now.”
“Do it.” Megumi hissed, a flash of defiance in his eyes.
The killer paused for a moment, as if savoring that provocation, then leaned toward his ear. “…Not yet.”
“You know what I like about you, Megumi?” he continued, his voice velvety, sliding the blade along Megumi’s spine over his hoodie. “The way you always sit at the back of the Chemistry classroom, taking notes with that precise handwriting…”
Megumi went pale. His body gave an involuntary shudder, his heart seeming to stop for a beat. How the hell did he know something like that?
“…And that black hoodie with skulls embroidered on the sleeves you always wear on Thursdays.” The killer continued undisturbed, as if listing intimate memories. As if he knew this would scare Megumi even more. And oh, how he loved that almost lost expression on the boy’s face. So cute. It tempted him to do even worse things.
Megumi felt a wave of panic rise to his throat. “Wh-Who are you?” he growled, his voice cracking, struggling suddenly and managing to push the killer back with an elbow to the side. The knife slipped away for a moment, and Megumi took that second to turn and dash to the other side of the kitchen.
But he didn’t have time to catch his breath. A gloved hand grabbed his wrist brutally, yanking him back with brutal force.
“Tsk, you’re fast.” The stranger laughed, the mask illuminated by the dim light. In an instant, he shoved him against the kitchen counter, pressing his chest against the cold, hard surface. Megumi gasped, trying to struggle free, but the killer used his weight to pin him, wedging his hips against the edge.
“Let me go!” Megumi shouted, his voice strangled with anger and anxiety.
“No.” The other murmured, his tone low, almost amused as he quickly reclaimed the knife lying nearby. The cold blade grazed Megumi’s throat as the masked face leaned toward his ear. “I like it when you fight so hard—it’ll be more fun to kill you.”
Megumi clenched the edge of the counter, trying to think of a way out, but the killer’s suffocating heat behind him and that insinuating voice made him lose clarity.
He felt like prey cornered by a great predator. The height difference between them was negligible, yet this man seemed to tower over him, a shadow larger, heavier, more dangerous than anything Megumi had ever faced. He had grabbed and slammed him against the table effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing, pinning both of his wrists with a single gloved hand. The pressure made his fingers tremble, while the knife in the other hand traced the edge of his neck with a glacial calm.
Megumi’s heart pounded in his chest, not just from terror. There was something disturbing in the way the heat of that body trapped him, in the warm breath brushing his neck, in the electric tension that made him feel more alive than ever. Hate and fear mixed with a spark of excitement that drove him insane. His breath came trembling, betraying a desire he didn’t even want to admit to himself.
The killer tilted his head slightly, as if savoring his reaction. As if he knew what was going on in Megumi’s mind. “Oh?” he murmured in a soft, amused tone, slowly lowering the blade to Megumi’s lips. “Interesting.”
The knife slid slowly along Megumi's lower lip, not cutting, but applying a gentle pressure that sent shivers down his spine. "You know, I think red would look amazing on you."
Megumi gritted his teeth, trying to hide the blush rising to his face, but the other chuckled softly, satisfied. "You don't need to hide, it's a natural reaction," he whispered, pressing his hips against him, demonstrating his complete control over him.
Megumi held back a strangled moan, hating himself for his reaction, while the killer held him there, pressed against the counter, as if he were just a toy.
Megumi's chest was pressed against the cold kitchen counter, his arms pinned behind his back in a grip that made his wrists ache. He felt the fly of his pants tighten and he clenched his thighs, trying to hide from the killer's view. It was as tall as him, yet it seemed to tower over him, dominating every inch of his living space. He felt so humiliated, so ashamed of himself. Everything he was feeling wasn't normal. A rational person would have fought again, would have felt fear and panic, not excitement.
The cold knife traced a slow path from the nape of his neck to the curve of his hips, pressing lightly on the fabric of his sweatshirt. Each touch was a shiver that ran down his spine, making him tremble. The killer chuckled softly, noticing every slight movement, every more labored breath. He was tempting him. He wanted to see him give in, beg.
“So tense,” he whispered from behind the mask, his voice low and velvety, his hips pressed against hers. “And yet it’s not just fear I feel, is it?”
Megumi closed his eyes; his lips pressed together in a desperate attempt to keep everything quiet. But the heat rising in her cheeks and the tightness in his belly betrayed him. His heart was pounding, while part of him hated that man, and another… he couldn’t help but crave that forbidden contact.
“S-Shut up,” he muttered hoarsely, but his tone lacked conviction.
The man behind him chuckled softly, leaning even closer to his ear. “That doesn’t sound like I really want this.” He grazed his side with the blade, sliding it gently toward the spot where his jeans clung to his hips, only to make him flinch. “Your body says otherwise.”
Megumi bit his lip, trying to suppress a strangled moan that escaped his lips, brief but audible. The laughter that came from behind him was low and satisfied, as he tightened his grip on his wrists and slowly ran his gloved fingers down his side.
"So good..." he murmured, his warm breath caressing his neck. "Let it go, darling."
Fuck.
Megumi panted against the counter, his forehead pressed against the cold surface, his wrists gripped in a steely grip. He felt completely at the mercy of that man: every fiber of his body screamed for him to react, to escape... and yet he couldn't. The heat of the killer's body, his low, velvety voice, the knife barely grazing his skin—it all mixed together in a whirlwind that made him tremble with more than just fear. It was all too much.
He clenched his jaw. If he had to die, he'd rather do it without an erection.
Megumi bit his lower lip so hard he could taste the metallic taste of blood. He didn't want to speak, he didn't want to give him that satisfaction, but his body was already betraying him: his hips unconsciously seeking the warmth behind him, his ragged breathing filling the silent room.
"P-Please," his voice came out broken, an almost inaudible whisper.
The Shibuya Killer chuckled softly, a low sound that made his skin crawl. "P-Please what?" The knife slid slowly down the side of Megumi's neck, then down his back, stopping just above the hem of his jeans where two dimples could be seen. "Say it properly."
Tears of frustration and shame blurred his vision. He didn't want to admit it, yet the tension, adrenaline, and desire were consuming him. "P-Please."
The killer pushed against him, making him let out a strangled moan. He sensed the stranger was hard, perhaps even harder than he was. "Good boy," he then murmured, lowering his voice to a dark, sensual whisper. "This is how I want you. Broken. Honest."
Megumi closed his eyes, surrendering completely to that grip of fear and pleasure. “Do it… whatever you’re about to do.”
There was a smile beneath the mask. His grip on Megumi’s wrists tightened, while his other gloved hand slowly slid down his hips, slipping under his hoodie to touch Megumi’s warm skin. “So docile.” The killer’s voice was sweet venom. “Do you want me to kill you, or fuck you to death?”
Megumi pressed his lips together, her heart pounding. “What do you think?” he murmured, but his voice betrayed anticipation rather than resignation.
The killer continued to smile beneath his mask, thrilled by the boy’s total surrender. He laughed hoarsely as he slowly lowered the knife, placing it on the counter near Megumi’s head and letting his free hand slide under his hoodie. Megumi's soft, pale skin was warm, his breathing ragged; he took his time running up his side, moving up to his chest and brushing his erect nipples, needing to be touched, against the cold fabric of his skin.
Megumi moaned, biting his lip. He felt gloved hands descend, pulling down his sweatpants with excruciating slowness. The sound of metal sliding between passersby filled the silent kitchen. The killer leaned even closer, his mask touching the back of his neck, his hot breath making him shiver.
“You know what turns me on the most?” he whispered softly, his voice velvety yet full of mischief. “That you want it.”
“What…?” Megumi murmured, but his voice broke when the killer pulled his pants down completely, including his underwear, making him moan despite himself.
“Yes.” The killer’s hand was firm, confident. With a firm grip, it caressed the pale skin of his buttocks, pushing him beyond all limits of shame. “You’re like me, Megumi. You pretend to be normal, but you dream all this.”
Megumi closed his eyes, abandoning herself to the contact, his face pressed against the counter. His legs trembled, his breathing ragged, every fiber of his body screamed desire and fear at the same time.
“You bastard,” he whispered, but he pushed his body against the killer’s hand, chasing after it.
“I know,” the man replied with a dark smile that Megumi couldn’t see, his raspy voice vibrating with absolute control. His gloved hand, firm and firm, grabbed one of Megumi’s buttocks, squeezing it tightly enough to leave a mark. Then, with a decisive movement, he spanked him hard, the sharp sound echoing through the kitchen. Megumi jerked forward with a strangled moan, his hands sliding on the edge of the counter to keep from falling.
“Fuck!” he gasped, turning his head just enough to glance at the killer. Megumi’s dark eyes met the cold black sockets of his mask, but the darkness wasn’t enough to hide the flash of desire burning within him. His pupils dilated, his lips slightly parted, and the other noticed immediately.
"I..." he whispered breathlessly, unable to stop looking at him.
The killer said nothing. He remained still, his hand still gripping Megumi's reddened buttock, waiting for him to move, to yield. That silence was more threatening than any word.
Megumi swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his ears. He felt trapped, hunted... but in an intoxicating way.
He decided to give in. He decided to listen to that sick voice in his head, slamming the truth in his face: he had never been like everyone else. He wasn't what society considered "normal," and perhaps it was time to realize it.
With a twist, he freed himself from the suddenly loosened grip, and rose from the counter, his body shaking, turning toward him. Their breaths mingled: Megumi could feel the killer's heat seeping through the mask.
With a trembling hand, he slowly lifted the edge of the white mask until he revealed the man's lips. He didn't notice the killer's holding breath; he was too focused on those full, perfect lips that were gradually revealing themselves. Without thinking, Megumi leaned forward and brushed them with his own, a light, hesitant kiss that tasted of both defiance and surrender.
The killer paused for a moment, surprised by his boldness. Then, with a low growl, he grabbed Megumi's chin and pulled him into a fierce kiss, pressing him back against the counter. The mask shifted slightly to the side as their mouths devoured each other. The kiss was wet, hungry, their tongues chasing each other and joining as if they were one. Megumi felt the other's hands wander under his hoodie to grip his hips, pulling him closer, their chests colliding.
"Good boy," the killer murmured against his lips, kissing him even deeper. With a decisive thrust, he grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind his back, pinning them with one hand. "You never want to challenge me, darling."
Megumi moaned against his mouth, completely overwhelmed. He felt the knife, which the killer had apparently taken—he didn't know when—gripped in his other gloved hand, pressing lightly against his side. The contrast between danger and desire made him shiver, as the other took advantage of his vulnerability to kiss him even more deeply, pushing his body against his.
“God, I can't wait to ruin you,” the killer growled, lowering his head to bite Megumi's neck, kissing the warm, sensitive skin. Megumi closed her eyes, tilting her head to the side to give him access. “Do it,” he whispered, the word barely audible but enough to set the killer on fire.
Megumi saw the killer's lips twist into a wicked grin. Without warning, an iron hand grabbed his head and pushed him down, forcing him to kneel at its feet. The icy floor burned his knees, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning inside him.
He looked up. And in that instant, the killer inhaled sharply: two green eyes, shining with desire and hunger, stared down at him. An image that made him shiver. That rebellious soul that had tried to resist him... was now there, ready to give in.
Megumi had finally broken his defenses. The killer knew it. And that moment belonged to him.
A cruel grin cut across his face as he tightened his grip on the knife hilt. With the hand holding his head, he tangled his fingers in Megumi's black hair and pulled firmly, forcing his neck back. The cold blade slid against her delicate throat, the tip pressing lightly, leaving a small scratch from which a drop of blood emerged.
Megumi gasped, feeling the shiver of pain and pleasure ran down his spine.
"Open your mouth," the killer commanded, his voice low and hoarse, laced with dominance.
Then he pressed the knife ever so slightly harder against the taut skin. Not enough to seriously wound him, but enough to make him feel the thin, lethal blade, ready to cut if he so much as he hesitated.
"Don't play games," he added, and the darkness of the mask tilted downward, as if enjoying the sight of Megumi kneeling, fragile and submissive, yet at the same time imbued with pure desire.
Megumi swallowed, the movement making his skin rub against the steel. His green eyes never left the ones hidden behind the mask. He was trembling, yes, but not from fear. His breathing quickened, his lips parted, and a feverish flush burned his cheeks.
"All right," he murmured in a broken whisper, already ready to obey. Megumi slowly lowered his gaze, his breathing short and labored. He felt the icy blade still at his throat, the hand gripping his hair and forcing him into that position of absolute submission. His skin burned where the knife had barely cut, yet the heat building in his lower abdomen was unbearable.
“Look how beautiful you are like this…” the killer whispered, in a hoarse, dirty tone. “Kneeling before me, with those eyes begging me to hurt you and make you come.”
Megumi gasped, his cheeks burning. He tried to argue, to regain some dignity, but the words died on his lips when the man pushed the blade closer, forcing him to remain still.
“Open,” he ordered, with icy calm.
Megumi hesitated for only a moment, then slowly parted his lips, his wet tongue trembling in anticipation. The killer chuckled, leaning low enough to slide the knife violently along the boy's jaw, tracing a thin red line up to his chin. Then he thrust his hips forward, forcing his lips to press against his erection, hard and palpable even beneath the fabric.
Megumi flinched, a strangled moan escaping his throat. It was the smell, the heat, the raw force that kept him there—everything was driving him crazy.
“So good…” the killer murmured, slowly grinding himself against his mouth. He felt his erection growing second by second, pressing against the fly of his pants. “You were born to be on your knees, Megumi.”
The boy blushed violently, a shiver running down his spine. Without even realizing it, he leaned in further, rubbing himself voluntarily, his mouth half-open, seeking contact.
“And look at you,” the stranger continued with a dark sneer, “begging me with those eyes. You want to feel it in your throat, don’t you?”
Megumi moaned softly, closing his eyes for a moment, almost overwhelmed. “Yes,” he admitted in a faint, broken voice. “I want it.”
The killer let out a low, dirty laugh that vibrated through the four walls of the room. Then he finally lifted his trunks enough and unzipped his pants, freeing his erection. With a decisive move, he pushed the hot, swollen tip against Megumi's trembling lips.
"Here, help yourself."
Megumi moaned again, noticing how big and swollen the stranger's erection was. He didn't think he'd ever seen a cock more beautiful than that. It was massive, veiny, and precum was leaking from the tip. Not only was it long, but it was also incredibly thick.
A rational, "normal" mind would be crying by now, trying to escape in any way possible, but Megumi was so fucking turned on. He couldn't wait to take it in his mouth, to feel it push down his throat and choke.
He swallowed and opened his mouth, taking the Shibuya Killer’s cock in, his cheeks immediately hollowing, his throat already contracting around that invasive presence. The killer sank slowly, enjoying every millimeter, his fingers clenching his black hair to guide the rhythm. The knife remained firm against the skin of Megumi's throat, a sharp reminder that there was no escape, that any breath he took was granted only by his own will.
A low moan escaped him when he felt the moist heat and enveloping pressure of Megumi's mouth. The blade barely grazed his skin, leaving a faint furrow, and the boy shivered violently, his body tense between fear and a desire that was devouring him from within.
"Fuck," the killer muttered hoarsely, moving his hips forward with cruel slowness. "Look at you swallowing me, you're made for this."
Megumi choked slightly, tears clouding his eyes as his breaths turned into ragged gasps. Saliva ran down his chin and onto his chest, dirty and vulnerable, yet his bright green eyes stared at the killer with a mixture of hatred and desire.
The knife pressed a little harder, enough to draw a drop of blood that slid down his neck. The killer growled, aroused beyond measure by the sight, and thrust deeper, harder.
“You’re perfect like this,” the killer hissed, thrusting filthy, merciless thrusts into his mouth. “On your knees, with those pretty lips full of me. You want me to continue, don’t you?”
Megumi moaned, strangled, around him, the vibration that ran through his length made the killer groan. Lust and pleasure welled up in Megumi's belly as the killer pushed his cock deeper, until it touched the back of his throat. Megumi couldn't breathe, drool pooling around the killer's cock and dripping down his chin.
Megumi loved the feeling of having that cock in his throat, hot and throbbing, of being used relentlessly. He sucked it with desperate fury, hollowing his cheeks, his tongue moving feverishly along the protruding veins, feeling every pulse of blood beneath her skin. It was a mess: saliva, tears, ragged breathing, but a mess that made him shiver with pleasure.
His eyes narrowed, unable to handle the storm of sensations, his hands moved on their own: one gripping the killer's thigh, still covered by the black fabric of his pants, digging in his nails to keep from collapsing; the other sliding over his overflowing erection in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure that was destroying him.
The killer noticed immediately. A low growl escaped his lips. The blade rose a few centimeters, ready to remind him who was in charge. Then, with a sudden, cruel jerk, he pulled out of his mouth, leaving Megumi gasping for air, his chin smeared with saliva, his eyes clouded.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The Shibuya Killer growled, clenching Megumi’s hair to lift his head. The tip of the knife pressed against his pale throat again, right above the small cut that was already bleeding slightly. "Who said you could touch yourself without my permission?"
Megumi gasped, his chest heaving convulsively. Terror bit his skin, but arousal also kept him chained there, on his knees, his hard cock desperately seeking relief.
The absolute dominance, the degrading way the killer was treating him, only increased his arousal. He wanted all of this. He wanted to be used, forced to his knees, treated as if he were worthless… but only by him.
He looked up from under his lashes, trembling, pleading.
“P-Please—” he gasped, gripping the killer’s muscular thigh with both hands.
The killer froze above him, his broad chest heaving beneath his mask with every breath, a menacing shadow looming over him. But Megumi noticed a detail that made him tremble even more: his full lips, parted in a perverse grin, glistened with saliva in the dim kitchen light. And he wanted to feel them on his skin, as they ate him, kissed him, and bit him.
“I told you not to touch yourself.” The blade pressed harder on his throat, making him wince and moan softly. “Look at you… wet, hard, begging. Aren't you ashamed?”
The words were accompanied by that dirty smirk; lips curved in a sneer that made his blood boil. Megumi moaned softly, his eyes half-closed, his lips red and swollen. He wasn't ashamed at all, and the killer knew it. In fact, he seemed to enjoy seeing him like this: humiliated, exposed, his breathing ragged, his body betraying every defense.
The killer tilted his head slightly, revealing his tongue slowly running over his lips. He slid the knife along the boy's skin, from his neck to his chest, leaving an icy shiver wherever it passed. The blade barely scratched the small, pink, erect nipples, eliciting a shriek from Megumi, and the killer laughed low, dirty, showing his teeth.
"Sensitive, huh?" he murmured, pushing the blade even lower, until it grazed his abdomen. Then with his other hand, he grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head back, forcing Megumi to look straight at those lips that were now moving slowly, provocatively. "You don't know what I'd like to do to you."
Megumi, his heart in his throat and the excitement choking him, couldn't find the strength to deny it. Only a moan escaped his lips, broken, desperate.
He didn't have time to respond. With a tug on his hair, he was lifted bodily from the ground, and before he could even moan, those exposed lips crashed against him. A fierce, possessive kiss, his tongue violently invading his mouth, as if to brand him from within. Megumi moaned, strangled, overwhelmed by the urgency of that contact, his hands shaking as he tried to cling to the killer's massive chest.
The knife remained there, pressed against his side, a sharp reminder that his life was in the other's hands. But at that moment, Megumi couldn't think of fear—only the taste of those moist lips, the brutal force with which he was devouring him.
Then, with the same violence with which the killer had kissed him, he was pushed back against the table. Megumi's body slumped forward, his chest crashing against the cold, hard wood, eliciting a strangled groan. His arms slid along the surface, desperate, unable to find purchase.
The killer pressed hard against him, his massive body towering over him, one hand pinning the back of his neck to the table, the other slowly sliding the blade down his back. The cold tip of the knife traced thin, burning lines along his skin, trailing down to the curve of his hips.
“This is how I want you,” he growled under his breath, biting cruelly on his ear. “With your face glued to the table, your ass up and ready to be used.”
Megumi trembled but didn’t dare fight back. He was a prisoner of his own desire, completely surrendered to the way the killer held him there: a plaything at the mercy of his ferocity.
With a sharp blow, the killer’s gloved hand crashed down on his buttock, leaving a popping sound that echoed through the kitchen.
“Ahh!” Megumi moaned, his body lurching forward. But before he had time to recover, another spank came, harder, more vicious. His reddened skin burned under those hands, yet his cock throbbed hard, betraying how much this punishment was driving him crazy.
“Look at you reacting,” the killer hissed, leaning down to bite the crook of his neck hard, leaving fang marks. “You like it, huh? Being treated like a whore?”
Megumi gasped, clenching his teeth, trying not to moan too loudly. But when the killer lowered the knife blade and slid it along the inside of his thigh, his resistance collapsed. The cold metal made a small cut just below her thigh, making him flinch and moan with a mixture of pain and pleasure.
“Oh fuck—” Megumi whispered, his voice cracking. A hot trickle of blood began to run down his skin. He was so excited, and he couldn't help but buck his hips, still longing for that blade to cut him, to drive him mad.
The killer smiled smugly. He ran his tongue over his exposed lips and then delivered another pair of spanks, his large hands leaving red marks on Megumi's taut cheecks, the skin growing redder and redder. Then he returned with the blade, scratching just below the other thigh, so close to his hard cock that it drove him wild.
“You’re so wet down here,” he teased, grazing his erection with the cold tip of the knife, not really pressing. “I’m cutting you to pieces, and you’re trembling with desire. You’re as sick as I am.”
Megumi bit his lip, his eyes glazed and bleary and finally couldn’t resist: “Yes—” he groaned, strangled, “yes I am—continue, please.”
The killer grinned, slow and predatory, and placed the knife on the table, near Megumi’s head. Each heavy breath made the air vibrate between them. With excruciating slowness, he removed both gloves, revealing large, calloused hands, strong and precise.
He leaned behind him, his chest pressed against Megumi’s back, and placed his hands on his reddened ass, slowly but surely spreading it. The cold air hit him, making his entrance twitch, already longing for something inside, trembling and panting against the cold wood of the table.
"Ahh—" Megumi moaned, his body jerking with every touch. Each touch from the killer was a sentence, a command that left him shaking completely, unable to resist. His reddened skin still burned from the spanking and the cuts under his thighs, and now desire was taking complete control.
The killer licked his lips; his eyes fixed on Megumi's little hole. Well, good dinner to me, he thought, as a shiver ran down his spine.
With a decisive movement, he dove headfirst between the boy's cheeks, biting and licking the still red and tight entrance, making him moan, strangled against the cold wood of the table. Megumi felt a wave of heat and desire to explode through his body, unable to resist the intense, cruel contact.
The killer's hands held him still, powerful and insistently pressed on his buttocks and hips, guiding him, forcing him to offer himself completely. Every movement, every cruel caress, every hot, wet puff between his buttocks made him tremble and moan without restraint, completely lost in the mingled pleasure and terror.
Megumi arched, trying to find relief and balance as the killer played with him, nibbling, licking, and grazing the already sensitive skin from the cuts under his thighs. His legs trembled, his cheeks red and hot, and the desire to feel even more of the killer's pressure and control became unstoppable.
“Fuck—” Megumi gasped, his voice broken and strangled, his body writhing on the table. “Please—” he begged, not even knowing what for.
He just wanted more, wanted to be filled, dominated, pushed beyond his limits. His stomach twisted, and his thighs, stained with small, bloody cuts, trembled beneath him, threatening to make him collapse.
The killer sneered, his saliva-slicked lips curled in a dirty, predatory smile. “You taste so good,” he murmured darkly, his raspy voice vibrating against Megumi’s skin.
He plunged his tongue into his tight hole, simulating slow, deep thrusts, making him shudder as if he were actually fucking him. With his left hand, he held him open, his fingers digging into the taut flesh, while with his right hand, he spanked him mercilessly. Each blow reverberated through the kitchen, Megumi's skin turning purple, warm, sensitive to each new touch.
“Ahhh—” Megumi groaned brokenly, tears streaming down his cheeks, his chest pressed against the wood of the table, trembling with pleasure and fatigue. His hands slid across the surface, unable to find stability, as if his own body was no longer his own.
From below, the killer watched him, enraptured. Every moan, every sob, every tear excited him to the point of driving him mad. His eyes, visible beneath the mask, shone with fierce desire: seeing Megumi cry with pleasure was sending him beyond his limits.
With a cruel grin, he plunged his tongue further, pushing him to the limit, making him jerk and moan louder and louder. “Oh god—” Megumi sobbed, lost, tears streaming down his face, “More—”
And that was when that impertinent tongue stopped. Slowly, as if torturing him, the killer stood up. He ran a hand over his face to wipe his chin and lips, which were shiny with saliva, and with the same hand he cupped Megumi's face, squeezing his cheeks until he turned his head.
Megumi was panting as if he'd been running for hours. His green eyes, shining with tears, were devastated, dilated with desire, and his red lips moved without words.
The killer stared at him for a long time. Silent. Motionless. And the contrast between his previous ferocity and that icy calm was even more devastating.
“Look at you,” he finally whispered, her thumb stroking his red, tear-stained cheek. “You cry for me, and you like it. Do you want to confess it, darling?”
Megumi was trembling, his chest heaving, his cheeks streaked with tears, his breathing ragged. Those words, those calloused fingers squeezing his face… they were sending him over the edge. There was no shame left, only naked, burning desire.
He shook his head at first, his lips trembling. “I don’t—”
“Don’t what?” the killer urged, tilting his head, the dark smile curling even deeper on his lips. The pressure of his fingers on his cheeks increased, forcing him to look straight into his eyes. “Don’t you want it? Aren’t you enjoying it? Aren’t you as hard as a bitch in heat?”
Megumi moaned, a desperate sound, and finally the words he'd been holding back in the dark corner of his mind came out brokenly.
“Yes!” he cried, almost a sob. “Yes, fuck, I want it… I want it so bad—I want you to use me, to destroy me—” his voice cracked, his face burning, “I want you, please!”
For a moment, the air in the kitchen went still. The confession hung between them like a taut thread, charged with tension and desire.
The killer let out a low, satisfied, dirty laugh. "That's what I wanted to hear." He pushed Megumi’s face against the table with force, crushing his cheek against the wood, his hands gripping his hips like claws. "So good, Megumi. So obedient when you beg."
He bit Megumi’s shoulder, leaving a red, swollen mark, while with his free hand he caressed him underneath, over his thighs marked by cuts and bruises. He felt him vibrate beneath him; every muscle tensed in anticipation.
"Get ready," he hissed in the boy's ear, lowering his voice to a hoarse growl. "Because now I won't let you escape even if you scream."
Megumi barely had time to gasp, his hands struggling to grip the edge of the table, when he was violently pushed forward, flattening himself even further against the table. The killer's hips ground to him, and without a hint of hesitation he slammed into him forcefully, sinking into him with a thrust that made him scream.
“Ahn—!” Megumi’s scream echoed off the kitchen walls, broken and desperate, yet charged with pure pleasure. The tears fell even more freely, and the wood beneath his chest shook with them.
The killer groaned low, a satisfied growl, as he thrust mercilessly, holding him by the hips. “Fuck, yes—so tight, so hot. You’ve been waiting for me, huh?” He thrust further, deeper, pushing him against the wood with animalistic force.
Megumi screamed, his body shaking uncontrollably. “God—yes! Yes, fuck!” he moaned, his voice broken, his forehead pressed against the table. Each thrust was brutal, raw, yet it made him feel alive like never before.
The killer didn’t let him breathe. Each thrust was accompanied by a spank, a bite on the bare skin of his shoulders, dirty words whispered against the back of his neck. Megumi's skin was now a mixture of colors, from the purple of the spanks on his buttocks to the red of the cuts on his thighs.
A canvas decorated in a way his painter loved immensely. He felt like a rag doll, a body used only to satisfy the killer’s needs. Damn, how he adored him.
"You're mine now, feel it? MINE. I'm marking you from the inside, Megumi."
The knife, abandoned nearby, gleamed on the table, but the real blade was the one that was relentlessly stabbing him.
Megumi moaned as if it were about to break, his voice hoarse and sweet at the same time. He had already fallen into subspace. His mind was blank, his eyes rolling back in his head as he felt overwhelmed by the mingled pleasure and pain. “Use me—please, don’t stop! I want to feel everything!”
The killer grinned with satisfaction and accelerated, ferocious, deep thrusts that made the table jolt with every thrust. His calloused hands gripped him everywhere, leaving bruises, marks, indelible memories. The thrusts were so violent that Megumi, though pressed forward, found himself lifted a few inches off the table, as if suspended by the body invading him.
He could feel that thick cock destroying his insides. He felt it all the way to his stomach, and damn, he felt so full. He could have lived with that wonderful feeling all his life. He no longer understood anything, his brain was mush, and probably, if they'd been in some trashy hentai movie that teenagers watched, his pupils would have been heart-shaped.
Then, suddenly, the house phone rang.
Megumi jumped, panic exploding in his chest like a cold shower. “W-What—?” he gasped breathlessly, trying to get up, but a hand immediately pushed him down, the back of his neck glued to the wood.
The killer grunted in annoyance and paused for a moment, causing him to let out desperate moans. Then he slowly pulled away from him, leaving him panting on the table, and turned toward the living room. The heavy footsteps of his boots crossed the room, and after a few seconds he returned, brandishing the phone, which vibrated and rang in his hands.
A ferocious grin distorted his exposed lips as he held the phone out in front of Megumi’s flushed face.
“It’s for you,” he murmured softly, holding it against his tear-stained cheek. “It’s Nobara. Answer.”
Megumi's eyes widened, his heart pounding. "I—I can't—" he stammered, but the other man urged him on, leaning over him and letting the heat of his breath burn his ear.
"Answer, or I'll kill you."
Megumi was shaking, his hands hesitating before reaching for the phone. He swallowed, trying to catch his breath as tears still streamed down his cheeks. In a hoarse, broken voice, he answered:
"H-Hello?"
“Megumi?” Nobara’s shrill voice filled the line, while in the background one could still hear various voices and loud disco music. “Hey, are you okay? I feel you… weird. Are you sick?”
Megumi squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep his voice steady. “I—yes, I’m fine. Just a little tired—”
But he didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The killer, behind him, leaned over with a ferocious grin and entered him again with a violent thrust, so forceful that the table jolted beneath their bodies.
“Ah—!” A desperate cry escaped his lips, which he quickly covered with his free hand, trying to stifle the moans.
“Megumi?” Nobara called back, confused and worried. “What’s happening? Did you scream?”
The boy was panting with his mouth closed, his breath shaky, his eyes wide with shock. He tried to make up for an excuse, but another sudden thrust pierced him, forcing a ragged gasp from him that he tried to disguise by coughing.
The killer held him by the hips, thrusting into him mercilessly, his face very close to his ear as he whispered,
"Talk. Let's see how much you can pretend with her."
Megumi gritted his teeth, trying not to give in to the moan building in his throat. "N-Nothing... really, I'm fine," he panted softly, trying to mask his hoarse voice.
“Hmm.” Nobara sighed on the other end of the line, then raised her voice to make herself heard when there were screams that Megumi couldn’t quite make out. “I don’t really believe you; you sound… weird. Are you sure everything’s okay? Do you want me to come over?”
The killer, behind him, thrust even harder with a sharp blow, pushing him against the table. Megumi’s eyes widened, tears welling up again as the phone shook in her sweaty hand.
“N-No!” he said quickly, his voice cracking. “Don’t come, I’m just… just a little tired.”
The killer chuckled darkly, leaning over him. He grabbed his jaw with one rough hand and, with the other, took the knife again. The cold blade pressed against Megumi’s delicate throat as he entered him with another brutal thrust.
Megumi stifled a cry, turning it into ragged breaths. “Ah—”
“Megumi?” Nobara insisted, clearly worried this time. “Are you okay? Why are you talking like that?”
The killer leaned over to the boy's opposite ear, growling softly:
"Answer. But remember," he pressed the knife a little deeper, tracing a thin scratch on the skin from which a trickle of blood flowed, beneath the one he'd previously inflicted. "You're mine. And if your voice betrays you, I'll have no mercy."
Megumi trembled, trying to swallow the moans rising in his throat, forced to hold the blade against his skin and the cock ravaging him at the same time.
"Megumi, don't lie to me," Nobara said, her voice now hard and suspicious. "Stay there, I'll—"
Click.
The line went dead. The killer had snatched the phone from Megumi's hands and thrown it against the wall, without even looking to see if it had broken.
"Wha—" Megumi didn't have time to speak.
The killer grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, and pressed him violently against the table again. Megumi's bright eyes widened as he felt him thrust into him with a brutal, reckless thrust.
An animalistic growl escaped the killer's exposed lips. "Enough games. Now I'll take you as I want."
His thrusts became ferocious, primal, so powerful that the table screeched against the floor with each thrust. His calloused hands gripped Megumi's thin hips with such force that they would surely be bruised for days.
Megumi screamed, half pleasure, half pain, tears streaming down his face. "Fuck—ahh—!"
"Shut up, or are you going to show everyone what a slut you are?" the killer growled, his voice hoarse and breathless. His hand closed around Megumi's bloody neck, squeezing hard as he lifted him slightly off the table, forcing him to arch. Then he pulled him to him and crashed his lips onto his in an animalistic kiss, full of teeth and saliva, as dirty as the thrusts that continued to ravage his insides.
The killer's body moved above him like a beast consumed by blood. Every fiber was tense, muscles rippling beneath the sweaty skin, veins bulging on his covered arms. His breathing was raspy, wild, as if reduced to pure predatory instinct.
Every thrust was a mark etched into Megumi's flesh. Every thrust a warning that he would never be free of him. He held him down with one hand at his throat, and with the other, gripped his hips, digging his fingers into him until they almost broke his skin.
Megumi moaned loudly, his voice cracking. He couldn't resist: the pain, the tears, the humiliation... yet his cock was hard, desperate, betraying how much he craved the violence with which he was taking him. His head was starting to throb, and the hand on his neck remained there, firm. Not too tight to kill him, but tight enough to prevent him from breathing properly.
"I-I want to touch you—" Megumi gasped against the other's lips, his voice cracking, as he stared at him with those tear-filled green eyes, pupils dilated with desire. He looked desperate, pathetic. A mess so cute and pathetic it took your breath away.
His trembling fingers moved up to the killer's chest, gripping the black fabric of his costume with force, as if he could tear away the veil and reach his skin. Megumi wanted to really feel him, wanted to see him, wanted to touch him.
The killer froze for a moment, his eyes glowing with a dark hunger. Then he burst into a low, cruel laugh and pushed him further against the table, crushing him with his hips.
"Do you want to see me?" he whispered, his voice dirty and hoarse close to Megumi’s ear. "Do you want my hands, my skin?"
He raised a hand and slowly slid it across his chest, his fingers tracing the hard lines beneath the fabric. Then, in one fluid motion, he slipped off the top of his swimsuit, letting it dangle from his hips. He was left in unbuttoned black pants and a compression shirt that clung like a second skin, exposing every muscle. The mask remained firmly on his face, but his exposed lips curled into a predatory smile.
His tanned arms, glistening with sweat, trembled slightly with tension. Each breath made his pectorals contract and relaxed beneath the thin fabric, a sight as powerful as it was devastating.
Megumi's eyes widened, his breath coming in short gasps, trembling before that body that seemed ready to destroy and consume him at the same time.
"That's what you wanted," The Shibuya Killer sneered, leaning in so far that his warm lips brushed Megumi’s ear. One hand gripped his hips tightly, the other slid from his neck down Megumi’s sweaty, trembling chest, teasing a red, erect nipple with its fingertips, eliciting a moan from him. “Now tell me, darling, how much are you willing to give me just to keep touching me?”
Megumi, on the other hand, was staring intently at the killer. That body, even covered by clothes, seemed strangely familiar. And that voice... he'd heard it somewhere before, but he couldn't figure out where, or even who it belonged to. His heart was pounding, a mix of fear and desire that completely confused him.
The killer noticed him and moved away slightly, as if to give him time to react. Then, in a fluid motion, he lifted him from under his thighs, startling Megumi from the fresh, painful cuts, and placed him roughly on the kitchen table. Megumi gasped, his hands searching for purchase, but before he could react, the other man slipped between his trembling thighs.
The contact was burning, unexpected, and Megumi felt a shiver run down his back to his lower abdomen. The killer's body was hot and tense against him, and the pressure between their legs almost made him lose control. Every labored breath from the killer, every muscle that trembled slightly beneath his sweat-slicked skin, increased Megumi's desire, and he realized with a shudder that he was completely giving in.
The tense silence between them was broken only by their labored breathing, the faint scratching of cuts on the table, and the sound of their hearts beating in unison. Megumi knew he couldn't resist, yet he feared every second he'd give in to that devastating attraction.
The killer wasted no time. With a swift, decisive movement, he reentered Megumi's dilated hole, making him gasp at the depth and unpredictability of his grip. The boy's body trembled, his hands gripping the killer's broad shoulders for support, squeezing them tightly.
With a low, predatory grin, the Shibuya Killer grabbed Megumi's leg with one hand, spreading it almost to the point of splitting it, and with the other he began to slowly tease the boy's overflowing, swollen erection, making him bounce on the table. Each thrust was calibrated, slow and precise, aimed at bringing him to the brink of pleasure without allowing him to completely surrender.
Megumi moaned, tears streaming down his cheeks, his breathing labored, and despite the fear and the residual pain from the cuts, desire overwhelmed him like an unstoppable wave. The killer's every touch was a combination of dominance and seduction: it tortured him, provoked him, forced him to react, making him feel how completely he was hers in that moment.
"Fuck—" Megumi gasped, his voice broken and strangled, "H-Harder—"
The killer didn't respond with words. He leaned over Megumi's chest, grasping a needy nipple between his lips, sucking and nibbling it with ferocity and precision. Megumi's hands instinctively moved to the killer's head, still covered by his mask, pulling him against his chest and arching against that warm, predatory mouth.
“Oh God—I’m about to—” Megumi sobbed, his body shaking, pleasure and desire overwhelming her like a raging river. The killer, however, showed no mercy: every movement, every pressure was designed to prolong his domination, to make Megumi crumble under his will and total control.
Megumi couldn’t hold back any longer. With a strangled moan and tears streaming down his face, pleasure overwhelmed him, making him come almost uncontrollably. The body writhed on the table, the cum-stained stomach contracted, and the hands gripped the killer's swollen, contracted biceps as if seeking support, yet there was no complete relief.
The killer, however, didn't stop. With a predatory grin, he continued to tease, to provoke, alternating deep thrusts with light rubs on the swollen glans, toying with Megumi's pleasure like a master. Each movement was calculated, slow and cruel, forcing Megumi to jerk, to moan again, to desire more even though he had already come.
The killer grinned, his muscles tense and his exposed lips curving in a dirty smile.
"It's not over yet, darling," he whispered, as he slightly increased the pressure, making Megumi shudder beneath him. He teased him mercilessly, enjoying every moan, every sob, every tear of pleasure the boy produced.
The boy was completely spent, yet the killer continued to guide him, to tease him, to keep him on the brink of a new climax, until he was gasping desperately for every touch and every pressure.
Megumi, still trembling, couldn't stay still. Almost instinctively, he began to tease the killer, caressing his muscular chest under his shirt with trembling hands, trying to provoke him, to make him react. He leaned toward his neck, gently biting the sweaty skin and then licking it, inhaling the killer's intense, masculine scent.
Megumi wrapped the leg free from the man's iron grip around his waist, pulling him closer and making him sink deeper inside him.
"Fill me—" Megumi whispered against the other's lips, completely overwhelmed, "let me feel how sick you are."
At those words, the killer's hips snapped brutally, pushing against that bundle of nerves inside Megumi and making his heavy balls slam against Megumi's cheecks with a pop. His hole contracted around the killer's penis, squeezing it forcefully.
“Fuck—” the killer groaned, inhaling deeply, coming inside Megumi and filling him to the brim. The boy sighed, his body trembling, feeling the killer’s intense, sticky heat inside him, completely full, consumed.
Their labored breathing and moans filled the kitchen, the wood of the table creaking beneath their bodies, and the smell of desire, sweat, and passion filled the air, leaving them both exhausted but still hungry. The killer remained inside Megumi, and Megumi, still trembling and hungry for contact, raised himself slightly on the table and, without thinking, grabbed the killer’s sharp jaw, kissing him furiously. A kiss that was simultaneously desperate and dominant, trying to establish a contact that would anchor him to him.
As their lips moved in a duel of possession and desire, Megumi, without realizing it, let his hand slide over the killer's head. With a natural, instinctive movement, Megumi's hand moved the mask away, revealing the rest of the killer's face.
A chilling silence fell over the room.
Megumi, his heart still pounding, stepped back slightly, his eyes wide with disbelief and terror. He moved away, seeking space between himself and the killer. Before him was no longer a masked predator: there was Itadori Yuuji. His chemistry classmate. The model medical student. And above all, his crush for centuries.
Yuuji's face, finally revealed, was incredibly close. The large, burning eyes stared at him with an intensity that took his breath away. Every detail, from his features to the crease of his lips, was crystal clear in Megumi's mind. It was no longer a game, no longer a mystery: it was Yuuji, there before him, so real and so dangerously close.
Megumi's breathing became labored, a mixture of fear, surprise, and confusion. His brain was racing: why Yuuji? Why masked? Why he was so dangerous? Every heartbeat felt like a gunshot to his stomach. He didn't know whether to scream, run, or seek an explanation that seemed impossible.
Reality hit him like a punch in the gut: he had just discovered the true identity of the killer, and the world, so familiar until a second ago, had suddenly become a place filled with danger and unbearable tension.
“W-What the fuck?” Megumi whispered, his voice shaking, unable to control the wave of emotions overwhelming him.
It was Yuuji, the Shibuya Killer. The one everyone said they feared. The one who had slaughtered his childhood friend, Hana. Every memory of her flashed through his mind, mingling with his feelings for Yuuji, making the tangle of emotions almost unbearable.
Megumi's eyes stared at him, searching for an explanation, a flaw, a sign of humanity. But Yuuji, unmasked, maintained an expression that wavered between predator and lover: the sneer on his lips, the heavy breathing, the skin glistening with sweat. Reality overwhelmed him. The person he loved, the person his heart chased was simultaneously his greatest threat and his most intense temptation.
Megumi stood there, still, his hands still shaking on the table as he desperately tried to steady his breathing and think clearly. What should I do? His brain screamed, but no answer came. How is this possible?
In front of him, Yuuji sighed loudly, clenching his jaw as if fighting a thought he didn't want to reveal. Then he reached out and grabbed the knife lying next to the table, his fingers gripping the hilt effortlessly.
"Well," he muttered in a hoarse voice, filled with an irritating, icy calm, "this wasn't supposed to happen."
He slowly withdrew from Megumi, making the boy groan despite himself, and looked down at where their bodies had been joined moments before. A whitish thread oozed from Megumi's dilated entrance, sliding down his injured thigh. Yuuji remained still for a moment, mesmerized by the sight. The contrast between blood and cum, between pain and pleasure, was such an obscene and twisted image that it made every nerve tingle.
Shit.
That scene was turning him on again.
He slowly looked up, his eyes still dark and predatory, staring at Megumi's distraught face. The tears streaming down his cheeks, his labored breathing, his red lips… everything about him screamed vulnerability, yet his green eyes were full of fire, of rage, of repressed desire.
“Look at what I've done to you,” Yuuji hissed, tilting the knife and running the back of it along Megumi's cheek, not yet cutting it. “And you're still looking at me like that.”
Then he sighed, running a hand through his disheveled pink hair, his hard gaze unwavering. “It's almost a shame I have to kill you.”
Megumi's eyes widened, his heart exploding in his chest. “Wait!” he cried, his voice broken and desperate.
The silence that followed was tense, broken only by their labored breathing.
Megumi didn't even know what he was doing, but the words came out of him, like an animalistic survival instinct. "You can't do this... not now. Not after... that." He swallowed, his cheeks flushed and his eyes shining, betraying a sick desire. "Not after you made me feel so alive."
Yuuji raised an eyebrow, tilting his head like a predator curious about its prey. The blade stopped just millimeters from Megumi's skin, the glint of the metal illuminating the fragile line of his throat.
“Alive?” Yuuji repeated, as if savoring the word. Then he laughed softly, a low, rasping sound. “Do you realize how broken you are? You're begging the man who just confessed to wanting to kill you.”
“So?” Megumi growled, with more force than he thought he had. “You're the one who touched me like this. You're the one who can't stop when I do.” His green eyes burned with a mix of defiance and desperation. “If you really want to kill me, do it. But don't pretend you don't want me as much as I want you.”
Yuuji stared at him in silence, the knife trembling imperceptibly in his hand. That silence was more frightening than any threat.
Then Megumi sneered, cupping his face in his shaking hands. He was still spread-eagled, covered in sweat, blood, and cum. "And don't pretend you're not as sick as me," he murmured, leaning into Yuuji's lips. "Besides, I won't tell anyone I know who you are."
Yuuji clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on him as if he wanted to pierce him, to see if he was lying. But in those dilated pupils there was no sterile fear: there was lust. There was an abyss calling him.
Megumi caressed his cheek with his thumb, his voice low and seductive like poison. “Think about it… I could be the only one who truly knows you. The one who sees both your faces. The star student and the Shibuya Killer.” His lips brushed Yuuji’s in a half-kiss, more promise than connection. “I could be your secret. Your accomplice. Your private sin.”
And it was true. Fuck college and its shitty rules, fuck the police, fuck Hana. He wanted all of this. The feeling of being alive, of living on adrenaline, of that sick love. Fuck rationality, the normality dictated by society. He didn’t want to live within limits anymore; he wanted to go beyond them.
The knife slid slowly, the blade leaving the skin of Megumi's throat without cutting it.
Yuuji inhaled sharply, as if only now realizing he'd been holding his breath. "You don't understand who you're playing with," he growled, but his voice lacked the same confidence as before.
Megumi smiled, damned, pleased with that crack. "Maybe I do. Or maybe I understand all too well."
Megumi moved quickly, taking advantage of that moment of hesitation. His hands, still trembling but determined, grabbed Yuuji's wrist and with a sharp movement, removed the knife. The blade, now reversed, glinted in the cold kitchen light as he slowly ran it across Yuuji's neck.
The killer remained still, his eyes flashing a furious, incredulous red. He felt the cold tip grazing his throat, but he didn't retreat. It wasn't fear that tightened his chest; it was something far more dangerous.
Megumi whispered close to his lips, with a crooked, venomous smile: "See? I'm not as defenseless as you thought."
He pressed the back of the blade lightly against his warm skin, not hurting him, just to let him feel it. "And you don't really want to kill me."
Yuuji inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Part of him should have snatched the knife from his hand, silenced him forever. But another, darker, more intimate part of him was enjoying the sensation. Being seen, recognized, even challenged by someone who until a moment before had been mere flesh to be carved.
His hands closed on the edges of the table, his knuckles white from the effort of restraining himself. Then, with a low growl, he lowered his gaze. “Damn, darling…” he muttered, his voice cracking and ferocious. “You win.”
The knife fell from the boy's fingers, sliding to the floor with a metallic clang. Yuuji let go, his breathing ragged, his eyes devouring him with lust and repressed fury.
Megumi caught his breath in fits and starts, like a castaway finally emerging from the water. He realized only then that he'd been holding his breath the entire time, and his chest burned with the effort. The knife was on the ground, far away, yet the air was sharper than any blade.
His eyes landed on Yuuji. Not on the masked killer, not on the monster Shibuya feared—but on Itadori Yuuji. And what he saw paralyzed him. There was nothing human in that gaze. Two honey-colored irises, beautiful and empty, as if there was no guilt or redemption behind them. Only silence. Only death.
Megumi swallowed, his throat feeling dry. He should have felt horror, disgust, hatred. He should have tried to run away, scream, report it. Instead... he felt a different kind of fever. A shiver that shook him to the bone.
“Maybe…” he murmured, almost to himself, “this is what I wanted.”
Yuji stared at him without answering, his lips parted and his breathing slow, like a predator who has decided not to tear his prey to pieces only to watch it writhe.
Megumi bowed his head, a broken smile on his lips. “Don’t live for the future. Don’t have rules. Just today. Just us.”
His fingers, stained with blood and sweat, slid down Yuuji’s chest, brushing the black shirt stretched over his muscles. “You’re sick. I’m sicker than you. And maybe…” his eyes shone, mad and in love, “maybe I already belong to you.”
The silence that fell afterward was heavy, vibrant. It was no longer a matter of life and death: it was a promise, a dark pact that neither of them could ever break.
Yuji said nothing. It was pointless. Her fingers moved slightly, trailing up to Megumi's jaw and squeezing, as if to remind him that she could break him at any moment. But instead of plunging in, he tilted his face and connected his lips to Megumi's.
It was a fierce kiss, devoid of sweetness, a seal. A mark. Blood, sweat, and the salt of tears mingled, but neither of them pulled away. Megumi welcomed it, letting himself be burned, and in that desperate contact he understood there was no escape.
They were bound. Victim and executioner, accomplice and companion.
And in that kitchen steeped in death, pain, and pleasure, a silent pact was born. A pact that would last until the end of their days.