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sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 2 days ago

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Unfit for Containment

(Yandere Satosugu x Reader)

summary:

A young intern is sent to a remote mental health facility, where the walls hum with secrets and the patients are anything but ordinary. Bright-eyed and gentle, she quickly draws attention from the very individuals others fear to speak to. Her kindness becomes her greatest strength—and her most dangerous vulnerability. As she navigates carefully controlled sessions and unsettling smiles behind glass, it becomes clear: some attachments form quietly… and hold on far too tightly.

The sky was grey when she arrived. Not the kind of grey that promised a storm—just the kind that felt… blank. The kind that dulled everything it touched.

But she didn’t mind.

Her suitcase bumped against her ankle as she stepped onto the narrow road leading up to the institution gates, her shoes light and floral against the concrete. A soft pink cardigan clung to her shoulders, a little bow clipped in her hair just above her ear. She looked like she belonged in a university classroom, maybe a garden café. Not here. Not in front of the looming gates of Kuroioka Institute—tall, stark, and silent.

Still, she smiled to herself. This was it. Her first real placement.

She reached for the intercom.

“Hi! Um, this is (Y/N). I’m the new psychology intern? I think I’m a little early, sorry—”

“You’re on time.”

The voice was calm. Male.

The gate creaked.

And then a man in a beige coat stepped into view, his blonde hair neat, his expression unreadable. He held a clipboard in one hand and looked at her like he already regretted everything.

“Nanami Kento,” he said. “You’ll be reporting to me during your internship.”

“Oh! Okay—thank you!” She stuck out her hand politely. “It’s really nice to meet you, Nanami-san. I’ve heard so much about—”

He shook it, but barely. “Let’s not waste time.”

Inside, the halls were even colder than she expected. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. It didn’t feel like a hospital. It didn’t feel like anything.

“Your room is in the south wing,” Nanami explained. “Third floor. Shared kitchenette, communal laundry. You’ll be evaluated weekly, and you’ll submit your reports directly to me unless stated otherwise.”

She nodded enthusiastically, hugging her folder to her chest.

“Most of the patients here are transferred from state psychiatric containment,” he continued. “Classified cases. Experimental protocols. You’ll observe. Document. Never engage unless authorized.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she kept smiling. “That sounds intense…”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“You’ll meet the head of the institute today. Brief introduction. Then Dr. Ieiri in diagnostics. She’ll explain the med distribution process.”

She nodded again, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Okay! I’ll do my best!”

He said nothing.

⸻

She didn’t understand why everyone looked so serious. The people in the meeting room barely acknowledged her, except for one man—an older, suited figure with dead eyes and a too-thin smile—who called her “a fresh perspective” and “delightful.” He didn’t look at her face when he said it.

Nanami stood to the side, stiff, unmoving.

When they dismissed her, he escorted her down the hall silently.

“You’re meeting with Dr. Ieiri next,” he said without looking at her. “East diagnostics.”

“Yes, sir!” she chirped, still smiling.

He frowned. “Don’t call me sir.”

She giggled softly. “Okay, Nanami-san.”

He stopped in front of the diagnostics door.

“Wait here. She’s just finishing up. I’ll come get you when she’s ready.”

She nodded and perched herself on the bench, legs crossed at the ankle, smoothing her skirt and humming under her breath. Everything was going well so far. The place was a little… clinical. And the people were intense. But she could handle that.

She was here to help. That’s what mattered.

⸻

Thirty minutes passed.

The hallway remained silent.

Then the door creaked open.

Nanami stepped out.

And his face was different.

His jaw was clenched. His grip on the clipboard white-knuckled. He wasn’t just annoyed—he looked angry.

She stood up quickly. “Is everything okay—?”

He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at her like she was a puzzle someone had forced him to solve.

“They’ve finalized your patient assignments,” he said flatly.

“Oh, great! Who will I be working with?”

A pause.

He looked away.

“Gojou Satoru and Getou Suguru.”

She blinked.

There was silence.

Then she smiled again. “Those are the ones from the level five wing, right?”

“Correct.”

Her head tilted. “That’s strange. Weren’t they… uh, sealed for behavioral instability? I thought only the senior psychiatrists handled—”

“They do,” Nanami cut in. “But the board made a decision.”

His voice was colder now. His eyes unreadable.

“No one else has managed to keep consistent observation time with them. Your assignment begins tomorrow.”

She hesitated. Her smile faltered—just slightly.

“Oh… I see.”

A hand landed on her shoulder. A different one.

“Don’t let him scare you,” said a smooth, amused voice.

She turned and found herself face to face with a woman in a half-wrinkled lab coat, dark circles under her eyes and a cigarette between two fingers. “Shoko Ieiri,” she said. “Diagnostics and sedation protocols. You’ll be seeing a lot of me if you’re going near them.”

She shook her hand firmly, studying her expression. “You’re either brave, stupid, or just incredibly soft. Let’s find out which.”

“W-We’re not even sure what their diagnoses are exactly,” the girl said, laughing awkwardly. “Just rumors, right?”

Neither of them answered.

Nanami crossed his arms. “I argued against it. They didn’t care. You were chosen for a reason.”

Shoko exhaled a long stream of smoke, her gaze sharpening.

“They think maybe if it’s someone pretty. Someone gentle. Someone that doesn’t look like they belong here.”

She smiled grimly.

“They’ll talk to you.”

The girl looked between them. Their expressions made her stomach twist.

“…I can handle it,” she said softly. “I mean… I came here to help people. That’s what I’m going to do.”

No one spoke.

But Nanami sighed, quietly. Almost inaudible.

Shoko glanced at him.

“Poor thing’s got no clue what she’s walking into,” she murmured.

And she didn’t.

Not yet.

But she would.

Tomorrow, the door would open.

And the voices in the white rooms would finally find her.

_________

The next morning, she woke up early.

The sky hadn’t changed—it was still that unremarkable grey, neither dark nor bright, just blank. But she didn’t mind. She took her time getting ready. A cream-colored cardigan, soft knit. A pleated skirt with little flowers. Pink clips on either side of her head to keep her hair in place. A tiny gold cross around her neck, mostly hidden beneath her collar. Just a small comfort.

Today was her first real assignment. Her first session. Her first patient.

She packed her notepad, folder, and pens in her small tote bag and clipped her name tag to her chest. She even added a strawberry sticker to her clipboard.

Because… why not?

Even scary places could be a little softer.

⸻

Nanami met her just outside the dorm wing. He was exactly the same as always: beige coat, tie straight, jaw tense. But something about the way his eyes landed on her—on her bow, her pastel cardigan, her matching pen—made her think he was trying not to say something.

“Good morning!” she beamed.

He gave a slow nod. “Come with me. I’ll brief you on the way.”

She followed beside him, her steps quick to match his.

“Today you’ll begin your patient observations,” he said, voice clipped. “You’re starting with Gojou Satoru.”

She blinked. “Oh—alright. He’s the one in level five, right? I read the preliminary files last night, but—”

“Good. Then you understand the level of risk.”

She hesitated. “They said… he’s highly unstable. Aggressive. Psychosis, possibly schizophrenia with delusional episodes…”

“Those are just words for what no one fully understands,” Nanami said. “You read about the Shinjuku Incident?”

Her stomach fluttered. “…Yes.”

“Then you understand why he’s the only patient housed in full suppression protocol. Physical restraints. Isolation. Anti-reinforcement architecture. Guards stationed at all times. No physical contact.”

She nodded. “Understood.”

He stopped outside a heavy steel door at the end of a long, windowless corridor. Two guards in matte black armor flanked either side.

Nanami turned toward her. And for the first time… his voice softened.

“You stay calm. If anything feels wrong, anything at all, you leave. Don’t try to understand him. Don’t try to reason with him. Just do your job, and come back out. I’ll be waiting.”

She blinked up at him, surprised.

“I will,” she said, and smiled. “Thank you, Nanami-san.”

He didn’t smile back. But he looked at her for a moment longer than usual. Then nodded to the guards.

The door opened.

⸻

She stepped inside the chamber and immediately felt it—something wrong in the air. Like walking into a room that had been filled with smoke hours ago. Nothing visible, nothing tangible, just a presence in the walls. A hum under the skin.

He was seated in the center of the room.

His wrists, ankles, and neck were bound by a web of blackened steel. The cuffs looked more like cursed tools than restraints—etched in runes, fused into the floor. His blindfold was still in place, but his head tilted the moment she stepped in, like he could see her anyway.

He smiled.

The kind of smile that didn’t belong in a place like this. Wide. Bright. Full of light that didn’t reach his bindings.

“You came,” he said.

She froze mid-step.

He tilted his head the other way, a slight giggle in his throat. “I knew you would. I could feel you right outside my door. You smelled like vanilla shampoo and cheap strawberry ink.”

She looked down, instinctively clutching her clipboard. Her Hello Kitty pen glinted pink in her hand.

“Aww,” he said. “That’s cute. You brought that just for me, didn’t you?”

“I…” She cleared her throat and tried to steady herself. “My name is (Y/N). I’ll be your assigned intern for the next few weeks. I’m here to observe your behavioral patterns and—”

“I know who you are.”

Her heart fluttered. He hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t look dangerous. He just… knew too much.

“(Y/N) (L/N), age twenty-three. Graduated two months ago. Internship transferred from Kyoto on emergency recommendation. You like lemon cake. You cried at the end of that movie, the one where the dog dies—what was it? Hachiko?”

Her fingers tightened around her clipboard.

“You should’ve been assigned to someone boring,” he said casually. “Someone who doesn’t even look at you. But instead…”

He smiled wider.

“You got me.”

She tried to keep her tone professional. “Your file says you’ve shown signs of hyperfixation. I’d like to begin our first session by asking a few baseline questions.”

“Sure.” He tilted his head again, grin still in place. “You can ask anything you want. I like your voice.”

She scribbled something down—his tone was playful but unsteady. The way he leaned forward in his restraints made the guards tense slightly, but she didn’t flinch.

“Why are you here, really?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re too soft for this place,” he murmured. “All sweetness and pastels. It’s adorable. Like sending a kitten into a tiger cage.”

She smiled gently, the way she had practiced. “I want to help people. I know some of the cases here are severe, but… that’s why I came. To make a difference.”

For a moment, something in his expression shifted.

“You really mean that.”

It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, pink pen tapping lightly against the edge of her clipboard.

“Would you say you experience emotional instability or violent impulses?” she asked, reading from the list.

He laughed. “Depends on who’s watching.”

She looked up, a little confused.

“I don’t want them in here,” he whispered. “The guards. They’re ruining the moment.”

She smiled again, softer this time. “I don’t think I can change that.”

His voice dropped. Darker. “You could, if you wanted to.”

There was a pause. The silence stretched. Something cold prickled against the back of her neck.

Then his head tilted again. His grin was back.

“You’re prettier up close,” he said warmly. “Your photos didn’t do you justice.”

Her pen slipped slightly. “Photos?”

“Oh, don’t worry.” He leaned forward just enough to pull the chains taut. They groaned. “They’re hidden. For me only.”

She took a careful breath, writing something down just to fill the space.

“Are you scared of me?” he asked.

She blinked. “No.”

“Liar.” He smiled like it was a compliment. “But that’s okay. You will be.”

The door hissed behind her.

Nanami stepped in, voice sharp. “Session’s over.”

Satoru didn’t flinch. He just turned his face slightly toward the sound, then looked back at her.

“You’ll be back,” he said with certainty. “You don’t belong to them. You’ll see that soon.”

She hesitated for just a second, then gave him a soft smile.

“Goodbye for now, Gojou-san.”

And then she waved—just a tiny wave of her fingers, like she would to a classmate at school.

His smile split wide, like sunlight through broken glass.

As the guards ushered her out, his voice followed—quiet, but clear.

“Next time, wear that blue skirt again. You looked so pretty in it.”

She stepped into the hall.

The door shut behind her with a deep, echoing clang.

Nanami’s jaw was tight. The guards looked unsettled.

But she just smiled, a little flustered, and glanced at her clipboard.

“I think it went okay,” she said brightly. “He was very… energetic.”

Nanami didn’t say a word as he walked her back.

But behind the steel door, Satoru sat very still. His chains groaned as he leaned his head back.

And smiled.

________

She thought she would feel more prepared this time.

The hall outside the East Containment wing looked the same—white, spotless, silent. Nanami’s posture was just as rigid beside her, clipboard in hand. But as she glanced up at him, she noticed the subtle difference.

He looked… tense. Not just alert, but concerned.

“Now you’ll meet Getou Suguru,” he said without preamble. “You’ve read the file.”

She nodded, holding her clipboard a little tighter. “Former cult leader. High intelligence. Mass casualty event. Manipulation through ideological influence and emotional targeting.”

Nanami gave a short nod.

“His ability to read others is unparalleled. Do not let him draw you in. Do not over-engage. Stick to your baseline questions and leave when I give the signal.”

She smiled a little, trying to keep the nerves down. “I understand. I’ll be careful.”

“I mean it,” Nanami said, looking at her fully now. “You’re not trained to resist his kind of persuasion. Don’t confuse politeness with safety.”

Her smile faltered. Just a little.

Still, she nodded again.

“I’ll be fine.”

The guards opened the door.

⸻

His room was similar to Satoru’s in structure—plain concrete walls, low lighting, not a trace of softness anywhere. But there were no chains.

Instead, a clear barrier of reinforced cursed glass split the room in half, and he sat behind it like a prince in a quiet chapel—long black hair tied neatly back, robes folded in precise layers, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t look up immediately. He was seated cross-legged on the floor, brush in hand, painting slow, deliberate strokes onto a fresh canvas.

She stepped in softly, the door closing behind her with a sealed click.

“Good morning,” she said gently, her tone still warm despite the chill. “My name is (Y/N). I’m the assigned intern working with you for the next few weeks.”

She smiled. A small, practiced thing that came naturally to her.

He didn’t look at her.

“I’ve been asked to monitor your behavior patterns and emotional responses during structured conversation sessions,” she continued, clipboard in hand. “My role is non-invasive. I’m only here to talk and observe.”

There was a pause.

Then his eyes lifted.

Dark. Sharp. Still.

He looked at her as if she were an old photograph brought to life. No surprise in his gaze. No curiosity. Just calm recognition.

“(Y/N),” he said, without inflection. “From Kyoto.”

Her breath caught. But she recovered quickly—she’d gotten used to strange familiarity after yesterday. Maybe the files were more widely circulated than she realized.

“You… have a strong memory,” she said, voice still sweet. “I guess everyone’s been reading about me, huh?”

“No,” he replied. “I just knew you would come.”

The words were soft. Smooth. Said like they were inevitable.

She blinked and moved to the small desk provided for interns on her side of the glass.

He watched her the whole time.

“You don’t belong in a place like this,” he said after a moment. “You’re too soft.”

Her cheeks warmed faintly, but she gave him a polite laugh.

“You’re not the first person to say that.”

“But I’ll be the last.”

She looked up, startled.

He didn’t explain.

Instead, he set the brush down, wiped his fingers with a white cloth, and finally leaned forward. Their eyes met through the glass. He didn’t smile—but something in his gaze curled around her, quiet and unrelenting.

“You smell like spring,” he said quietly.

She tilted her head. “Excuse me?”

“Like cherry blossom soap. I used to know someone who wore the same.” His gaze lingered on her hair clips. “You dress gently. Deliberately.”

She hesitated, then smiled again, as if to brush it off.

“I think it’s important to keep some color around here. It’s very… white.”

That made something in him twitch—a breath, a near-smile. Not mocking. Not kind. Just… something alive.

“I was told you paint,” she said, eyes flicking toward the small stack of canvases in the corner.

A change came over him. Subtle. But it was there.

He didn’t look. He didn’t move. But there was a stillness that wrapped around him now. A tension.

“It helps me remember,” he said.

“Remember what?”

“Things that belong to me.”

She blinked again, unsure how to respond.

“May I ask what you’re painting today?”

He turned the canvas slightly, so only a corner was visible—a pale blur of skin tone. A curve of a cheek. A delicate line of a smile.

“I’m still working on the eyes,” he murmured. “Yours are… complicated.”

She blinked. “I—I don’t think I understand.”

He didn’t clarify. But his gaze was locked on her now. Calm. Patient.

Like he could wait forever.

She wrote something down, her Hello Kitty pen tapping lightly at the edge of her clipboard. His eyes followed the pen.

“You really are exactly what I imagined,” he said.

“Imagination can be misleading,” she replied sweetly.

“Not mine.”

The door opened behind her. She turned instinctively—and saw Nanami’s silhouette in the doorway, watching.

Time was up.

She stood slowly, collecting her things. As she reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder.

“Thank you for your time, Getou-san,” she said politely, giving another small wave. “I’ll see you again soon.”

He didn’t move.

“You already do.”

⸻

Nanami said nothing as he walked her back to the dorm wing. But she noticed the way his jaw was tight, hands in his pockets.

“That one was… different,” she said after a moment.

Still no answer.

“I felt like he was trying to… see through me.”

“He was,” Nanami said flatly.

She looked at him. “Do you think I handled it okay?”

He slowed his pace just slightly. His eyes flicked toward her. Then forward again.

“You didn’t smile as much on your way out,” he muttered.

She gave a tiny laugh. “I guess I was concentrating.”

“Don’t let him in,” Nanami said. “Don’t try to understand him. You’re not ready.”

She didn’t argue. But she didn’t fully agree either.

She still believed she could help them.

Even if something in Suguru’s voice lingered like smoke in her lungs.

______

She didn’t expect him to be waiting for her.

But Satoru was already sitting up straight when she entered his room again—legs crossed, head tilted, chains tight against the floor. The blindfold was gone this time.

His eyes were ice-blue and glowing. Not metaphorically. Actually glowing. Pale and wrong. Like the light didn’t come from the room—but from inside him.

“You wore the cardigan again,” he grinned. “The white one with the little heart buttons. Are you trying to kill me?”

She blinked, quickly looking down at her notepad. “It’s just a cardigan.”

“Not to me.”

The guards barely moved in their corners, but she knew they were watching. Nanami stood just outside the window, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

She sat at the small metal desk, her clipboard already open. “Let’s begin today’s session. I’ll be asking a few questions for your file maintenance.”

“Ohh. So cold already? No hello for your favorite patient?”

She smiled gently, in that same practiced way. “Hello, Gojou-san. Are you ready to answer some questions?”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

“Please describe how you’ve been feeling this week. Any changes in mood or perception?”

“Well, I felt something… beautiful in the hallway earlier,” he said. “She had little hair clips and walked like a ballerina. You should’ve seen her.”

She gave him a look—caught between amusement and light disapproval.

“It was you, by the way,” he added, tapping a finger to his temple. “Didn’t want you to miss the metaphor.”

She jotted a few notes, trying not to smile too much.

“Have you experienced any auditory or visual hallucinations in the past seventy-two hours?”

“Only you. But you’re not a hallucination… yet.”

He leaned forward slightly, grin widening. “Although if you were in my head, I wouldn’t mind. You’d be the best thing in there.”

“I need a serious answer, please.”

He sighed dramatically. “No hallucinations. No visions. Just dreams.”

She paused. “Dreams of what?”

“Of you,” he said plainly. “Tied in a bow, standing in my doorway. Every time I wake up, I’m disappointed.”

There was a moment of silence.

She tried not to react.

Instead, she scribbled something—pen clicking softly against the clipboard.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked suddenly.

She looked up. “That’s not a relevant question—”

“Come on. I answer your questions. It’s only fair. Let me guess…” He narrowed his eyes. “Peach? Lavender? Baby blue?”

She hesitated. Just a second too long.

“…Pink,” she mumbled, before remembering herself. “But I’m not allowed to share personal details. It’s part of the—”

“You just did.” He beamed. “You trust me already. That’s adorable.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh. Don’t ruin it.”

⸻

Suguru never smiled.

Not in the way Satoru did.

When she entered his room, his eyes were already waiting. Still. Patient. Watching the way her fingers curled around her clipboard. The way her shoes tapped lightly across the floor. The way she smoothed her skirt before sitting.

He was like a man sitting at the edge of a pond, waiting for a koi fish to surface. Silent. Unmoving. Focused.

She cleared her throat.

“Good afternoon, Getou-san. I’ll be continuing the behavioral assessment questionnaire today.”

“Your voice is calmer than usual,” he said softly.

She blinked. “I… I didn’t notice.”

“Rough morning?”

She shook her head. “It’s not relevant. Let’s begin the session.”

“Do you sleep well in your dorm room?”

Her pen hovered over the paper.

“…I’m not supposed to answer personal—”

“Just asking. You seem tired. I heard the walls make noise at night.”

Her heart gave a soft thump. She had heard something. But no one else mentioned it. Not even Shoko, when she’d asked casually over lunch.

“Don’t worry,” Suguru added. “They stop when you’re being watched.”

She tried to redirect. “How have you been feeling this week?”

“Content.”

A beat.

“I saw you yesterday. Walking past the medical ward. I thought you looked very graceful. Like someone not meant to be here.”

She wrote that down—eyes flicking toward him only briefly.

“Do you remember what I painted last week?”

She looked over at the stack of canvases in the far corner. They were always turned inward, away from the glass.

“No. You didn’t show me.”

“Would you like to?”

“I… that’s not part of the procedure.”

“But you want to. Don’t you?”

She paused. Just for a moment. Then looked back down.

“Please answer the next question. Have you experienced any emotional spikes or dissociation in the last seventy-two hours?”

He was quiet. Then:

“You said your favorite color is pink.”

Her eyes snapped up.

“…I never told you that.”

“You did,” he said gently. “To him.”

The silence pressed in. Thicker now.

“…You’re not supposed to know what happens in other sessions.”

“And yet here we are.”

She stood up just a little too quickly. “That concludes today’s session.”

⸻

Nanami didn’t speak as they walked down the hall again. But she felt it.

The tension was different this time. Not like the first day, when it was nerves. Not like the second, when it was curiosity.

This time it felt like being watched. Even after the door was closed. Even after the guards nodded her through.

Something had changed.

Not outside the glass. Not in the room.

In her.

She waved at Shoko in diagnostics, still wearing her little smile, still holding her clipboard close.

But as she walked back to her dorm, the silence in the hallway felt heavier.

And she couldn’t help but feel like somewhere—two pairs of eyes were memorizing her every step.

___

She woke up with her breath caught in her throat.

The sheets were damp. Her cotton nightshirt clung to her skin. Her little plush bear was nearly crushed in her arms. She didn’t remember grabbing it—just that it was there, between her arms like a fragile shield.

The nightmare still clung to her like static.

It hadn’t been the first. But it was the most vivid.

She was in the facility—but the halls had no lights. All the doors were gone. She was barefoot, walking on tile that felt wet, though there was no sound. No echo. The walls pulsed like flesh. The air buzzed like insects behind her ears.

She kept hearing her name. Not screamed. Not whispered.

Just said. Over and over.

“(Y/N).”

“(Y/N)… you’re late.”

“(Y/N), we’re waiting…”

And then she had turned a corner and seen it.

A sketchbook—hundreds of pages, spilling open. All of them were her face. But wrong. Distorted. Smiling too wide. Eyes too big. Or crying. Or covered in something dark and red. And on every page, the words written beneath:

Mine.

Then hands—not touching her, but reaching.

A soft voice behind her ear, tender and delighted:

“I said you’d come to me.”

And then she’d woken up.

⸻

It took her nearly half an hour to calm down.

She curled up on the side of her narrow dorm bed, hugging the bear Shoko had gifted her during her first week: pink with a little bow. Her fingers curled into its fur like a child trying to ground herself. Her breathing was shallow. Slow. But eventually, the tremors faded.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She just… held on.

⸻

By lunchtime, she had composed herself.

The cafeteria was as sterile as the rest of the facility—white walls, metal chairs, employees spread in quiet clusters. Some nurses talked over trays of curry and rice, a few junior staff members scrolling through their phones.

Shoko was already seated at the corner table, picking at a sandwich and nursing a lukewarm coffee. Nanami sat beside her, as stiff as ever, rice untouched in front of him.

“Sorry I’m late,” she chirped, sliding into the empty seat between them. “Diagnostics took longer than expected.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t sleep again, did you?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, giving a tiny smile. “Just a little tired. I’m used to it.”

Nanami stared at her plate. “You haven’t touched your food in three days.”

“I have!” she protested, opening her bento and poking at a few rice grains. “I’m just… not super hungry lately. That’s all.”

Shoko sighed through her nose and passed her a fruit cup. “Sugar. For your brain. You’re doing too much.”

“I’m okay,” she said again, more quietly. But she accepted the fruit cup anyway.

Nanami didn’t speak. But his jaw shifted slightly.

She glanced between the two of them and tried to steer the mood elsewhere.

“So…” she said, brightening her voice, “can I ask you something not work-related for once?”

Shoko leaned back, curious. “Since when do you break protocol?”

“Since I’m tired of hearing about my own sleep habits,” she grinned. “I was just wondering… what brought you two here? Like, to this facility? It’s not exactly close to anything.”

Shoko smiled slightly. “Got transferred. Long story. They needed someone who could handle higher-risk diagnostics. Plus, the pay’s decent and the cigarettes are tax-deductible.”

(Y/N) laughed gently. “And you, Nanami-san?”

He looked at her for a moment, then turned his gaze down.

“I trained under someone who was connected to the institute,” he said eventually. “Didn’t want the job. But someone had to take it.”

There was a pause.

Shoko gave him a sidelong glance.

“Still doesn’t like it,” she added dryly.

“I don’t like most things,” he muttered.

(Y/N) smiled again, softer this time. “Well, I’m glad you’re both here. You make this place feel a lot safer.”

They didn’t answer. But Nanami’s hand relaxed against the table slightly. And Shoko looked… amused.

After a few more bites, she tilted her head and looked toward the far window.

“I was just wondering something,” she said after a moment, voice light. “About containment, I mean.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow.

“Do any of the patients… interact? Like, between sessions? Or are they all completely isolated?”

There was a beat of silence.

Nanami’s eyes lifted from his tray, sharp.

“Why do you ask?”

She blinked innocently. “Oh—I just thought about it the other day. Some of them… say things that feel very informed. Like they’ve heard things they shouldn’t have.”

Shoko set her coffee down. “Level five inmates are isolated by default. Reinforced containment protocols, monitored 24/7. No shared interaction. Especially not between them.”

“Right. Of course.” She gave a tiny laugh. “Just curiosity. Probably just coincidences.”

But Nanami was still watching her.

Not questioning her. Not accusing.

Just watching.

As if he had wondered the same.

_____

had been nearly four weeks since her first day.

And she was starting to feel it.

The exhaustion had curled into her bones—quietly, like smoke—but it didn’t stop her. She still arrived early. Still smiled as she walked the sterile halls. Still wore her soft cardigans and skirt sets, her delicate perfume, her pink pen with the faded Hello Kitty cap.

But her steps were slower now. The shadows under her eyes a little deeper. Her wrists a little slimmer.

She didn’t notice it herself. Not really.

But Suguru did.

He was already seated when she entered.

Always in the same position—legs folded beneath him, dark robes like still water. His hair tied loosely at his neck today. The light from above cast long shadows across his collarbones. The canvas sat beside him, untouched.

He looked up the moment she stepped in. His gaze moved over her—calm, as always. But his fingers tapped once against his knee.

A tiny, silent reaction.

“You’re late,” he said gently.

“I’m two minutes early,” she said, glancing at her clipboard with a soft smile.

“You kept me waiting anyway.”

She sat down, smoothing her skirt under her legs, trying to ignore the slight tremor in her arms. She was always cold now. Even in layers.

He didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he just watched.

“I’ll begin with the baseline questions, if that’s alright,” she said, flipping the page. “This is for weekly emotional tracking.”

“Go on.”

“Have you experienced any intrusive thoughts, auditory hallucinations, or disassociative episodes in the past seventy-two hours?”

“Only when you leave.”

She blinked, smiled slightly, and wrote something down.

“Any emotional instability? Irritability, impulse behaviors?”

“Not when you’re here.”

She wrote slower this time.

“…Have you had recurring dreams or episodes of déjà vu?”

He paused for a beat.

“I keep dreaming of a hallway. White walls. No doors.”

His eyes didn’t leave her.

“Someone’s always walking down it. But I only ever see the back of her.”

She felt something twitch behind her ribs.

Still, she nodded. “Thank you.”

He tilted his head. “You’re shivering.”

“It’s a little cold in here,” she said lightly. “Nothing new.”

“You’re not sleeping well.”

She hesitated.

“And you’re not eating.”

Her stomach growled before she could deny it.

The sound was humiliating in the silence of the glass chamber.

She flushed and laughed softly, pressing her hand to her stomach.

“Oops. Guess you heard that, huh?”

His brows furrowed. The expression was subtle—but not like his usual calm. No serenity. Just… tension.

“Why?”

“I’m just not that hungry lately,” she said quickly. “Plus, the food here’s not exactly great—”

“That’s not a reason.”

She blinked at the firmness in his voice.

“I’m fine, really—”

“You’re not.”

She paused.

“…I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Her throat tightened a little. She tried to hold her smile, but her hands fidgeted with her pen.

“I’ve just been busy, that’s all. I’m probably burning more calories than I—”

“Are you dieting?”

The question hit like a stone.

She blinked. “What?”

“You said that yesterday. When you skipped lunch.”

“Oh, that was just a joke,” she said, laughing. “I was teasing Shoko.”

His eyes darkened—just slightly. Not in rage. But in something.

“You don’t need to diet.”

She looked down.

He stood slowly, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound between them. He walked toward the glass, standing just close enough that his breath fogged the surface slightly.

“Your body is not something that needs to be changed,” he said quietly. “Not trimmed. Not shrunk. Not punished.”

Her breath caught.

The tone wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t even warm.

It was sacred.

Like a man talking to a statue he prayed to. A devotion threaded through every syllable.

She shifted uncomfortably, shrinking in on herself.

He saw it.

And just like that—his expression softened. The coldness vanished. His voice smoothed back into silk.

“Forgive me,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

She nodded quickly, still not looking at him.

There was a pause.

Then:

“Will you eat dinner tonight?”

She glanced up. “I… I think so.”

“Will you sleep before midnight?”

“I’ll try…”

“No. Not try. I want your word.”

She blinked.

“Why?”

“Because I need you to,” he said simply. “And I will ask again tomorrow. And the day after. Until you learn to care for yourself properly.”

She couldn’t say anything to that.

The door hissed open behind her.

She stood slowly, still gripping her clipboard. Her hands shook slightly.

“Thank you for your time, Getou-san.”

“Rest, (Y/N),” he said.

His voice was so soft, so intimate—it nearly broke her.

As she stepped out, the door sealing behind her, she didn’t see him reach toward the wall behind the glass.

Didn’t see him trace her name—her full name—with the tip of his brush.

______

She tried to compose herself before stepping into the room.

Tried to smooth her skirt, fix her cardigan, reclip the hairpin that had slipped slightly out of place. She even smiled at one of the guards. He didn’t smile back.

Nanami was already in position near the reinforced observation wall, his expression hard. He glanced at her clipboard.

“You sure you’re steady enough for this?”

She nodded quickly.

“Just tired. I’m okay.”

He didn’t respond. But she could feel him watching her as the door unlocked with a low hiss.

Satoru was humming when she entered.

He was reclined in the center of the room, legs stretched out, chains slack but locked into the floor. His white hair looked messier than usual, and the blindfold was absent again, revealing his pale eyes—brilliant and unblinking.

“Strawberry Shortcake,” he sang. “Vanilla Cream. There she is, my sugar cube dream.”

She blinked. “…What?”

“You look like a walking pastry today,” he grinned. “All soft and pink and nervous. I’m obsessed with it.”

She laughed softly. “That’s a new one.”

“New day, new nickname,” he said proudly. “I’ve got a hundred of them for you. Let’s see… Peach Muffin. Cotton Candy. My little bunny on her way to a breakdown.”

He tilted his head. “That last one’s not so funny, huh?”

Her smile faltered a little, but she sat at her usual post, clipboard in hand.

“You’re in a mood today.”

“You’re not,” he said immediately.

She froze.

“You’re off, sweetheart.”

His tone was light, but his eyes didn’t move.

“Not in your usual fluffy way. Something’s pulling on you.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Nope.” He leaned forward. The chains tightened slightly. “Wrong answer.”

She exhaled slowly, keeping her pen still. “I’m here to check on you, not the other way around.”

“Yeah, but that’s stupid,” he said. “You’ve never been good at taking care of yourself. Not even when you were mine.”

She blinked. The words hit like cold water.

“…I don’t—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, stretching like a cat, “you’ve always been like this. Little cracks showing, smile still glued on. It’s adorable, and pathetic, and I love it. But it still worries me.”

He smiled wide.

“You really don’t remember yet?”

“…Yet?”

“Anyway!” he chirped suddenly. “Let’s talk about something else.”

She stared at him, brows drawing tight—but he was already off, bouncing from topic to topic in his own rhythm.

“Did you eat today?”

“I—”

“Be honest.”

She paused.

“Not really. I’ve been busy, and I didn’t feel—”

“Wrong answer again.”

She looked up. His tone had changed.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“You have one job, and it’s to stay healthy. I hate when you lie to me, bunny.”

Her throat tightened. She shifted in her seat.

“I’m not lying. I just…”

“I can see your ribs under that stupid little sweater.”

She flinched slightly. He didn’t say it cruelly—he said it like a fact. Like he should be the one noticing.

“You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. You’re a mess. And I don’t like seeing what I love falling apart like this.”

The silence rang loud between them.

“…You… you love me?”

He grinned again. “Don’t change the subject.”

She stared down at her clipboard, overwhelmed. Her fingers trembled faintly against her pen.

“Tell you what,” he said, tone suddenly sweet again. “If you promise to eat dinner tonight—and sleep, like a good girl—I’ll only ask you cute questions next session. No more scary stuff.”

She blinked, uncertain.

“Cross your heart,” he sang. “Swear it. One little pinkie promise, and I’ll behave.”

“…Okay,” she said, smiling nervously. “I promise.”

He clapped his hands, giddy. “Yay~! You’re so good when you listen.”

She felt a little lightheaded. Like the air was thinner in this room.

He tilted his head again.

“Still sushi, right?”

Her heart skipped.

“…What?”

“Your favorite,” he said simply. “Sushi. Tuna. And that stupid egg omelet one you always get, even though you say it tastes weird.”

She stared at him, stunned. “…How do you—?”

“Mmm.” He gave a dramatic shrug. “Maybe you told me. Maybe I just know. Maybe we used to share it, and you just forgot.”

Before she could answer, the door hissed open.

Nanami stood there with a scowl like stone.

“Bye, Bun-Bun,” Satoru called cheerfully. “Don’t starve yourself, okay? I’ll cry.”

She left quickly, the clipboard clutched to her chest.

She didn’t look back.

⸻

That night, she returned to her dorm.

The lights were dim. The air cold. She was still shaking slightly from something she couldn’t name. Her hands went to her cardigan buttons, needing to change, needing to breathe—

And then she saw it.

On her bed.

A pristine, white box.

Wrapped with pale pink ribbon.

A soft chill raced down her spine.

She stepped closer, carefully.

Her name was written on the little card in perfectly neat handwriting. No return address. No signature.

She opened the lid with trembling fingers.

Inside: sushi.

Neatly arranged.

Tuna. Salmon. Tamago.

A little cup of dipping sauce in the corner. Pickled ginger. Even a side of strawberry mochi. Her favorite.