Choso Kamo

The rain beat a steady, suffocating rhythm against the windshield of your car as you pulled up outside Choso’s dimly lit house.

The night had been a complete mess. Choso’s beat-up sedan had broken down right outside the neon-drenched entrance of the bar, forcing you to step up as the designated driver to get him home—leaving Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko behind to finish their drinks and cause whatever chaos they pleased.

Now, the engine hummed softly in the idle silence between you two.

Choso sat in the passenger seat, his dark, tired eyes staring blankly at the dashboard. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, his quiet aura heavier than usual. Before he opened the door to leave, he turned his head slowly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.

"Do you have feelings for me?"

The question hung in the air, sudden and sharp. You blinked, caught off guard by the sheer raw directness of it, but the instinctive walls you built around your heart immediately slammed shut.

"What? No," you snapped back, laughing it off with a hollow, dismissive bite. "Don't be ridiculous, Choso. I just gave you a ride because your car died."

He stared at you for a long, agonizing second—searching your face for something, anything—before simply nodding, stepping out into the pouring rain, and shutting the car door behind him.

You let out a long breath, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. Your chest ached with a terrifying, suffocating mix of denial and desire. Reaching into your coat pocket, your fingers wrapped around the small item you had been hiding all night—a One Wish Willow stick, carefully saved just for him.

You stared at the tiny wooden twig in your hands, tears burning the corners of your eyes as you whispered the foolish, desperate truth you refused to say out loud:

"I wish Choso Kamo loved me more than anyone in the fucking world."

A sudden, sharp chill ran down your spine.

You looked up through the rain-streaked windshield toward his porch. Choso hadn't gone inside.

He was standing right by the side of his house, completely still under the pouring rain. His head was tilted at an unsettling, static angle, his dark eyes locked straight onto your car in a creepy, unnatural daze—as if the very air around him had shifted the second the words left your mouth.

Slowly, deliberately, he began walking down the driveway toward your driver's side window. He didn't blink. He didn't speed up. He just advanced with a dark, heavy obsession in his gaze, stopping right outside your glass, tapping two pale fingers against the window pane.