The first time Kazuya noticed he was different, he was ten years old.

A stray dog had wandered into his backyard, limping and whimpering. While most children might have felt pity, Kazuya felt... curious. He wanted to see what would happen if he pressed his thumb into the wound on the dog's leg. How much pain could it take before it snapped?

By the time his mother found him, the dog was dead. Kazuya cried, not because he was sorry, but because it was what she wanted to see.

Since then, he had learned to play his part. To laugh at jokes, to show concern, to blend in. But beneath it all, he remained the same—a boy who saw the world as a game, its people as pawns.

The city had a way of drowning sound. The rush of traffic, the constant buzz of conversation, the distant hum of life—it all blended into a muffled white noise that made it easy to disappear.

Kazuya Hoshino thrived in that anonymity.

He stood in the shadows of the train station, his reflection faint in the grimy glass panels around him. He adjusted his tie, his face blank, before letting a small chuckle escape. "Heh... ha-ha-ha."

The sound echoed faintly, and for a moment, it felt almost real. But it wasn't. Kazuya never laughed because he found something funny. He laughed because people expected him to.

He straightened his coat and stepped into the crowd, moving with the rhythm of the commuters.

Inside the office building, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as Kazuya walked toward the elevators. His shoes clicked against the polished floor, each step deliberate, measured. He passed by colleagues, offering polite nods and brief smiles.

"Morning, Hoshino-san!" a cheerful voice called.

Kazuya turned to see Damegawa Saito, his manager, holding a coffee cup and a stack of folders. "Saito-san," Kazuya replied smoothly, his voice light, his face warm. "You're as early as ever."

"Gotta set the example, right?" Saito chuckled.

Kazuya chuckled back. "Of course."

Inside, he wanted to strangle him. Saito was the kind of man who prided himself on small achievements, someone who mistook routine diligence for brilliance. Kazuya hated mediocrity.

At his desk, Kazuya opened his laptop, his fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard. But he wasn't working. His screen displayed a photo of a woman: Yumi Sasaki, the receptionist in the neighboring building.

Her face was annoyingly cheerful, her smile too perfect. People like her made him itch.

It wasn't that Kazuya hated Yumi specifically. She was just... convenient. An easy target.

"She doesn't even know I exist," he murmured, his lips curling into a faint smile. "But she will."

That evening, Kazuya found himself outside the café where Yumi often spent her evenings. She was sitting by the window, her attention fixed on her phone.

He walked in, the bell above the door chiming softly. Yumi didn't notice him at first. She was too engrossed in her screen, smiling at whatever conversation she was having.

Kazuya approached her table, his movements smooth and confident. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

Yumi looked up, startled. For a moment, she seemed unsure, but then she smiled. "Oh, no. Go ahead."

Kazuya sat down, placing his coffee on the table. "I've seen you here before," he said casually.

Yumi tilted her head. "Really?"

He nodded. "You always sit by the window. You look like you're waiting for someone."

Yumi laughed softly. "I guess I like the view."

Kazuya chuckled, his smile faint but warm. "The view from here isn't bad either."

---

Kazuya watched her. The way her fingers danced over the screen of her phone, unaware of the world outside her small bubble, unaware of him. She looked so... normal. So fragile in her mundane routine. But that was what made it so perfect. It wasn't her that mattered; it was something else. He had no interest in her thoughts, her life, her background. That wasn't what she was to him.

She was just a tool. A tool he would bend to his will. She was just another piece of the puzzle, a puzzle he had meticulously put together over weeks. The strings had been pulled, and now it was time for the final act.

Without a word, Kazuya's hand shot out, his fingers brushing lightly against her wrist. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't a casual gesture either. Immediately, his touch sent a shockwave through her. She froze, her eyes lifting from the phone, confusion dancing in them. Her lips parted to speak, but the words never came. Kazuya was already in her mind. He wasn't here to play games. He wasn't here to waste time.

"You'll listen to me now," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It was the kind of command that sank deep into the soul— not just words, but an order. And with this, she froze, her body going stiff, like she was paralyzed by his presence.

The air between them thickened, almost suffocating.

"From now on," Kazuya murmured, his voice smooth, devoid of emotion. "You will do everything I say. No questions. No hesitation. You'll be my puppet."

He whispered, as her eyes, devoid of emotion, locked with his. And for the first time, Kazuya allowed himself to show a glimmer of something. Something darker than a smile—something close to satisfaction.

"Do you understand?" he asked, and for the first time, she nodded.

Her head tilted forward in a slow, almost robotic movement, her expression lost. She was his. Completely.

"Good, now stand up!" He commanded, and her body responded immediately, as if her will had already been erased. She stood without a word, her posture stiff, her eyes blank.

The emotion on her face was gone. There was no more confusion, no more resistance. There was nothing left but her obedience.

Kazuya allowed himself a quiet chuckle, but it was empty. Cold. "You're mine now."

The thought of fighting, of thinking for herself, was now completely foreign to her. She was just a doll, his doll.

Kazuya's touch was the last tether to her free will, and when he let go, it didn't matter. All that mattered now was that she would obey him, without question, without struggle. She would do exactly as he told her. And that was the only thing that mattered.

He left her there, standing in the café, a hollow shell of the person she used to be.