Koichi Kimijima stepped into the bathroom, almost yanking open the buttons of his shirt. He threw the garment aside and turned on the faucet.
A torrent of icy water poured down instantly, hammering onto his head.
He said nothing, resting his forehead against the cold tile wall, letting the water run from his hair, down the nape of his neck, and along his spine.
His fingertips clutched the edge of the tile, knuckles turning white, as if holding onto the last shred of reason.
“...Calm down,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
But the image wouldn’t go away.
The white dress clinging to her soaked body, the strap slipping off her shoulder, the faint outline of her curves through the wet fabric—
And that moment when she called his name in panic: “Koichi...” Her voice trembled, shy and dependent.
He shut his eyes tightly, letting the cold water wash over his face—but it couldn’t extinguish the heat rising inside him.
His breathing grew rapid, heartbeat pounding out of control. He clenched his teeth, a low growl escaping his throat.
She hadn’t done anything.
And yet, she pushed him to the brink of collapse.
“I’m her butler...” he whispered, voice hoarse to the point of breaking.
But that form-fitting sportswear, those absurdly short shorts, that faint line of abdominal muscles, and the rain-soaked fabric clinging to her skin...
Each frame tortured him in slow motion.
He raised a towel and pressed it harshly over his face, shoulders trembling.
“Damn it... I can’t... She’s my lady...”
He didn’t run. Not really. Today in the gym, when she nearly brushed against his back and side, he reflexively stepped away.
Not because he hated it—
But because he knew, if she touched that most sensitive part of him...
His body would react.
He could no longer fake composure.
He leaned against the sink, chest heaving. His knuckles whitened, his throat tightening. He looked up at the mirror—
Wet hair clung to his forehead, eyes reddened, his face pale like someone clawed back from the depths.
He slowly moved toward the cabinet, opening a discreet gray box hidden in the back.
Inside lay a blade—thin as paper, sharp enough to reflect his soaked face.
He sat down on the cold tiles and turned over his right wrist.
That patch of pale skin was covered in tiny, neat scars.
All healed. But they spoke their own language—quietly chronicling every moment of breakdown and repression.
His shirt sleeves were always buttoned to the top.
His gloves never came off in public.
During workouts, it was simple: a wristband or tape, and a line about “an old injury” fooled everyone.
Only he knew—
It wasn’t an injury. And it wasn’t an accident.
It was how he survived.
He couldn’t shout. Couldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t express emotion—
So he learned to use pain to remind himself of his limits.
He placed the blade to his wrist and slowly brought it down.
The cold edge slid across familiar skin. Blood didn’t gush—it merely surfaced as a thin red line, proof of emotions too long suppressed.
Then came the pain—clean, simple. Like pressing pause on his heartbeat.
Blood dropped onto the porcelain sink, the white surface quickly stained with a blooming red—like roses opening in the dark. Silent. But piercing.
He could finally breathe again.
But only for a moment.
Then the images returned.
Her drenched lashes. Her trembling hands. The way she said, “I just wanted you to notice me,” her voice defiant, on the verge of tears.
You thought it was just lip movement, and I wouldn’t hear?
Wrong.
You don’t know. I’ve always been watching you. Always... Always.
He exhaled shakily, gripping the blood-stained blade.
“...Isn’t this enough yet...?”
He murmured, voice broken—like a cry for help, though no one was there to hear.
This time, even the pain didn’t work.
It wasn’t enough to silence the flood of fantasies, wasn’t enough to pull him back from the abyss of desire.
He grasped the faucet tightly, knuckles turning translucent.
And in his mind—it was still her.
Always her.
He curled his lips into a faint, bitter smile.
“You think I’m indifferent? No... I’m just good at hiding it.”
“If you knew how I held myself back—by touching you with my eyes, memorizing every inch of your scent and voice...”
“You’d think I’m disgusting, wouldn’t you?”
He lowered his head, laughing quietly at himself.
“But I really... can’t stop anymore...”
His fingers still held the blade, blood slowly seeping from his skin.
Her image burned in his mind, scorching, inescapable.
“Damn it...” he growled, chest rising and falling.
Even though this was his second time living through it—
Why did his body react more intensely than the first time?
Was it because he carried memories from the previous timeline?
All those emotions—too heavy to bear the first time—had compressed and multiplied. Burning deeper, fiercer.
Even his body now seemed punished for it—his reason steadily eroding.
Or maybe...
It was just that his mental age had never truly moved past twenty-seven.
The year he lost her.
The year he activated the system.
Since then, time had been frozen. Outwardly, days went by.
But his true self had never left that powerless winter night.
The snow. Her tears. His voiceless regret—
They never really faded.
“Calm down.” He forced the words in his mind.
He couldn’t deviate from the story line—not even a step. Any misstep could destroy the future.
This time, he couldn’t lose control again.
This time, he had to protect her.
He had to keep her from walking the path to death again.
That almost sacred sense of duty seared into his soul, pulling him back from the edge.
“...I won’t let you die.”
As the words left his lips, he felt drained.
He dropped his arm. His eyes drifted back to the bleeding cut—
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