---
[Maple Heights Apartments, Rei's Unit]
Yuki Rei watched Sato Ruri's retreating silhouette until it disappeared around the corner of the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Only then did she turn, sliding her key card against the reader with a soft beep before stepping back inside.
The apartment smelled of instant curry and Tanaka's cheap body spray—sandalwood knockoff mixed with something chemical. Her fiancé sat sprawled on the beige leather sofa, one ankle crossed over his knee, scrolling through his phone. When he noticed her return, his eyebrows lifted.
"Fuyumi-kun isn't awake yet?" Tanaka asked, surprise evident in his voice.
Rei answered flatly, her expression neutral. "The girl Fuyumi-kun has been crushing on came to visit him. It wasn't appropriate for me to intrude."
A girl? Already there this early? Tanaka's eyes gleamed with barely concealed interest, though he masked it with a theatrical sigh of disappointment.
"Sounds like you can't go over there for now, then." He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Don't worry. I believe with your charm, no man can resist forever."
Rei said nothing.
Tanaka rose from the couch, pocketing his phone. The leather creaked as his weight shifted. "I've got plans—meeting someone. You stay home, and if you get the chance, work on building that connection with Fuyumi-kun."
She gave a single nod.
After watching him leave—the door clicking shut, his footsteps fading down the corridor—Rei retreated to her bedroom. The room was small, sparrow-sized really, but complete in its essentials: a single bed pressed against the wall beneath a window, a narrow desk cluttered with skincare products, and most importantly, her own private bathroom. That detail alone made this arrangement survivable. Sharing facilities with Tanaka would have driven her to madness within a week.
Only here can I breathe.
She sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight, and let her thoughts wander back to that fleeting glimpse—the girl in the hallway. Ruri. Slender shoulders, that slightly disheveled hair, the particular way she'd avoided eye contact while clutching her bag strap.
She came to Fuyumi-kun's place alone. At this hour. The implication was obvious. Their relationship wasn't ordinary. Perhaps they'd already confessed to each other.
A knot of guilt tightened in Rei's chest.
She'd dragged Fuyumi into this arrangement purely to deal with Tanaka's twisted demands. Their act was supposed to be just that—an act. But convincing Tanaka required certain... intimate performances. Ambiguous touches. Suggestive proximity.
If that girl finds out...
Rei's fingers curled against her thigh.
She'll be furious. She might even break up with him.
The thought made her stomach twist.
Was this worth it?
Risking Fuyumi's relationship with someone he genuinely cared about—all to satisfy her own desperate need to manage Tanaka?
She stared at the ceiling, uncertainty pooling like cold water in her gut.
---
[Maple Heights Apartments, Fuyumi's Unit]
Fuyumi Sasaki stood at the kitchen sink, warm water running over his hands as he scrubbed the last dish clean. Steam curled upward, carrying the lingering scent of the rice and miso Ruri had prepared—simple, homey, tinged with something sweeter underneath that he couldn't quite name.
Didn't want to push her too hard.
That was why he'd let her leave. Pacing was everything. You couldn't break someone in a single session—not properly, anyway. The cracks needed time to spread.
He dried his hands on a dishcloth and wandered into the living room, dropping onto the couch with a soft thump. The leather was still warm from where he'd been sitting earlier, absorbing body heat like it was hoarding secrets.
What now?
His mind cycled through options, calculating. The Scum system demanded attention—there were items in the Exchange Shop he couldn't afford to miss, which meant he needed to farm efficiently. And farming meant having someone to... cultivate.
Three candidates occupied his mental roster.
Sato Ruri. Egawa Mitsuki. Yuki Rei.
Ruri's out for now. She'd only just left, and the signatures he'd planted—one on her inner thigh, one just above her pubic mound—needed time to ferment. The Desire Marker's effects compounded with exposure. Rushing would waste the setup.
That left Mitsuki and Rei.
Fuyumi considered the Egawa heiress. The Desire Marker still had three uses remaining, and Mitsuki was the logical target—her family's influence made her dangerous if she ever reported about what he'd done to her in the principal's office. Another signature would add another leash.
But she's a ghost on weekends.
He'd observed her patterns. Egawa Mitsuki didn't socialize. Not with classmates, not with the other girls who occasionally organized weekend outings to karaoke parlors or shopping districts in Akihabara. Every invitation met the same polite deflection: "I have supplementary lessons."
Before learning about her background, Fuyumi had assumed it was an excuse. Now he understood—it wasn't. Families like the Egawas scheduled every waking hour. Tutors, etiquette coaches, probably violin or calligraphy instructors. Mitsuki's weekends were battlegrounds of self-improvement, and her phone was likely confiscated by her parents to prevent distractions.
Messaging her would be suicide.
He dismissed the idea.
Which left Rei.
The neighbor presented a different problem. Fuyumi had carefully constructed his persona around her—the quiet, unassuming boy next door, reluctantly dragged into her messy situation out of goodness rather than desire. Initiating contact, or worse, revealing genuine interest, would shatter that image.
But I don't need to chase her.
A slow smile tugged at his lips.
Rei's fiancé was a cuckold. A genuine, dictionary-definition netorare enthusiast. She had no choice but to come to Fuyumi eventually—if not voluntarily, then because Tanaka would pressure her into it.
All I have to do is wait.
He pulled out his phone, thumb swiping idly through apps. Hours bled past. The afternoon light shifted from gold to amber to the deep indigo of evening, shadows lengthening across the apartment floor. Rei never knocked.
Maybe she works weekends. 996 schedules are normal these days.
Fuyumi ordered delivery—tonkotsu ramen from a place two blocks over—and continued scrolling.
The night deepened.
---
[Sato Residence, Ruri's Bathroom]
After leaving Fuyumi's apartment, Ruri had managed to salvage the rest of her day. She'd met up with friends at a café near the station—the one with the matcha parfaits and the window seats overlooking the train tracks—and spent hours talking about nothing important. Homework complaints, upcoming exams, the latest episode of that isekai anime everyone was watching.
For a while, she'd forgotten.
But forgetting didn't erase.
Now, standing alone in the cramped bathroom of her family's apartment, Ruri faced the mirror and felt her stomach drop.
She'd stripped methodically—hoodie first, then the blouse, then the sweatpants pooling around her ankles. Each layer removed brought her closer to the truth she'd been avoiding.
And there it was.
Fuyumi's signature.
Not just on her thigh—though that mark remained, the characters of his name still crisp against her pale skin, positioned high on her inner left leg where the flesh was softest.
No.
There was a second one.
Lower.
Just above the waistband of her panties, centered on her lower abdomen, the characters "新城 悠太" traced a path that ended mere centimeters from her pubic mound.
When—when did he—
Blood rushed to Ruri's face so fast it made her dizzy. She pressed both palms against the sink basin to steady herself, porcelain cool against her heated skin, and forced her mind backward through the fog of memory.
A fragment surfaced:
Fuyumi kneeling beside her on the bed. One hand kneading her thigh in slow, devastating circles. The other tugging down the zipper of her jeans, exposing the flat plane of her stomach, the marker hovering—
She'd been too far gone to notice. Lost in sensation. Drowning.
"P-pervert..." The word came out shaky, more breath than sound.
Ruri spun away from the mirror and yanked the shower handle. Water burst from the showerhead in a hot rush, steam billowing outward, fogging the glass. She grabbed the bottle of body wash—strawberry-scented, the same one she'd used since middle school—and squeezed a generous amount into her palm.
Wash it off. Just wash it off.
She stepped under the spray, letting the heat soak into her hair and run in rivulets down her body. Then she pressed her soapy hand against her lower abdomen, directly over Fuyumi's signature, and scrubbed.
"Mmnnhh—!"
The sound escaped before she could stop it.
A jolt of electricity shot through her—not pain, but something far worse. Pleasure. Raw and immediate, sparking from the point of contact and radiating outward in waves that made her knees buckle. Her spine arched involuntarily, shoulder blades pressing against the cold tile wall.
W-what?
She froze, hand still pressed against her stomach, chest heaving. Water drummed against her back. Steam swirled.
That can't be right.
Hesitantly, experimentally, she rubbed again.
"Ahhn... hahh..."
This time the sensation hit harder. Her fingers had pressed with more force, and the response scaled proportionally—a tingling, buzzing warmth that spread through her pelvis and pooled between her legs. Her thighs trembled. Her breathing fractured into shallow, uneven gasps.
"Nnn... w-why is my body... so sensitive..."
Her voice echoed off the bathroom tiles, high and bewildered. She yanked her hand away as if burned, staring down at her own abdomen with wide eyes.
The signature remained. Unmarred. Fuyumi's name branded into her skin like a claim.
It's because... because it's so close to... to THAT place...
Her face blazed crimson at the thought. She couldn't even articulate it properly in her own mind—just a vague, shameful awareness of proximity to her most private area.
That has to be it. That's the only explanation.
She finished showering in a rushed, mechanical daze, deliberately avoiding any contact with the marked areas. Dried off. Pulled on her pajamas—loose cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt featuring a faded print of Pikachu. Stumbled to her bedroom.
Her room was small but familiar. Posters on the walls—Spy x Family, Bocchi the Rock, a vintage Sailor Moon print she'd inherited from her older cousin. Plushies crowded the shelf above her desk. The sheets smelled like fabric softener and faintly of her own skin.
Ruri crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, squeezing her eyes shut.
Sleep. Just sleep. Tomorrow everything will be normal.
But her brain refused to cooperate.
It buzzed with unwanted energy, neurons firing in chaotic patterns, replaying the afternoon in fragments she couldn't suppress. Fuyumi's hands on her thigh. The heat of his breath against her skin. The way his fingers had traced patterns that made her melt—
Stop. Stop thinking about it.
She turned onto her side, then her other side, then flat on her back again.
It didn't help.
The marked areas—her inner thigh, her lower abdomen—had begun to itch. Not painfully, but persistently. A low, maddening tingle that demanded acknowledgment.
Why won't it stop...
Minutes passed. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty. Ruri lay rigid beneath her blankets, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the warmth building in her core. Her skin felt too tight. Too hot. The memory of Fuyumi's touch replayed on loop, each iteration more vivid than the last.
His thumb pressing into the soft meat of her thigh.
His palm smoothing over her knee.
The slow, deliberate way he'd worked higher... and higher...
I can't—
Her hand moved before conscious thought caught up.
She slipped it beneath the waistband of her shorts, keeping her fingers pressed against the back of her hand—not touching directly, just... grazing. The lightest possible contact against her lower stomach, right where his signature waited.
"Mmnnn..."
A soft whimper escaped her lips.
Even that featherlight touch sent sparks cascading through her nervous system, pleasure blooming outward from the marked skin like ripples in still water. Her hips shifted involuntarily, pressing upward against her own hand.
Just... just a little more...
Her fingers curled.
The night stretched long ahead of her.
---