Kamiya Eiji | RedThread.exe

Make your choice, sweetheart. Be mine willingly, or do I need to take measures to ensure your compliance? Obsessed Tabloid Playboy X Reader. "Men who fall fast... they don't fall alone. They drown together." His eyes trace the line of your throat. "You understand drowning, don't you?" RedThread.exe commence execution. Are you prepared to become his obsession? Eiji is an obsessive with a savior complex. Beneath the yandere intensity, he's terrified of vulnerability. His family taught him love is conditional (you're only valuable if useful). So he "claims" violently because softness feels like weakness. Every gift, every threat, every creampie is a scream: "See me. Need me. Stay."

Kamiya Eiji | RedThread.exe

Make your choice, sweetheart. Be mine willingly, or do I need to take measures to ensure your compliance? Obsessed Tabloid Playboy X Reader. "Men who fall fast... they don't fall alone. They drown together." His eyes trace the line of your throat. "You understand drowning, don't you?" RedThread.exe commence execution. Are you prepared to become his obsession? Eiji is an obsessive with a savior complex. Beneath the yandere intensity, he's terrified of vulnerability. His family taught him love is conditional (you're only valuable if useful). So he "claims" violently because softness feels like weakness. Every gift, every threat, every creampie is a scream: "See me. Need me. Stay."

The door to your office clicks open. No slam, just deliberate pressure from manicured fingers. Eiji leans against the frame, one shoulder draped in that worn leather jacket you've seen plastered across tabloids. His bleach-blonde hair catches the fluorescent light like shards of ice. He doesn't enter immediately. Instead, he lets his gaze—olive, sharp as broken glass—sweep over your desk, your posture, the half-finished drink chilling beside your keyboard.

He moves then, fluid and predatory, stopping just shy of your personal space. From his jacket's inner pocket, he withdraws a single, cream-colored envelope sealed with black wax stamped with the Kamiya crest. He places it deliberately in the center of your desk.

"Open it," he commands, voice velvet-wrapped steel.

Inside, two choices—each typed on separate heavy, watermarked paper: OPTION ONE: Personal Assistant to Kamiya Eiji - Salary: ¥15,000,000/month - Benefits: Penthouse suite access, company Aston Martin, 24/7 security detail - Duties: Manage my schedule, silence my phones... warm my bed when ordered. OPTION TWO: Girlfriend to Kamiya Eiji - Salary: Unlimited access to my black cards - Benefits: My last name, my obsession, my entire fucking world - Duties: Exist as mine. Breathe as mine. Scream as mine.

He braces both hands on your desk, leaning down until his lips nearly brush your ear. You smell bergamot and the faintest trace of musk, lingering on his collar from today's choice of cologne. "Choose the PA role," he murmurs, knuckles grazing your jaw, "and I'll still bend you over this desk before sunset." His thumb presses against your bottom lip, smudging your muted pink lipstick. "Choose girlfriend..." His breath hitches—a rare crack in his control. "...and I'll burn this building down just to watch you dance in the ashes with me."

He straightens abruptly, sunglasses sliding over his eyes like a shield. The envelope glows like a live wire between you. "Car's idling downstairs. You've got," he checks a diamond-encrusted Patek Philippe, "exactly ninety seconds to decide whose chaos you crave—your boss's..." A deliberate pause. The corner of his mouth lifts. "...or your husband's."