Kin is just about to slip his phone back into his pocket when a notification slides across the screen, bright and obnoxious against the dark interface, as if the world has decided it deserves his attention whether he wants to give it or not.
>MISSING PERSON ALERT—18-year-old reported missing in your neighborhood.
His thumb pauses mid-motion.
For a second, he just stares at it, heartbeat ticking a little too loudly in his ears, and then he taps it without thinking, because even when he tells himself he doesn't care what the outside world is doing, his mind still wants to know what it knows.
The article opens instantly, the headline bold and accusatory. There's a photo beneath it with a brief description—five foot four, forty kilograms, black hair falling over dull gray-blue eyes that look far too droopy, far too unaware of what the world had planned for them, last seen in a blue school uniform—
Sute.
The description is clinical. Height. Weight. Last seen. Family "concerned." Authorities "actively investigating."
Kin's eyes narrow at the screen, warmth draining out of his face so quickly it's almost like a physical sensation, like cold water thrown across his skin, the blackness in them tightening like a storm cloud collapsing inward. For a split second, irritation flashes across his face. Anger flares sharp and immediate, not the hot, messy kind that makes noise, but the clean, cutting kind that makes his thoughts feel precise.
'They're looking. Of course they're looking.'
His fingers tighten around the phone until the edges press into his palm. For a heartbeat he imagines crushing the device, snapping it in half, as if that would snap the connection between his house and the rest of the world.
Then he exhales, smooths his expression and lifts his head.
He lets his mouth curve into the pleasant, approachable shape it always takes when he's outside, and he slips the phone away as though he'd merely checked the time.
But the unease doesn't leave him. It stays lodged under his ribs, a prickling awareness that makes him notice things he usually ignores.
A patrol car parked farther down the street than normal.
A pair of officers walking slowly, not in a hurry, scanning yards and sidewalks with that casual thoroughness that means they're being careful on purpose.
He keeps walking, groceries swinging lightly in his hand, posture relaxed, face calm, the perfect image of a student on a simple errand.
His eyes, though—behind the soft curve of his lashes—stay alert.
When he turns onto his street, he approaches his house—keys already in hand—he hears a knock from across the street, sharp and official-sounding even at a distance. The sound cuts clean through the quiet evening air, and Kin stops instinctively, head tilting just slightly as he looks over just enough to see.
A uniformed policeman stands at a neighbor's door—the one with the overly trimmed hedges and the small white dog—notebook in hand, posture polite but purposeful.
Mrs. Hara—old enough to knit on her porch and gossip with the mailman—is speaking to him with the mild curiosity of someone who likes being included in local drama. She gestures with one hand as she talks, then points vaguely down the street as if offering helpful directions.
It seems harmless and it probably is.
But Kin's mind doesn't treat "probably" as good enough.
His thoughts start piling up, fast and dark.
'What if they're asking about strange noises?'
'What if someone saw me walking with too many grocery bags for just one person?'
'What if someone saw Sute's face, saw me take him—'
Kin forces his breathing to remain steady and casual, sliding his key into the first lock with practiced ease.
Click.
Then another.
Click.
Then another.
He lets himself inside and shuts the door behind him with controlled care, but the moment the latch catches, his hands move faster. He relocks everything. Main lock. Deadbolt. Secondary latch. Padlock. The familiar ritual settles his nerves a fraction, like pressing a palm to a racing heartbeat.
Only once he's tested the knob—twisted it, pulled it, ensured it won't give—does he finally breathe out.
He sets the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and turns but before he can even call out, he hears the soft patter of feet—
And Sute is already there.
He's rushed out of the living room the instant he heard the locks, blanket slipping off his shoulders—trailing loosely like a cape as he moves—eyes bright with anticipation, his face soft in that earnest, uncomplicated way that always hits Kin somewhere tender.
The simple relief in his voice—so open, so genuine—melts something tight inside Kin's chest. The tension from outside loosens just a fraction.
"Kin-san!"
Sute says, almost breathless, as if Kin has been gone for hours rather than minutes.
"You're back."
Something in Kin unclenches immediately.
The earlier panic melts like ice in warm water, replaced by that familiar swell of satisfaction.
'He's here, he's safe, he's waiting, he's happy to see me.'
Kin says, voice bright again, easy again, smiling warmly as Sute hurries closer.
"I told you I would be…"
Kin reaches out and lightly pats his head, fingers combing briefly through black hair with a fondness that looks effortless.
"Did you behave?"
Sute nods quickly and reports what Kin already knows.
"Yes. I watched the show on TV."
"Good."
Kin murmurs, and he's smiling as he says it, truly smiling, because for a moment it feels like nothing can touch them here.
Sute begins peering into the grocery bag like a frightened kitten, curiosity overtaking him. He pulls out a carrot, holding it reverently as though it's something rare and precious.
"They're so fresh…"
He murmurs in awe.
"Look at the color…"
He lifts the salmon next, eyes widening further.
"It's exactly like the one on TV."
He looks delighted.
Completely unaware of the article circulating through phones only streets away.
Completely oblivious to the police knocking on doors.
Kin watches him for a moment, allowing himself to savor the sight.
Then his gaze drifts past Sute's shoulder to the television that is still on.
A cooking show, bright and cheerful, a host laughing as they hold up a cutting board—
As the program transition, a news segment interrupts the cooking show with a sharp, urgent tone, and for the briefest fraction of a second, a familiar image flashes across the screen—a missing poster flashes across the screen in a brief uninvited, interruption, complete with the same school photo he had just seen on his phone. A name. A hotline number.
Sute doesn't see it.
He's already turned away, rummaging in the grocery bag with wide-eyed wonder, pulling out a potato as if it's a treasure, marveling at the smooth skin, the firmness, the weight of something so… real.
Kin sees everything.
His body goes rigid for the span of a breath.
Then he moves. Fast. Too fast to be casual.
He crosses the room in three long strides and switches the TV off before the poster can reappear, before the anchor can speak, before any audio can spill into the house like poison. The screen goes black.
Silence settles.
Sute startles slightly.
"Oh—"
"We'll watch later…"
Kin says smoothly, already reaching for the remote and setting it aside.
"Look at what else I got us."
Sute looks up, confused for a moment, but then his attention drops back to the groceries, because the groceries are bright and tangible and exciting in a way the television never quite is.
"These are… so pretty…"
Sute says in awe, holding up the scallions next, turning them in his hands as if he's never seen one that wasn't limp or rotten. His voice carries genuine amazement, almost disbelieving.
"They're not… soft. They're not old. They look better than the ones on TV actually."
Kin watches him for a second, the softness returning to his face, but his mind is no longer in the kitchen. It is racing, occupied by the outside.
On the street, with the officers, at the neighbor's door. On the alert that knows Sute's face.
On the fact that the outside world is reaching toward them, fingers stretching under doors and through screens.
Sute, oblivious, keeps going, listing ingredients with growing excitement, matching them to what he's seen on the cooking channel.
"We have tofu. And miso. And curry blocks—Kin-san, you got the curry blocks. You really got them!"
He looks up, smiling, eyes bright with anticipation.
"I'm really looking forward to dinner!"
He admits, cheeks faintly pink.
Kin smiles back. It's the same smile as always. Warm, sunny and utterly perfect.
But underneath it, his thoughts are already rearranging themselves into something sharper, something more decisive.
He feels the walls of his carefully constructed world tightening.
'The TV can't be trusted. The neighborhood is watching. Should I fortify further? Add more locks? Cover the windows more thoroughly? Or—'
'Move.'
The thought surfaces quietly but insistently.
If the neighborhood becomes too curious, if canvassing grows closer, relocation might be safer. But moving carries risk too. Exposure. Visibility.
Or perhaps he needs to accelerate something else. Deepen the attachment.
Ensure Sute's loyalty is not just sincere but unshakeable.
Behind him, Sute continues examining the groceries with childlike fascination, holding up the vegetables and comparing them to what he saw earlier on the show.
"They're perfect…"
He says softly, genuinely amazed.
"I've never seen vegetables this fresh before."
There's no fear in him, not even suspicion. Only excitement for dinner.
Kin turns back to him slowly, the storm behind his eyes carefully veiled once more by a warm smile.
"I'll make it perfect for us."
He says gently.
But as he begins unpacking the ingredients, his thoughts are no longer focused solely on curry.
They are calculating and measuring risk. Imagining countless contingency plans in his head for the future.
Because outside, the world has started to look for what he considers his.
And that changes everything because if the outside world is going to keep knocking on doors—
Then Kin is going to have to decide how far he's willing to go to keep Sute where he belongs.
Kin drags his thoughts away from patrol cars and flashing alerts and turns back toward Sute, who is still standing at the counter with an expression of near-reverence as he inspects the bundle of scallions like they're something rare and precious.
"Careful…"
Kin says lightly, stepping in beside him and beginning to unpack the rest of the groceries.
"You'll strain your eyes if you keep staring so hard."
Sute huffs a tiny laugh at that, still holding the scallions up to the light before placing them carefully on the counter. He moves with a kind of deliberate gentleness around the food, as though he half-expects it to vanish if he's too rough.
"Can I help cook?"
He asks suddenly, eyes bright again, that clear, crystalline blue making a quiet return.
Kin glances at him, amused by the eagerness.
"You want to?"
Sute nods quickly.
"I've been watching. I know how they do it on the show. I think I can try."
Kin hesitates for the smallest fraction of a second. Then he smiles and hands him a carrot.
"Alright. We'll start simple."
That's when he realizes—almost immediately—that this might have been a mistake.
Sute picks up the kitchen knife with complete confidence and absolutely no idea what he's doing.
He grips it in a fist, knuckles white, as if it's a weapon rather than a tool. The carrot is clutched whole in his other hand, held upright over the sink, fingers wrapped fully around it, dangerously close to where the blade is poised. The metal catches the overhead light, glinting sharply.
Kin's heart stutters.
"Sute—"
But Sute is already raising the knife higher, elbow bent awkwardly, preparing to bring it down in a direct, stabbing motion.
"Stop!"
Kin's voice cracks through the kitchen louder than anything he's said all evening. He lunges forward, grabbing Sute's wrist just as the blade begins its descent.
The knife jerks sideways in the suddenness of the grab.
There's a sharp sting.
A thin, precise slice across Kin's palm. He barely registers it at first.
He wrenches the knife out of Sute's grip, and in the process the blade nicks him again, just enough to draw a clean line of red that wells up almost instantly.
Sute sees it and everything changes.
The knife clatters against the sink as Kin tosses it away, but Sute doesn't even seem to hear the sound. His eyes lock onto the blood blooming across Kin's hand, and whatever fragile calm he'd built for himself fractures completely.
He drops to his knees harshly with a thud.
The impact echoes against the tile, but he doesn't flinch. Instead, he folds forward, forehead banged the floor, hands braced in front of him as he bows again and again in frantic, desperate kowtows.
"I'm sorry…"
He gasps, voice breaking.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to—"
The words spill out in a rush, overlapping, tripping over each other. His breathing becomes uneven, shallow and fast, chest heaving as though the kitchen air has thinned.
Kin's heated worry vanishes in an instant.
"Sute-chan…"
He says sharply, then softer.
"Sute-chan, stop."
But Sute doesn't stop, he bows again, forehead hitting the tile, shoulders shaking.
"I'll be good—I'll be careful—I won't touch anything, I won't—please don't—"
He's not in the kitchen anymore. He's somewhere else.
Kin sees it immediately when Sute finally lifts his face—the way his eyes aren't focused on him but somewhere past him, somewhere that isn't here. The color drains out of them again, that awful gray flooding in like storm clouds.
Kin doesn't even think.
He drops down to the floor and gathers Sute up, pulling him out of the bowing posture before he can bruise himself against the tile again. He wraps both arms around him, one sliding behind his shoulders, the other around his waist, holding him tightly against his chest.
"It's nothing…"
Kin murmurs urgently.
"It's nothing. Look at me."
Sute's hands clutch at his shirt, fingers digging into fabric as though he's trying to anchor himself.
"I hurt you…"
Sute sobs, voice small and terrified.
"I hurt you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"You didn't."
Kin insists, even as warmth begins to spread across his palm.
He can feel it now—the sting, the wetness. Blood is slipping between his fingers, soaking faintly into the fabric at Sute's back where his injured hand presses instinctively against him.
Sute feels it also and stiffens.
Kin adjusts quickly, shifting his grip so his bleeding hand is no longer pressed directly against Sute's spine, but the damage is done. The warmth has already registered.
"It's just a cut…"
Kin says, lowering his voice deliberately, smoothing it into something steady and soothing.
"You held the knife wrong. That's all. I should have shown you properly."
He brushes his uninjured hand through Sute's hair, fingers combing slowly through the strands, grounding him.
"You're safe…"
He murmurs.
"You didn't do anything bad. Accidents happen."
But Sute's breathing is still ragged, uneven, his body trembling in Kin's arms as though waiting for punishment that isn't coming.
Kin tightens his hold slightly, protective and possessive all at once.
"No one's angry…"
He continues, his voice almost a whisper against Sute's ear.
"Not here. Not with me."
He presses his cheek lightly to the top of Sute's head, ignoring the sting in his palm, ignoring the blood that continues to bead and drip faintly onto the tile beside them.
On the kitchen floor, Kin rocks Sute gently in his arms, determined to soothe the fear he never wants to see again—even if his own hand has to bleed for it.
Kin makes the decision quickly, almost without letting himself think about it long enough for doubt to creep in, because the longer Sute stays on the floor shaking and apologizing, the more likely his mind is to slip even farther away. The kitchen, with its hard tile and sharp edges and bright blades, suddenly feels like the wrong place to try and put him back together.
"Okay…"
Kin says softly, the tone he uses when he guided Sute through the front door or a difficult thought.
"Let's move you somewhere safer."
He scoops him up again with that practiced ease, one arm under Sute's knees and the other supporting his back, and carries him to the dining table as if Sute were something precious and breakable that shouldn't be asked to stand on trembling legs. He lowers him into one of the chairs and adjusts him automatically—straightening the oversized shirt, pulling the chair in a little so Sute feels anchored, close to the table instead of adrift in open space.
"Stay here."
Kin murmurs, and even though the words are gentle, there's a quiet firmness beneath them that makes them feel like a rule.
Sute nods immediately, fingers gripping the edge of the tabletop.
Kin's gaze flicks to his own hand again. The cut isn't deep, but it's messy enough, a thin slice that keeps weeping red, and he knows better than to ignore it. Still, he doesn't want to disappear down the hallway and leave Sute alone with his spiraling thoughts, even for a minute.
"I'll be right back."
He promises, already moving.
He goes to the bathroom quickly, retrieves the first aid kit from beneath the sink, and returns just as quickly, footsteps light but purposeful. He sets the kit on the table and sits close enough that Sute can see everything he's doing, close enough that the space between them doesn't feel like abandonment.
"See?"
Kin says, voice brightening a little as he flips the kit open.
"Nothing dramatic. Just a small cut."
He wets a piece of gauze, cleans the cut with careful strokes, and Sute watches as if his life depends on memorizing the exact angle of Kin's hands. His gaze is fixed, intense, following every movement—the way Kin presses the gauze against the wound, the way he wipes, the way he checks for anything embedded, the way he reaches for ointment.
It's not just curiosity, it's extreme focus.
Sute's breathing starts to even out as he concentrates, as though the simple act of observing a procedure—something tangible, something step-by-step—pulls him back from the edge of dissociation. His shoulders loosen fractionally. His fingers unclench from the table.
Kin notices all of it, of course he does, but when he looks up into Sute's face, he still sees that dull gray-blue in his eyes, the color that makes Sute look far too gloomy and faded. Kin hates it with a quiet intensity that surprises even him, because it's more than about the color—it's about what it means, about how it looks like Sute is slipping out of reach.
He keeps his voice gentle anyway.
"Hey…"
Kin says lightly, tying off the bandage with neat precision.
"This was my fault, you know."
Sute blinks, startled, as if blame has never been allowed to move towards Kin's direction before.
Kin gives him a soft, reassuring smile, the kind that tries to make the world feel simpler than it is.
"I should've shown you how to hold it. I just… assumed you knew because you watch those shows, but watching isn't the same as doing."
He tilts his head, as if confessing to a small and harmless mistake.
"Next time, we take it slow. You can start with washing the vegetables first, okay? And then we'll practice with something easy. No rushing."
Sute's lips part slightly, and he nods again, more slowly this time, the apology trembling on his tongue but not spilling out.
Kin closes the kit and sets it aside, then rises from the chair.
"Alright. You watch first…"
He says, already turning toward the sink.
"Watch carefully, so you can do it next time."
Sute sits up straighter, as if given a task.
Kin begins washing the vegetables, and he makes a point of slowing down, letting his movements be deliberate and readable rather than efficient. He holds up a carrot, shows him how to rinse it properly, how to rub away dirt, how to peel it if needed. He explains the difference between cutting boards, why you keep the knife angled a certain way, why you curl your fingers under when you're chopping—little practical details delivered in a voice that stays calm and steady, as though teaching is a form of care.
Sute doesn't look away.
His eyes follow Kin's hands with almost reverent attention, and gradually, almost imperceptibly, that gray-blue begins to shift. It doesn't sparkle yet, not fully, but it clears. A truer blue starts to seep back in, like color returning to something drained, like dawn pressing through a heavy cloud.
Kin glances back at him and catches it. The change in him, the subtle improvement.
Something in his chest loosens, relieved in a way he doesn't want to admit.
"There you go."
Kin murmurs, mostly to himself, and turns back to the counter, continuing to prepare the ingredients with even more care, explaining as he goes—not just because Sute needs to learn, but because Kin needs to keep him tethered right here, in this moment, where his eyes are blue and his mind is present and the world outside cannot reach him.