Kaoru Hoshitani’s mind was a swirling fog, unable to comprehend why he was standing here in such a ridiculous and humiliating state.
From head to toe, he wore only a flimsy apron—printed with a Cartoon Cat—barely covering his body.
The thin straps cinched tight behind his slender waist, the rough edges of the fabric chafing his skin and leaving a persistent, itching discomfort.
He stood in the familiar space of The Kitchen, cold stovetop and pots before him, while behind, pressing close, loomed the very figure who felt like the source of his every Dream.
Those large hands, sun-kissed and healthy, knuckles well defined, shamelessly roamed his back and waist, their movements brazen, possessive, and nauseatingly intimate—completely ignoring his rigid, trembling form.
That yellow-haired woman was clearly the invader who had broken into the carefully built The Nest he shared with Aina Saiten, a Criminal who had violated his body and desecrated his dignity.
And yet now, under the torment of these “disgusting” hands, he was forced to brace his nearly drained body to prepare lunch for her.
The absurdity, the rift between reality and farce, threatened to snap his already fragile nerves.
“Ah… so beautiful.”
Rika Kawasaki’s voice brushed against his reddened ear, her admiration raw, her satisfaction hoarse and unconcealed.
She caressed the delicate, porcelain warmth of the skin beneath her palm, her gaze greedily taking in this “scenery”: the Beauty, forcibly dressed, laboring in The Kitchen.
His face, a blend of shame and anger, unable to resist; his body trembling at her touch; the elegant contours beneath the apron’s thin fabric, visible in fleeting glimpses…
The exquisite interweaving of sight, touch, and dominance—an experience so indescribably marvelous that even the seasoned Rika Kawasaki felt she was savoring it for the very first time.
She couldn’t help the low sound of conquest that rumbled from deep in her throat.
And the crucial point was, the Beauty before her, his body limp and foreign as if it didn’t belong to him, focused—or perhaps numb—while handling ingredients to fill her stomach, had only just been forced, moments ago, to “serve” her, sating her other, even hungrier, more primal “appetite.”
This complete possession, this taking, made Rika Kawasaki swell with a satisfaction more intense than ever before.
[If only it could be like this every day from now on…]
A vivid, insistent thought took root in her heart, curling through her chest like a wild vine.
Now, Rika Kawasaki realized with increasing clarity: she truly “liked” this little man.
His flawless looks, the complexity of innocence, stubbornness, and fragility in his character—they matched her twisted tastes perfectly.
But even more intoxicating was the way that, whenever she was with him, her chest would fill with a strange, new sense of The Prophecy of Happiness.
For someone like Rika Kawasaki, raised in a warped, cold family riddled with violence and calculation, “happiness” and everything it entailed was the world’s most precious—and most unfamiliar—luxury.
When he showed that look of mortified humiliation at her teasing, she felt a thrill;
When he shed silent tears at the brink of despair, she found him unspeakably “beautiful,” her delight uncontainable;
Even when, after she’d “soothed” him, his face showed that dazed, dependent vulnerability, she felt a strange, deep satisfaction.
His every movement, every expression, seemed to strum a twisted chord deep within her, filling the emptiness that hollowed her soul.
She wanted him, not just his body, but the very existence that brought her this “happiness.”
She would own him completely, make him her one and only “possession.”
“Don’t touch me…!”
At last, Kaoru Hoshitani could bear no more, forcing out a trembling protest through clenched teeth.
Compared to Rika Kawasaki, who felt as if she were in paradise, reveling in supreme control, he was trapped in hell.
One hand gripped the scorching pot handle, knuckles whitening, while the other mechanically stirred the food in the pan, his body wound tight as stone beneath the woman’s unceasing harassment.
When he felt that large hand pinch him again, his accumulated shame, rage, and helplessness broke through what little endurance he had left.
He spun around, wide, tear-bright eyes glaring fiercely at the woman who kept crossing the line.
His face, flushed even deeper with agitation and humiliation, voice quavering: “Touch me again… and I won’t cook anymore!”
“All right, all right, I won’t touch, I won’t.”
Rika Kawasaki obligingly raised both hands in surrender, though the laughter in her gray eyes made it clear she was only toying with him.
She stopped her more brazen actions, but still clung like a stubborn patch, pressing against him from behind, arms wrapping around his slender waist, chin resting on his thin shoulder, enveloping him completely in her scent and warmth.
“In any case… after we finish eating, maybe… you’ll be begging me to touch you a few more times, hmm?”
Her words carried a cruel hint, a confident certainty, hot breath caressing the sensitive skin of his neck.
“You! Get away from me…!”
Kaoru Hoshitani trembled with fury, utterly unable to understand how someone so shameless, so utterly without boundaries, could exist.
She was like a sticky, dangerous mire—no matter how he struggled or cursed, he couldn’t escape.
Her embrace was a far cry from Aina’s gentle hugs, full of love and respect. Every touch from Rika Kawasaki only made him feel defiled and violated.
But however desperately he fought to break free, those iron-like arms didn’t budge.
In the end, exhaustion and a deeper, soul-crushing powerlessness drowned him.
He could only stand rigid as a puppet stripped of its soul, letting this woman twine around him like a vine, his hands continuing their mechanical cooking.
[Before… only Aina… only Aina would hug me from behind like this when I was cooking…]
The thought stabbed into his chaotic mind like a needle.
In his memories, when Aina Saiten embraced him from behind, it was always with a gentle smile, her cheek pressed against his back, whispering, “It smells so good,” “You’ve worked so hard, my Kaoru.”
That feeling of being cherished and wrapped in love was worlds apart from the predatory, possessive touch now behind him—a gulf between heaven and hell.
A surge of grievance and overwhelming guilt toward his girlfriend rose like a tide, shattering his last defense.
His eyes grew hot and blurry. He bowed his head quickly, blinking hard, desperate to hold back the tears.
But crying wouldn’t change anything.
Time crawled by in agony.
When he finally finished the simple meal and managed to fill that greedy woman’s stomach, thinking he might finally catch a breath, a new and even harsher round of “torment” followed, dragging him into a deeper, inescapable whirlpool.
Only when the light at five in the afternoon softened, the noise outside tinged with dusk, did Rika Kawasaki finally show “mercy” and stop.
She dressed herself at leisure, smoothed her rumpled short hair, then walked to the Living Room Sofa, leaned down, and pressed a brief but possessive kiss onto the swollen lips of the man slumped there, as if his very consciousness had drifted away.
“See you tomorrow, my little Beauty.”
She chuckled softly, tossed this remark over her shoulder, and left as decisively as she’d come, not forgetting to shut the door behind her.
A soft “click” as the lock engaged.
In the empty Living Room, only Kaoru Hoshitani remained, sprawled on the Living Room Sofa, drenched as if pulled from water.
Not wanting to dirty his beloved Living Room Sofa—though the thought felt both laughable and sad in his current state—he’d forced himself earlier to spread several Bath Towels beneath him.
Yet by now, the pale Bath Towels were thoroughly soaked, blotched dark and light, wrinkled and stuck to the sofa, silently testifying to everything that had just taken place.
Long after the yellow-haired woman’s departure, Kaoru Hoshitani lay there, unmoving, eyes empty as he stared at the ceiling.
His breathing was faint and long, his chest barely rising, as if he truly had “died,” leaving only this beautiful shell, warm with lingering traces of rough treatment.
After almost half an hour, his long lashes trembled ever so slightly, then his fingers curled in a tiny motion.
It was as if it took all his strength to “restart” his exhausted body.
Slowly, with stiff, sluggish movements that tugged at sore muscles and overtaxed parts, he rose from the sofa.
First, he gathered the soaked, ambiguous-smelling Bath Towels from the sofa, and then, silently, he picked up his poor apron, discarded carelessly on the floor.
Cradling this small pile of “evidence,” barefoot, he staggered toward The Bathroom.
He stuffed everything into the Laundry Machine, poured in a heavy dose of detergent, and pressed the start button.
The Laundry Machine began to hum, working to scrub away visible stains—but some marks had already sunk deep into the fabric, even etched into his soul.
Next, he stepped into the shower, turned on the water.
Warm streams poured over him, but he stood there numb, not scrubbing as vigorously as he had the last few days.
The human capacity to adapt is frightening.
Perhaps both his body and spirit were simply too exhausted, too drained even for the task of “thoroughly cleaning himself.”
Or maybe, deep down, he already knew that no matter how hard he washed, some “dirt” would never come off.
He let the water rinse away the obvious stickiness, then mechanically dried himself with a towel, blow-dried his still-soft but now-lifeless black hair.
After all that, he didn’t even consider making dinner.
He went straight to the Bedroom, pulled back the covers, and buried himself deep in the bed he shared with Aina Saiten, a bed filled with her scent, closing his eyes.
Physical exhaustion weighed on him like a thick blanket, and the emptiness in his heart left him too weary even to think.
He wanted only to sink into darkness, if only for a moment’s escape.
“Huh? Why aren’t the lights on? Kaoru? Kaoru, are you home?”
He didn’t know how long had passed before a familiar voice, tinged with confusion and a trace of anxiousness, called from the entryway.
Aina Saiten, returning home from work, pushed open the door. But instead of the usual warm lights and aroma of dinner, she was greeted by a disturbing darkness and silence.
Normally, at this time, Kaoru would have finished, or at least be in the middle of, preparing dinner—the house should be full of delicious smells and a warm glow.
The abnormal scene made Aina Saiten’s heart sink, the day’s fatigue swept away by sudden worry.
She hurried to flick on the Living Room light. The abrupt brightness made her squint, but revealed only an empty Living Room and a Kitchen still uncleaned.
“Kaoru?”
She raised her voice, calling as she hurried through each room—no one in the Living Room, no one in The Kitchen, the bathroom door was open but no one inside…
Her heart pounded faster, until she pushed open the slightly ajar Bedroom door and, by the light spilling in from the Living Room, spotted the figure on the bed, turned away and curled up.
“Kaoru? Are you… are you sick, not feeling well? Why are you lying down so early?”
She hurried to the bedside, bending down, her voice gentle, full of concern.