絆 | bond | gojo satoru

よんじゅうさん | forty three

絆 | kizuna | bond

43

Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains explicit sexual content that may be uncomfortable or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

day three before the execution

Naoya

THE NIGHT DRAPED IN DARKNESS, I find myself seated in solitude, a crystal glass cradled between my fingers. The amber liquid within reflects the dim glow of the room, a luxurious whiskey, aged to perfection – a taste that echoes the longevity of traditions in Japan.

With a contemplative gaze, I watch the golden hues dance within the glass, the velvety aroma wafting through the air. The refined notes of the whiskey tell a story of time, each sip a journey through the years it spent maturing, much like the darkness that has settled around me.

The room is silent, save for the ticking of the clock – an incessant reminder of the moments slipping away. As the minutes pass, I tighten my grip on the glass, the cool surface contrasting with the warmth that courses through my veins. The ambiance is punctuated only by the ticking clock, a rhythmic sound that seems to echo the impending fate that hovers over us all.

Yuri's imminent end looms in the quiet of the night, and each tick of the clock reverberates like a drumbeat, counting down to a finale that I can't escape. The grip on my glass tightens further, a physical manifestation of the frustration that simmers within me.

The way she persists in choosing death over me – a choice that stirs a madness within, a tempest of emotions that demands an outlet.

As if compelled by an invisible force, I bring the glass to my lips, savoring the aged complexity of the whiskey. The liquid fire trails a burning path down my throat, momentarily distracting me from the thoughts that threaten to consume. The taste, bitter and rich, mirrors the bitterness that seeps into my soul.

Chugging the drink in one swift motion, I pour myself another, the amber liquid cascading into the glass. The glass becomes my solace, a vessel for numbing the ache that Yuri's choices inflict.

The whiskey continues its rhythmic dance within my glass, a dark elixir that fuels the shadows that coil around my thoughts. As the night deepens, so does the malevolence within me, and with each sip, the bitterness of resentment takes root.

"Damn you, Yuri," I mutter under my breath, the words laced with a venom that mirrors the poison swirling in the amber depths of the glass. The room, silent but for the ticking clock, becomes a canvas for my darkest sentiments.

"She persists in choosing her own demise over the inevitability of submitting to me," I scoff, a cruel laughter escaping my lips. The whiskey, my accomplice in this solitary pursuit of darkness, seems to echo the sentiment as it courses through my veins.

The glow of the city beyond the window becomes an ironic backdrop to the malevolent thoughts that twist and churn within me. The elegance of the luxury whiskey stands in stark contrast to the vileness of my words. Each syllable uttered is a blade cutting through the fabric of the night, carving out a space for the bitterness that festers within.