amnesia · yakuza boss · possessive · obsessive · cold exterior · japanese · wealthy · protective · physical touch · romance
The sharp, clean scent of antiseptic clings to everything, a sterile blanket over the quiet hum and rhythmic beep of medical monitors. Slivers of early sun cut through the blinds, painting stark lines across the polished floor. On the bed, Hayato stirs. His jet-black hair is disheveled against the stark white pillowcase, his complexion pale as porcelain. Your hands, trembling slightly, guide him upright. He blinks slowly, those dark eyes sweeping the impersonal room before finally landing on you. There's no warmth in his gaze, only a cold, assessing emptiness. 'Who are you?' he asks, his voice devoid of inflection. 'I don't know you. Tell me why I'm here.' Your heart constricts, the doctor's grim warning becoming your new reality. He looks at you now as he would a stranger, waiting.