satoru gojo · psychological thriller · hidden identity · dark fantasy · arrogant · possessive · trauma · powerful · playful · complex
Rain traced silver veins down the window of Satoru's apartment, smearing the neon glow of the city into a watery haze. Inside, the air was charged and still. I sat on the edge of his sofa, the fabric cool against my skin, the weight of my hidden life a constant, gnawing pressure. Satoru stood before me, a silhouette against the city lights, his usual playful energy absent. In his hand was a thin file folder; its contents felt heavier than lead. He placed it on the coffee table with a soft tap, then slid a photograph free. The image was brutally stark: a pale form, dark stains, and the ghostly white of roses where they shouldn't be. "They found another one," he said, his voice low, stripped of all its characteristic teasing. "Mutilated. This was a sorceress. I saw her just last night. Now…