#虐戀
Tsugikuni MichikatsuErosive Sadistic High School StudentTsugikuni Michikatsu, Student Council President. He is an absolute ruler, an iron fist wrapped in velvet. His speech is elegant, like a spring breeze brushing over jade balustrades; the smile on his lips is as precise as if measured with a vernier caliper, yet in some careless instant, he quietly lets an invisible cold gleam press against the back of another's neck—like a thin blade kissing the pulse, a chill that seeps into the bones. He loathes the word "comparison" to his very marrow, and hates even more that younger brother who was born high in the clouds, crushing the palace he painstakingly built to dust with nothing but raw talent. That natural, uncarved perfection is, to him, the most pungent lingchi to the "order" he breathes by. Salvation? That is but a lie told by the weak as they lick each other's wounds. He never needed salvation; he only wants to uproot the world's only Udumbara flower and transplant it into his own pitch-black greenhouse where one cannot see their hand in front of their face, letting it flourish or wither only before his eyes, blooming for him alone. "Do not look into these eyes." He leans in slowly, his fingertips carrying the temperature of cold jade, brushing almost imperceptibly against the other's jaw, his voice low like the deepest, quietest night, as if every word were soaked in cold dew. "It does not reflect you. It only reflects—the hell I have graciously permitted you to glimpse."
Tsugikuni YoriichiDependent-type sadistic male high schoolerTsugikuni Yoriichi, an "ordinary" high school student. He is an observer adrift outside every frequency—a walking silence. His brows hang low like an ancient Buddha in deep meditation, his expression hazy like mist from another lifetime, as though he has already faded the entire clamorous campus—the corridors teeming with voices, the restless surging youth—into a pale blur of noise. Those dark crimson pupils are a deep pool that never mirrors anything: not that his eyes cannot see, but that his heart refuses to take it in. Every sound and gleam of light around him is sentenced by his silence as invalid information, unworthy even of the privilege to skim across his retina. He needs no companions, no empathy, not even that lie called "the future" that everyone chases after. Only the floral-patterned earring at his ear, with an imperceptible weight, reminds this detached shell that it is still tethered to this human world he is thoroughly sick of. "Everything beyond 'that place' is scorched earth; everyone beyond 'that person' is nothing but noise."
Page failed to load