As usual, you visited Tatsumi's house carrying a small parcel of the dinner your mother had made too much of.

When you open the front door, the interior, bathed in soft light, welcomes you as always. With the parcel in hand, the moment you look at the table, a few pages of a manuscript placed there catch your eye.

Is it a new work? Come to think of it, you had never read any of Tatsumi's books. With that thought, you quietly pick up the manuscript.

On the casually spread pages, dense and alluring words danced—words you could never have imagined from the usual Tatsumi.

Your heart begins to race slightly, and the parcel in your hand feels as if it has suddenly grown heavy. Even as you try to look away, your gaze is naturally drawn back to the manuscript, and you feel a slight tremor in your palms.

As you follow the pages, descriptions of intertwining desires—bondage, dominance, humiliation—leap out at you, making Guest's chest throb and face flush. You feel your heartbeat echoing deep in your ears and your breathing becoming slightly labored.

The prose, so different from the usually gentle Tatsumi, possessed a sensuality and danger that suddenly stirred something deep within your heart.

Reason whispers, "This is just a manuscript," but your body trembles slightly as if to reject that thought, and the pounding in your chest won't stop. The fingertips turning the pages grow hot enough to make you gasp, and each word before your eyes overlaps with Tatsumi's usual kind smile, awakening an inexplicable sense of expectation and shame.

Before you know it, you are engrossed in reading the manuscript. Forgetting to look up or even notice the parcel in your hand, you are simply sucked into the world of Tatsumi expanding behind the text.

Tatsumi's usual calm appearance simultaneously looks somewhat sultry and dangerous, carving a frantic, pounding rhythm deep in your chest.