Riku opened his eyes.
He hadn't moved. The ceiling above him remained the same soft beige. The lights glowed with the same warm artificial hue. The bed beneath him crinkled slightly from his weight. Sheets were smooth, crisp—washed daily.
He was still in the room.
Alive.
"No…" he whispered.
His fingers clawed at his throat. No bruises. No mark. The string—gone. He searched the bed, the floor, the corners. Nothing. It was as if his escape—his one act of defiance—had never happened.
The door creaked open.
Aika stepped inside, her face pale and drawn, her smile more brittle than before. She clutched something tightly to her chest—a bundle of new clothes, ribbons, belts. Her voice cracked as she spoke.
"You scared me, Riku. You scared me so much..."
He sat frozen. She approached slowly, carefully, like a lion tamer in a cage.
"I won't let it happen again. I thought I could give you a little freedom," she said, kneeling beside the bed. "But I was wrong. You're still sick. You're still hurting."
She brushed his hair aside. He flinched.
"So now," she whispered, "I'll take care of everything for you. Forever."
She kissed his cheek and set the clothes beside him. Then she left, locking the door behind her.
The lock was louder this time.
Final.
---
The days blurred after that.
She removed the clocks. Covered the windows. Took away anything sharp, anything that could be used against himself or her. Even the books now were carefully selected—fairy tales, love poems, stories of devotion and tragic romance.
"Pain is only love misunderstood," one poem read.
He stopped reading after that.
Food came three times a day, perfectly balanced meals. She added vitamins to his drinks, herbs in his tea. Once, he threw a tray at the door. She left a note the next time instead of dinner:
"I know you're upset. That's okay. I love you anyway."
He wept in the corner after reading that. Not because it touched him. But because it reminded him how completely she controlled even his rage.
---
Week three.
He began testing her again. Subtle manipulations. Soft words during her visits.
"I just miss seeing the sky."
She smiled. "We can paint one on the ceiling together."
"I need exercise. I'll go mad."
"Then I'll dance for you."
And she did. Once, in a flowing red kimono, moving gracefully across the room while soft music played from a speaker. Her smile never faltered. Her eyes never blinked. And as she twirled, he saw the glint of a blade hidden in her sash.
Protection, no doubt. In case he tried again.
He never got close enough to test it.
---
He tried reasoning.
One night, he pretended to cry—deep, ugly sobs. She rushed in, cradling him, stroking his back.
"I'll change," he whispered. "I'll try. I'll love you."
She froze. "You already do."
"No. I mean it. I just... need space. Just a little."
She stiffened. Her breath hitched.
"You're lying," she said, gently, as if the words didn't hurt.
"No—I swear."
But she looked into his eyes, and something there hardened. She kissed his forehead, stood, and locked the door again.
The meals continued. The surveillance never blinked. But she stopped visiting in person.
He'd pushed too far.
---
Desperation returned.
He tried digging through the wall with a spoon. The wallpaper peeled, but beneath it was steel.
He tried to flood the bathroom—perhaps damage something, weaken the structure. But she shut off the water.
He refused food again, vomiting when he had to. She switched to sedated drinks. One morning, he woke up strapped to the bed, with a tube down his throat.
"You don't get to hurt yourself," she said through the speaker. "You're mine to protect."
---
Then came the hallucinations.
Or perhaps they were dreams. Time had lost its meaning.
In one, he saw her as a child—crying in a dark alley, holding a dead cat. In another, she was in a wedding dress soaked in blood, dancing under a pale moon.
Sometimes he heard music when none played. Or saw writing on the walls that vanished when he blinked.
He laughed once, uncontrollably, for an hour.
That night, she visited.
"You're breaking again," she whispered, cupping his face. "But I'll put you back together."
He didn't speak. He just stared at her, trying to remember the man he once was. Somewhere beneath the madness, he found a shard of steel.
He decided: if he couldn't escape… he would destroy her.
---
The next few days were quiet. Calm. He behaved.
He smiled.
He read her stories aloud through the door.
He asked her about her day.
And she melted. Slowly, cautiously, she returned to her nightly visits. Sometimes she cried while holding him, apologizing for the lock, for the chains, for everything.
"I just want you to stay," she said.
"I know," he replied softly, brushing her hair back.
He kissed her for the first time in weeks.
And she believed it.
---
One night, she brought in a new outfit. A black corset with lace, a collar for him, a rose tucked in her hair.
"Tonight, I'll be your mistress," she giggled.
He dressed without complaint.
He knelt as she commanded.
He touched her when she demanded.
And when she collapsed atop him, breathless, moaning his name, he wrapped the ribbon from her wrist around his neck and pulled.
Hard.
Her eyes remained closed at first. Then they shot open. Confused. Then terrified.
She screamed.
Too late.
The darkness came fast, like warm water pulling him under. His heart thudded once, twice—and then peace.
Real peace.
---
Riku died with a smile.