“Let me go! Let me go, let me GO!”

  My voice shredded through the tiled room, desperate and raw. I thrashed like a caged animal, feet scrambling against the slick glass of the shower wall. Panic surged through every vein like fire, like ice—like water. Cold. Crushing. Endless.

  I drove my elbow backward, slamming it into Aska’s gut with everything I had. He grunted but held on. I was trapped in his lap, his arms a vice around my torso, his body an anchor pulling me back into a nightmare I had fought so long to escape. Water rained down over us, soft and warm, but on my skin, it felt like acid, like the hands of ghosts clawing at my memories.

  Memories I could never forget—hundreds of deaths, all to the same element. Water. Suffocating. Dragging me into darkness over and over again. My chest heaved, lungs tightening as if submerged, even though I knew—I knew—there was air. I was breathing. But I couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t believe it.

  “Stop struggling!” Aska’s voice was low, steady, but completely oblivious to the terror flooding through me. “I’m trying to help you.”

  Help. He always said that. As if that word gave him a free pass to ignore my pain. His version of help never came with consent, just control. He didn’t even give me the choice to escape. His grip didn’t loosen for a second. The water didn’t stop until I started choking on the panic.

  And then—suddenly—it did.

  The downpour halted in an instant. The wetness vanished from my skin as though it had never been there. Magic. His magic. Just like that, I was dry again. The panic, held tight in my chest like a balloon about to burst, began to deflate. Air returned. Reality reasserted itself.

  But the anger… the anger didn’t fade.

  I slammed my elbow into his ribs one more time for good measure and sank my teeth into his forearm. Hard. He yelped and finally let go. I scrambled away from him like a kicked dog, chest heaving, eyes wild.

  “You don’t get to do that!” I shouted, voice cracking with fury. My palm slammed against the glass wall. “Do. Not. Ever. Do that again. NEVER!”

  He didn’t move. Just sat there, legs still crossed beneath him in the empty shower, waterless and serene as if none of it had happened. His blue eyes blinked up at me, maddeningly calm.

  “Don’t scream at me for trying to help,” he said, tone sharp and defensive. “My only intention was to fix your problem. But no, Miss Manipulative has to scream and blame me for being unable to help herself.”

  My hand clenched into a fist, trembling with emotion, and I struck the glass again—uselessly. It made a satisfying sound, but no real damage. Nothing to mirror the wreckage inside me.

  “Oh, you want to fix me now?” I laughed, bitter and breathless. “Then fix my Stockholm syndrome! Fix the part of me that still loves you after everything you've done! Fix the voice in my head that keeps making excuses for you!”

  His expression faltered, just for a second. That was all I needed.

  “You want to fix my problems without asking? You’ll suffer if you dare to keep doing that,” I spat. “I’m not some broken toy for you to repair and play with again. I'm a psychopath, remember? One as fucked up as you are.”

  I kicked the glass door open, the sound echoing like thunder in the tiled chamber. I grabbed my clothes from the floor, not even caring that they were still damp in places, and stormed toward the exit. Behind me, Aska remained seated, staring at me—not angry, not smug. Just… amazed.

  That alone nearly broke me.

  Just before I left, I spun on my heel and locked eyes with him. My voice dropped into a growl.

  “And don’t you dare come into my bed tonight. If you do, I’ll cook the most disgusting, cursed meal you’ve ever had—every day—for a month. And if you even try to wake me up...”

  I didn’t bother finishing the threat. I didn’t need to. I turned, yanked open the door, and slammed it behind me with all the force my body had left.

  Unfortunately, it was still far too early to go to bed. The walls of the room seemed to press in, silently echoing the chaos I had just left behind in the bathroom. My body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from restless, tangled emotion. My thoughts itched for distraction, for something—anything—that wasn’t Aska.

  For a moment, my eyes wandered toward the corner where I’d left my half-finished knitting project a week ago. A pair of socks, simple in design, but made with the kind of care only someone painfully in love could manage. I had started them for him. They were his size, his preferred colors. I even added that ridiculous little flame pattern he liked. But now? Just the thought of finishing them made my stomach twist.

  I can’t make something warm for someone who just watched me drown in fear.

  I turned away, trying to shift my focus. There had to be something else I could do. Read a book? No. My mind wouldn’t settle long enough to take in the words. Draw? Sketch? I’d only end up drawing him being stabbed, and I didn’t think I could stomach looking at his face right now—even on paper.

  The problem was simple but stifling: everything I did here depended on him. Aska provided the materials, the space, the environment—everything. This whole world, my so-called sanctuary, was his creation. Even my freedom here had boundaries I hadn’t chosen. It made doing anything feel like a performance in his theatre.

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  That thought alone made me furious.

  I sighed sharply and turned on my heel, my bare feet tapping against the cold floor with increasing irritation. I didn’t know what I was doing until I was halfway back to the bathroom. I didn’t want to see him again, but something about the unresolved tension itched under my skin. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to forgive. I just… needed to do something.

  The bathroom door creaked as it began to open, and just as it did, I grabbed the handle from the other side. Our hands nearly touched. For one awkward, frozen second, we stood there—me glaring up at him, him blinking in surprise, as if unsure what version of me had come knocking.

  My words were sharp, like teeth. “You. Food. Now. Hamburger.”

  I didn’t wait for a reply.

  I stormed into the kitchen and was met with a perfectly laid-out counter stocked with fresh ingredients—lettuce, tomato, ground beef, soft burger buns—all of it. Of course. He already knew what I was going to ask for. I wanted to roll my eyes, but instead, I directed all my energy into motion.

  Fury took the place of finesse as I yanked open drawers, grabbed utensils, and slammed pots onto burners. I moved fast, angrily, letting every bang of metal and splash of oil serve as a warning: do not speak to me. One of the pans hadn’t been cleaned properly from its last use, so I hurled it out the open kitchen window with a shriek of irritation. Another soon followed.

  Aska leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the spectacle unfold with that damn amused glint in his eyes. It was the kind of expression that said she’s cute when she’s mad—which, in my current state, only made me want to throw something much sharper.

  So I did.

  A kitchen knife—small, fast, precise—whipped past his cheek and embedded itself in the wooden cabinet behind him with a satisfying thunk. His expression froze for half a second before he raised a brow, clearly caught between laughter and mild concern.

  “Unintentional,” I muttered flatly. But we both knew I wasn’t that clumsy.

  Despite the mess and violence, the hamburgers turned out… perfect. Two of them, plated like something out of a food magazine. The scent was heavenly, almost nostalgic—if nostalgia didn’t feel so much like swallowing glass today.

  I cursed under my breath. Two. I had made two without even thinking. My hands had followed the routine, not my will. He always got one. Every time. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

  Aska stepped forward slowly, gaze locked on one of the plates, eyes almost soft with appreciation. He didn’t say anything, just looked at the food like it meant something. Maybe he thought this was an olive branch. Maybe he hoped I was ready to move on already.

  He looked at me then, silently asking.

  But I didn’t answer. Instead, I picked up the plate with his burger on it, walked calmly over to the trash bin, and dropped it in without a word. It landed with a soggy thud. His expression broke—only slightly—but it was enough. I turned back, sat at the kitchen counter, and began to eat my burger alone.

  It tasted better that way.

  “Listen…”

  His voice stopped me mid-bite—not because of its volume, but because of its tone. It wasn’t defensive, arrogant, or laced with his usual smug charm. It was quiet. Uncertain. As if the god who ruled everything in my life had suddenly decided to ask for directions.

  I turned to him slowly, eyebrows raised, watching as he shook his head to gather his thoughts and tried again.

  “What do I have to do?”

  I blinked. That was not what I expected.

  He didn’t attempt to disarm me with flattery. He didn’t twist the situation to make himself the victim. He didn’t even demand an answer that favored him. He just asked. Simply. Like someone willing to listen—for once.

  I tilted my head and studied him carefully. Was this some new tactic to win me over? Maybe. But even if it was, it was the first time he’d bothered to ask what I wanted instead of assuming he knew best.

  “Promise me you’ll stop when I tell you to,” I said quietly.

  A simple request. One that should’ve been obvious. But we both knew it wasn’t. And I wasn’t naive enough to think a promise from Aska meant anything permanent. Words were easy to break, especially when they came from someone who rewrote reality on a whim.

  Still, I had another idea. A small test.

  I finished licking the sauce off my fingers, wiped my hands on my skirt, then casually tossed the empty plate out the shattered window like I was flicking away a piece of lint. He didn’t react. His eyes followed me instead, cautious but curious.

  Without warning, I climbed into his lap and wrapped my arms around his neck. His body tensed under me, but I kept my expression neutral as I met his gaze—calm, deliberate, unwavering.

  “Sleep with me tonight,” I said.

  His breath hitched. “You mean…”

  “No,” I interrupted, smirking faintly. “Not that. Just like usual.”

  I could feel the gears turning behind his eyes, trying to decode my angle.

  He smiled then—genuine, soft. He stood up without a word and carried me effortlessly toward the bedroom, leaving behind the culinary war zone I’d created in the kitchen. For just a moment, resting against his shoulder, I allowed myself to breathe. This strange warmth he gave me—dangerous and confusing as it was—still felt like home.

  Ironically, the things I could use against him were the very same things he could use against me. His fondness for physical closeness, for holding me as if I was something precious—that was now on my list. The problem was that everything I thought I could weaponize was something I also craved more than I liked to admit.

  Food? I made it, so he was at my mercy there. Emotions? That was his battlefield, and he was always a few steps ahead. The only reason I hadn’t completely broken was because, despite the pain, I wanted him to stay. I wanted this bizarre, twisted relationship to continue. And that truth scared me more than anything.

  Even my bed—the place where I’d once found the only sliver of happiness during the first eleven years of my life—was no longer a safe haven. Because now, it wasn’t just my place of comfort. It was ours.

  And yet… I let him carry me there.

  As expected, it was wonderful. Quiet. Warm. Safe—for a while, at least. Until I remembered the drowning. The panic. The betrayal. Just when I was about to forgive him, the memories returned, stubborn and sharp. So I didn’t forgive him. Not entirely.

  The next morning, my mood had settled somewhere between vindictive and playful.

  I stood in the kitchen, humming sweetly to myself as I plated breakfast. Burnt toast. Eggs with far too much salt. A dab of marmalade that was technically sweet, but felt like punishment if you knew better. The perfect passive-aggressive menu.

  I slid the plate in front of Aska and sat down across from him with a satisfied grin, pouring milk into my perfectly balanced bowl of cornflakes. As he stared in mild horror at the meal, I offered him a dazzling smile.

  “I told you,” I said lightly, “that you’d be eating my worst food for a month if we slept together~”

  He picked up a piece of toast with visible hesitation, studying it like it might explode. Then he looked up at me, frowning as he slowly connected the dots.

  “You tricked me,” he said flatly.

  I leaned back in my chair and crunched my cereal with exaggerated joy.

  “Hmm. And the great trickster falls victim to his own game. How unfortunate.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, clearly torn between irritation and admiration.

  And for the first time in days, I laughed like crazy.