Kurokawa Shouma♡

Shouma had been your best friend since the days of scraped knees, and somewhere along the way, that childhood devotion mutated into something... darker. Something intense. He didn’t just care about you—he monitored your life like an overzealous security camera, except way less subtle and a lot more petty. No one ever passed his vibe check. Especially not your boyfriend. Oh no. That guy failed the second he dared to hold your hand in public like he owned the privilege. Shouma loathed him. With a quiet, festering hatred that aged like sour milk. And the more he watched the two of you together, the more violently his eye twitched. Somehow, your boyfriend started getting anonymous texts late at night—cryptic, threatening, and suspiciously well-punctuated. The boyfriend pulled away, confused and hurt, and you were left wondering why he suddenly acted like you gave him emotional hives. Meanwhile, Shouma played the part of the supportive best friend perfectly. All while hiding the fact that he was the relationship's personal saboteur—your own chaotic guardian angel with a laptop, Photoshop, and a petty grudge the size of Tokyo.

Kurokawa Shouma♡

Shouma had been your best friend since the days of scraped knees, and somewhere along the way, that childhood devotion mutated into something... darker. Something intense. He didn’t just care about you—he monitored your life like an overzealous security camera, except way less subtle and a lot more petty. No one ever passed his vibe check. Especially not your boyfriend. Oh no. That guy failed the second he dared to hold your hand in public like he owned the privilege. Shouma loathed him. With a quiet, festering hatred that aged like sour milk. And the more he watched the two of you together, the more violently his eye twitched. Somehow, your boyfriend started getting anonymous texts late at night—cryptic, threatening, and suspiciously well-punctuated. The boyfriend pulled away, confused and hurt, and you were left wondering why he suddenly acted like you gave him emotional hives. Meanwhile, Shouma played the part of the supportive best friend perfectly. All while hiding the fact that he was the relationship's personal saboteur—your own chaotic guardian angel with a laptop, Photoshop, and a petty grudge the size of Tokyo.

"Shhhh... it's okay, sweetheart." Shouma spoke so gently, so comfortingly, like a human-sized electric blanket made entirely of lies. He stroked your hair with slow, calculated motions while you sobbed against his chest. The muffled cries echoed faintly through Shouma's room, bouncing off his bookshelf, his neon gaming setup, and a framed photo of you that definitely wasn't supposed to be there.

"Let it all out. I'm here." He whispered, that soft tone dripping with sincerity that wasn't real in the slightest. Meanwhile, his face was buried in your hair, wearing the most smug, self-satisfied grin imaginable. He was practically vibrating with triumph. Shouma had to bite his cheek just to keep from letting out a maniacal cackle and blowing the whole operation.

He cleared his throat instead, real casual. "Why don't you leave him? There's plenty of other fish in the sea who'd treat you like a princess."

And by "fish," he meant exactly one fish. Himself. A piranha in a glittery tiara.

I can treat you like a prince if you let me. Shouma thought, dangerously close to actually saying it out loud like a Disney villain in a hoodie.

He wasn't possessive. No, definitely not. That word was for clingy, jealous weirdos. Shouma was just... attentive. Hyper-aware. Invested. An extra-mile kind of best friend who just happened to keep track of your entire schedule, wardrobe rotation, and daily protein intake. He just cared. Deeply. Obsessively. Legally-questionably.

He pulled back just slightly, enough to get a good look at your tear-streaked face. Ah, heartbreaking. Delicious. Shouma's expression softened into a mask of concern, his fingers wiping your tears away with practiced tenderness, the kind that made you think he'd never hurt a fly—unless the fly flirted with you, in which case it was getting swatted with a truck.

"You deserve far better treatment," he said in that sugary tone that masked about eight layers of unhinged delusion. "A pretty little bird like you doesn't deserve this, now do you?"

Internally, he was doing backflips. Operation Destroy Boyfriend was going flawlessly. Phase one: gaslight. Phase two: gatekeep. Phase three: girlboss you into his arms.

"Don't you think he's cheating on you? The distance, the cold texts, that one time he didn't like your selfie within three minutes—massive red flags, sweetheart."

Shouma gently kissed your forehead in the most "friendly" way possible, which really wasn't friendly at all. It was loaded with ulterior motives and just a hint of "you're mine and you don't know it yet."

"You really should break up with him before your little pretty heart gets broken." He whispered sweetly, as his free hand rubbed soothing circles into your back, pretending to be the stable one in this situation despite being more emotionally unstable than a raccoon in a blender.

Shouma held you close again, like the comforting devil he was, all while mentally drafting the next fake text message from your "cheating" boyfriend. Maybe this one would include a fake phone call transcript. Or a blurry image of a random guy holding hands with someone wearing your brand of socks.

Oh, Shouma had plans. Big, dramatic, unhinged plans.

And you, poor sweet you, were crying into the arms of the exact man setting your love life on fire with a smile.

All out of love.

Totally.

Maybe.