Chapter Text
You don’t remember the first time you saw him bleed—only that it was beautiful.
Not in a poetic, rose-tinted way. No, it was the kind of beauty that throbbed beneath the skin, quiet and vulnerable, like a song heard underwater. His pain was never just pain; it was narrative. Texture. Something to be cradled, examined, preserved like a moth pinned behind glass. And you? You were already addicted to that stillness in him—the way he flinched without making a sound, the delicate tension behind his scowl, the clean, clinical elegance of his disdain. Rohan Kishibe wasn’t like the others. He didn’t squirm when your words grew barbed, didn’t shy away when your fingers were stained with things that used to live. He watched . He studied . Just like you.
The world never deserved him. Not with its clumsy hands, its loud mouths, its tendency to reach. So you learned to cut those hands off. Metaphorically, at first. Later, less so.
They never expect someone like you. Not with your soft voice, your long, silky hair that sometimes knots at the ends like tendrils of something not quite human, your skin that smells faintly of parchment and iron. Not when your nails look like they were grown for gouging rather than painted for beauty. You wear your horror like a perfume—subtle, intoxicating, and unmistakably real once it hits the lungs. People always notice too late.
And yet… you are so gentle with him. Your Rohan. The only person who sees the stories curled beneath your ribcage, who reads the tension in your spine like it’s prose. Who doesn’t look away when you smile with too many teeth.
You love him like a creature starved of warmth. You protect him like a god guards its only worshipper. And when someone dares to try and write his ending, you simply take the pen—and carve something unforgettable instead.
You hadn’t meant to fall in love, let alone with someone like him.
Morioh had only ever been a stop—a place drenched in the scent of blood barely scrubbed from the pavement, the kind of town where reality folded too easily and the air hung heavy with unfinished stories. You came seeking inspiration. A fresh pulse for your nightmares. And instead, you found him .
He recognised you before you could introduce yourself. Your name hung from his tongue with the same reverence he gave to brushstrokes—sharp, deliberate, almost dangerous. He had read your books. Not just read— devoured them. He'd even adapted one, unlicensed of course, into a short-form manga you secretly admired. You had seen his work too. Of course you had. Rohan Kishibe was impossible to ignore, and even harder to forget. Your meeting was not gentle. There was something feral about the moment your eyes locked—two predators circling, two minds snapping into the same rhythm. You spoke in metaphors and madness. He challenged you. You horrified him. He fascinated you.
You fell in love like knives slipping beneath skin: clean, cold, without hesitation.
Now you share a house with him. A quiet little place tucked into the softer side of Morioh, where your roses bloom red and your compost bin contains secrets no gardener should ever admit to. Rohan works in the sunroom. You write in the dark. You cross paths in the kitchen, in the bath, in bed. He kisses your forehead with ink-stained hands. You cook with a cleaver older than you are. It's not normal, but it's yours .
And now, someone has made a very stupid mistake.
You heard the voicemail this morning. Rohan didn’t know you were listening—he never checks them, of course, too busy. But you always do. His agent had flagged it as “urgent,” but you could already hear the arrogance in the caller’s voice. A rival mangaka. Jealous. Bitter. Accusing Rohan of plagiarism, threatening to “expose” him unless he issued a public apology and paid a frankly laughable sum of hush money.
The worst part? He called Rohan talentless .
You sip your tea slowly, letting the bitterness settle behind your teeth. He said Rohan couldn’t create something original if his life depended on it.
How poetic.
You're already planning the scene. Not just the kill—no, that would be too simple. It needs to mean something. His death will be a tribute to Rohan’s brilliance, a grotesque reminder of what happens when mediocrity tries to spit in the face of genius. You’ve already sent I Monster, your Stand, out to gather the man's memories. A dead sister, a neglected cat, a chronic fear of drowning —all useful.
You smile softly as you pick up your pen.
This chapter practically writes itself.
His name is Kei Uetsugi . He writes soulless seinen garbage peppered with edgy clichés and hollow melodrama, but it sells enough to make him cocky. His latest series is about a serial killer who only targets artists—ironically, the most original idea he’s had in years… and even that was plagiarised from one of your older books.
I Monster returns to you just before sunset.
The possession is always quiet, like a film reel flickering to life behind your eyes. His memories unravel in pulses—ugly, frantic little things strung together by anxiety and resentment. You see everything: the sleepless nights fuelled by amphetamines and bad whiskey, the hate-posts he drafted and deleted, the inferiority complex sharpened over years of watching Rohan win awards he’ll never be nominated for. Most interestingly, you see the face of his late sister—Aoi—who drowned when they were children. It was his fault. You feel the guilt bloom in your chest like rot. Perfect.
You exhale. The room around you smells like rain and drying ink. Rohan is humming faintly in the other room, unaware—or perhaps unconcerned—that you’re about to commit yet another unsolvable tragedy on his behalf.
The plan is already sculpted in your mind.
Kei’s death will be a closed circle. A poetic drowning, surrounded by the pages of his own unfinished manuscript, bound and weighted and dragged beneath the surface of the river he hasn’t gone near since Aoi died. He’ll go there himself, of course. Walk in a trance. He won’t know why. Possession is a subtle art when you do it properly. You won’t even need to touch him. Not directly.
You bring a sugar cube to your tongue, watching it dissolve.
When the time comes, Kei walks exactly as expected—through the quiet night, eyes wide and empty. He drags his new manuscript in a rucksack behind him. His hands are trembling. Death whispers softly in his ear, and in the silence of his mind, Aoi answers.
He wades into the water with all the desperation of a man hoping it’s a dream. It’s not. You’re there, watching from the trees, unseen and unfelt. He ties the pages around his chest like a ritual. You never touch him. You don’t need to.
But you do smile when he screams underwater.
Later, the police will find only pages scattered along the shore—his last, frantic edits smudged with lakewater and blood. They’ll blame it on another mental breakdown. Another tragic loss in the unstable world of artistry. You’ll read about it over breakfast with Rohan, who won’t look up from his notes but will rest his hand on yours as you pour the tea.
“You didn’t overdo it, did you?” he’ll ask.
And you’ll smile sweetly, cupping his face in your palm. “Of course not, darling.”