A book in which you, the infamous ability stealer, are the newest member of the Port Mafia and as witty as they come. Being the constant centre of attention, you have managed to catch the eye of the notorious young executive; Chuuya Nakahara, but no...
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Chuuya had frantically jolted awake; every thought in high definition, drenched in a cold sweat. It was the middle of the night. He woke up suddenly, not because of any particular noise or interruption, but because his dream had finally come to its conclusion.
But it wasn't a dream.
It was a nightmare.
The worst horror of all.
He tried not to remember. He desperately tried not to remember with every single fibre of his very being, but he couldn't. He couldn't push those salient details of the dream aside—the sweltering heat and the erotic sweat of it—he tried hard. So fucking hard. His chest was rising and falling heavily, and he felt like his breathing was being restricted—by what? He had no fucking idea.
If he could—he would do anything in his power to try and impair this unwanted memory; this unwanted nightmare that was making him want to hide under the covers. Right now, the concept of sliding into mindless oblivion was starting to sound appealing. Too appealing.
Anything would be appealing if it meant he wouldn't remember.
He suddenly scrambled to find his phone in the dark, and when he saw it sitting on the nightstand, he didn't hesitate to fling himself across the bed to pick it up. The first thing he did as soon as he had gotten his hands on this overpriced device was fumble trying to search for the Google app, and when his eyes finally landed on the Google Chrome icon, he pressed it, and immediately his thumbs started typing away faster than the speed of light.
Google, how much wine does a person have to consume in one sitting before it kills them?
Because right now, dying by the hands of wine sounded very appealing.
But no.
Nothing.
There was nothing.
Nothing but the forbidden memory flooding his brain like the sea during a raging storm.
Memory? Fucking hell. It wasn't even a real memory. Just a dream, he reminded himself. The only reason that he was even calling it a memory was because the dream was so vivid, too vivid to the point where it was messing with his reality. But no. In actuality it was just a stupid, dumb and idiotic dream—or more appropriately, a nightmare that made him want to check himself into a mental institution because surely, surely there must have been something wrong with his brain for conjuring up such...titillating images. No, maybe he should call up a doctor and express that he probably needed a brain scan to see if there was something wrong? There was definitely a problem here.
