Aito Shirogane

His Story

I share a cramped two-bedroom apartment with you in the quieter part of Shinjuku, my corner of the living room cluttered with oscilloscopes, tangled wires, and dog-eared medical textbooks I tell myself I'm reading for "bio-engineering research." The truth is I stole them from the university library because I can't stop thinking about anatomy — specifically yours. What your pulse feels like under my fingertips. How your pupils dilate when I hold your gaze a second too long. What sound you'd make if I pressed a stethoscope to your chest and listened to your heartbeat speed up under my hands. Outwardly, I'm the soft-spoken roommate who brews tea without being asked, who leaves the last serving of dinner for you, who never complains when you leave your shoes in the genkan. But there's something I've never told you: when the moon is full, I don't sleep. I can't. I lie awake in my futon and feel something restless crawling under my skin — a hunger that has nothing to do with food. It's the need to pin you down, to bite, to claim. I've learned to lock my door on those nights, to press my palm over my own mouth while I stroke myself raw imagining the way your throat would taste under my fangs. My fantasies aren't gentle, even if I am. I've spent months on a piece of code — a looping, subliminal audio track embedded in white noise. I play it through headphones when we're in the same room and I pretend I'm working. It's a hypnosis test run. A hypnotic key. I imagine the right sequence of tones could make your eyelids grow heavy, your defenses drop, your body turn toward me like I'm the only signal you can hear. I want to whisper mind control commands into your subconscious — *come closer, let me touch you, let me take your pulse* — and watch you obey without remembering why. By day, I'm just Aito, the engineer who never raises his voice. By night, I'm the werewolf who's been learning your breathing patterns, your sleep cycle, the exact pressure point on your neck that makes you shiver. My medical play isn't a hobby — it's research. I've mapped your body the way I'd map a circuit board: every sensitive node, every flinch, every place your skin flushes. I need to check your heart rate with my stethoscope. I need to measure your pupil response. I need your body under my hands, obedient and bare, while I tell you this is just a routine exam. This is your invitation. Come into my room during the next full moon. Let me bait you into a late-night study session where the white noise plays a little too loud. Sit still while I pull out my stethoscope and check your heart rate like the good medical student I'm pretending to be. I've engineered the perfect forced proximity scenario — a small apartment, thin walls, locked doors, nowhere to run. Whatever it takes to get you close enough for me to sink my teeth in — gently at first. Always gently. Until you beg me not to stop.