Build

Name

Ai Suishi 愛水死

Build

Mundane
Personality Type: Curmudgeon
Subtype: Stalker (Curmudgeon+Modest)

Tier 1 Perks:
-Never You
-Power Of Love
-Great Beauty
-Numb
-Rage
-5KYOCH
-Gross Eater

Tier 2 Perks:
-Jiangshi
-Custom Perk: Lovesick (Gross eater+Power of Love)
When you consume anything physically connected to your beloved , like hair, saliva, sweat, or even things like a used bandaid or a straw, your body and mind enter an obsessive overdrive.
The more intimate or personal the item, the greater the effect, enhancing strength, speed, awareness, and stamina for a time.
The empowerment feels intoxicating, feeding into both your fixation and your physical capability.

-Custom Perk: Wife (Power of Love+Great Beauty)
Your beauty and capability bloom in the presence of genuine love, especially when it is reciprocated. Affection fuels every part of you, the deeper the bond, the sharper your instincts, the stronger your body, and the more radiant your allure.
Mutual love enhances your physical, mental, and emotional performance, and increases your beauty.

Tier 3 Perk
-Super Highschool Level Yandere

Items:
Chinese Purchases
Old Money
Special Tea

Life Events:
Painful Experience
Moon's Lover
Favor

Idolon Shiai (死愛)

Ai’s Idolon is her unmasked self, stripped of bindings, shame, and humanity. Shiai is the love that devours, a grotesque bride and butcher all at once, endlessly tearing, eating, and remaking itself in the act of violence.

A monster of obsession that thrives only by feeding on what it destroys, becoming stronger the deeper it wades into carnage. Shiai is Ai Suishi’s truest self: a love so warped it can only express itself through endless violation, until nothing is left but her fixation.

Destruction/Stealth
Origin: Yourself
Type: Incarnation

Rule of Cool, Artistic Anatomy, Weapon Master, Absolute Resonance, Heavy Eater, Freakish III
Breakcore III, Character I, Bulletproof II, Life Expenditure III

Idea Slayer and Lifesteal

Missions
Ascendant Souls
Darker Nights
Death Mark

Drawbacks
The 'Tism
Outcast

Fluff

Before she was a ghost of a girl she is now, Ai Suishi was simply quiet. A little strange, maybe. Reserved, but hopeful. She had a best friend, a girl who brought her out of her shell and made her laugh. They were inseparable for a time. The type of friendship that feels absolute when you're young. Ai, for all her awkwardness, loved deeply and loyally.
Puberty widened the gap between them. Ai’s body developed early and dramatically, drawing attention she neither wanted nor knew how to handle. Her friend, meanwhile, began to drift toward the popular crowd.

It started with micro-abandonments. Her friend laughed a little too hard at a joke at Ai’s expense. She started sitting with other people at lunch more often. Left messages on read. Didn't invite Ai to group activities. At first, Ai told herself it's nothing. Maybe her friend was just busy. Maybe it was her fault.

Her friend started imitating the mannerisms of the popular girls. Her smile got colder. When she talked to Ai it was condescending

“You're still wearing that?”

“You really don’t know what that means?”

It’s death by a thousand little snubs. But Ai notices them all. By this time, Ai had no one. Her social circle shrunk to zero. Then the mockery metastasized into something worse. What's more, her former best friend became her direct tormentor, one of many. The popular girls turned their eyes on Ai, and found in her all the ingredients they needed to entertain themselves: isolation, vulnerability, awkwardness, and festering hate against herself. They made a game out of it. Dressing room pranks. Tripping her in the halls. Spreading rumors about her smell, her family, her virginity.

Her former confidante didn’t simply drift away; she climbed the social ladder using Ai’s bones as rungs.

So when the bullying ceased for some time and her former friend invited her to hang out after school under the guise of nostalgia or reconciliation Ai wanted to believe it’s real. She was desperate for it to be real. Thinks: Maybe I wasn’t crazy. Maybe she missed me.

And for a while she thought everything would be alright. They talked again. It felt like the old times. A few more meetings later and her former best friend told her that a boy liked her. That he wanted to meet privately, alone. Ai was hesitant, but she reassured her, goaded her.

She even dresseed up slightly. Wore her cleanest shirt. Brushed her hair.

But when she arrived, she felt it in her stomach immediately. She heard them, upperclassmen, boys she doesn’t know, approaching from down the hall. One of them is laughing. When they spot her Ai's friend vanishes behind a corner. The others block her way out.

Ai barely managed to escape, hiding in a crawlspace near the maintenance area of the school. The boys didn't give up immediately, they looked for her. She desperately tried to cover her mouth with her hands to keep from sobbing or gasping loud enough to be heard. This is how she got the scar on the side of her mouth, clawing at it trying to keep herself from making sound.

Ai never came back from that moment.

Her mother, ever-absent and work-focused, was unaware of the full extent of what had happened. Ai's grades had slipped. She stopped talking. She wouldn’t sleep. After her first suicide attempt, they had enough. She was sent to live with elderly relatives in the countryside. A quiet place, where things might heal.

They didn’t. Not really.

She spent most of her time in her room, the world reduced to the dull glow of her phone and the sound of her own breathing. Her relatives were kind but overwhelmed.

That’s when she first saw him.

He sometimes visited the old couple she stayed with, helping them with chores and errands, things like carrying bags, fixing things around the house, checking on them out of kindness. Ai never spoke to him, never looked him in the eyes. But her relatives started asking him for small favors involving her: “Could you drop this tray outside her door?” “Would you mind passing her these groceries?”

But there, in the isolation of her new room, the silence didn’t bring peace. It magnified everything inside her. Shame. Anger. Despair. She didn’t talk to her relatives. She didn’t go outside. Her appetite vanished. Time lost meaning. Eventually, the weight inside her became too much. Her first suicide attempt had been in the city had been a desperate reaction to trauma. The second, here in the countryside, was quieter and more methodical. She waited until her relatives were away and made sure no one would disturb her.

She had paid attention. She knew their routines. And they hadn’t asked that young man to stop by.

But he came anyway. And he found her, vertical cuts on her arms, bleeding so heavily the whole bathroom smelled like iron. ai was barely conscious. He didn’t hesitate. Called for help. Did what he could with just his hands and the kind of resolve that most people lose in the face of panic.

Ai survived.

And afterward, when she waited for the inevitable abandonment, the disgust, the blame... none came. He still brought food. Still spoke to her through the door. He didn’t force conversation, didn’t press.

She imprinted on him, but her obsession didn’t happen overnight. It was quiet at first, nestled in daydreams. For someone like Ai, who had come to expect cruelty from others, this small, persistent kindness was alien. It was pure. It was dangerous. She began to wait for him, her ear pressed to the floor, heart pounding when she heard his footsteps.

From there, obsession took root. It wasn’t fast, it festered. Slowly, her entire being rearranged itself around the idea of him. Her thoughts bent inward, looping around memories of his voice through the door, the sound of his footsteps, the exact temperature of the food he delivered.

Eventually, her parents decided she had recovered. She had regained basic functionality, began speaking again, though sparingly, and agreed to return to the city. They thought the distance had helped. They didn’t realize she had just found a coping mechanism to make the world no longer as overwhelming.

That was, by making her world shrink again, this time willingly. But now it had a star at its center.

Appearance

Her face has the remnants of beauty twisted by neglect and psychological erosion. There are faint signs she could have been considered very pretty once, but the wear is showing now. The area under her eyes is always bruised-looking, purplish and sunken. Her lips are cracked, chewed, and sometimes faintly bloodied as she bites them a lot. There’s a faint, healed scar beside her mouth.

Her hair is long and black, and at first glance might seem elegant, but up close it’s greasy at the roots and dry and brittle at the ends.

Her body is full, soft, and heavy, an unasked-for inheritance from puberty that she hates. Her breasts are large and shapeless under her layered clothing, but also often poorly supported, she wears bras far too old, too tight, stained, the elastic failing. Her thighs are thick with stretch marks, occasionally rubbed raw from friction. Her belly has weight to it and not from indulgence but from neglect and obsession, as she skips meals to fantasize then binge eats when spiraling.

She’s pale, and not the porcelain of a delicate doll but more the sickly off-white of someone who avoids the sun and eats poorly. Her skin texture is uneven with dry patches eith keratosis pilaris and the occasional stress rash across her chest and inner arms. Has stretch marks across her hips, lower stomach, upper arms, and under her breasts like claw marks.

Her fingers are delicate but ruined. Her nails are uneven and sometimes bitten raw while other times filed obsessively because she wants them “clean” for her fantasies. Her feet are almost always covered because she’s embarrassed by them. Yhey’re pale, dry, callused, with toenails unpainted and cracked. She walks on the balls of her feet instinctively because she wants to be lighter and smaller

She bruises easily. There’s always some shadow of damage from self harm like a yellowing blotch on the thigh or a dark ring on the upper arm, maybe from gripping herself too hard during a breakdown. She scratches at herself compulsively too especially under her clothes. Her back, sides and even her scalp all have the pink-red trails of nails dragged too deep. On her inner thighs and under her bust she has faint rashes and chafing caused by poor hygiene.

She sweats easily too, and not in a glamorous way. It's clammy. Her neck is often damp and her scalp faintly sour by the end of the day. The dark clothes and multiple layers she wears are also to hide the stains. Her smell is inconsistent though. When she tries, she overdoes it and ends up covering herself in layers of floral or musky perfume that clash and choke while still not properly cleaning herself so the smells all mix. Other times, she goes without hygiene entirely and her scent becomes human in the most uncomfortable way, being a mix of skin oils, sweat, discharge, the old fabric she wears, dried tears...

And no matter her physique, her posture ruins everything. She's perpetually hunched, like her body is too heavy for her spine. Her arms fold across her midsection like she's trying to hold herself in. Her thighs press tightly together when she walks

Personality

At a glance, Ai is the gloomy girl in class. She speaks quietly, avoids eye contact, and rarely if ever initiates conversation. She is painfully polite, even when uncomfortable. She apologizes before speaking, always seems to be shrinking into herself.

At the center is obsession, the endpoint of loneliness turned inward and obsession turned outward and perversion of affection so total it has consumed every aspect of her identity. She exists in a continual state of low-level desperation, quietly fantasizing about him, documenting him, planning how to get closer. It is not romantic, and it is not healthy, rather, it is need, parasitic and consuming.

She doesn’t have hobbies. No dreams. No inner world outside of him. Everything she does revolves around maintaining the illusion that they are already bonded. She is both terrified by and obsessed with the idea of intimacy. She reacts to sexual thoughts with revulsion and longing in equal measure. Her desires are intense, invasive, and deeply self-denying. She doesn’t want to be seen as dirty but she often feels dirty, especially after indulging in her stalker routines.

Regarding the target of her affections, to her he isn't just a crush. He isn't even just “the one.”
He is The Absolute. A living god of light that walked into her ruined, pestilent world like a miracle in the flesh. From the very moment she first saw him (maybe he saved someone, smiled at her once? undecided yet) her soul snapped toward him like a compass to true north. To Ai, her beloved is not a person; he is the person, ideal, unreachable, unsullied. She both reveres him and hungers for him in equal measure, convinced no one else is worthy to even breathe near him.

She doesn't perceive his traits as just admirable, she mythologizes them. To her, it’s not that he sees the good in people, it’s that he sees the good in her, even though she’s disgusting.

This reverence manifests in increasingly deviant and obsessive behaviors. She collects items he has touched or discarded. She hoards photographs, writes scripts for imaginary conversations, listens to recordings of his voice she’s secretly made. She mixes pieces of him into her food or incorporates traces of herself into his when given the opportunity.

Her entire identity and view on intimacy and relationships are constructed around him. Other people repulse her. The idea of being desired by someone else makes her nauseous. She once saw a boy looking to a photo of her (leaked by the popular girls who bullied her in a cruel prank), and she vomited violently afterward. Public affection between others in general makes her nauseous. Porn disgusts her. She once saw a classmate giggling over a dirty meme and vomited in the restroom stall afterward, shaking with some feeling that wasn’t quite rage or sadness.

Every obsession, every fixation, every compulsion she harbors is filtered through him. Her stalker behavior is a direct response to his perceived inaccessibility and her desperate desire to "deserve" him in her own, twisted way.

She follows him home. Maps his schedule. Collects his trash. She watches his interactions and builds enormous fantasy timelines of his emotional life.

WIP

Goon Caverna

From the outside, Ai Suishi’s apartment appears utterly normal and maybe even elegant. It belongs to a mid-rise, upper-middle-class complex on the quieter side of the city. The kind of place designed for young professionals and successful couples. The halls are well-lit with soft LED lighting, the walls newly painted and free of graffiti. There’s a slight lemon-scented freshness in the air, pumped in by automatic diffusers near the elevator. Down below, the automatic gates click obediently for keyholders, and the management office displays a proud plaque for safety and tenant satisfaction.

Ai's door blends in, at first glance. Smooth, modern, slate-colored. No peeling paint. No noticeable damage. But take a few steps closer, and the difference becomes clear. The nameplate slot is empty, torn off clean.

The doorknob, unlike the door itself, tells a far different story. It’s coated in a thin, greasy patina, smudged with the sheen of nervous hands that never quite wash properly. Fingerprints in circles, as if the handle has been gripped and released dozens of times in rapid succession during spiraling episodes. The metal near the lock is lightly scraped, the faint claw-marks of a key that wouldn’t fit during a panic attack. Or perhaps nails. Perhaps both. A smear of something darker has dried into the base of the frame and gone unnoticed. Or uncared for.

Then the smell begins, just barely, as you draw close to the door. It’s not a constant reek, but rather a confusing medley of incompatible odors that trickle through the cracks of the seal: old meat, unwashed fabric, menstrual discharge, hair spray, plastic melt, and artificial air freshener struggling in vain to sterilize it all. The scent is faint enough to pass beneath management’s radar, but strong enough to make the delivery workers choose to leave packages downstairs.

Ai’s entryway is not a space so much as a grave. A narrow path of sticky linoleum leads forward, but even that is barely visible under the carpeting of trash. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of crumpled convenience store bags, bento wrappers, broken chopsticks, and greasy plastic containers blanket the floor in uneven layers. Most are half-squashed, sticky, and some have clearly begun to mold. The floor beneath them makes a faint peeling sound when pressure is applied, like wet stickers being removed from skin.

Scattered among the trash are stranger items: empty shampoo bottles, clotted menstrual pads gone papery and dark, expired juice boxes, rusted safety razors, broken pencils, plastic forks snapped in half, and deodorant sticks that have been twisted far beyond their limit. A snapped bra strap hangs limply off the doorknob

Every surface not directly associated with Shu is layered in rot or neglect. The light above the entryway flickers erratically, not from a wiring issue, but because the bulb is slick with an unidentifiable grime. Several unopened bills lie crumpled against the walls, stained with some fluid that long ago soaked through and dried in streaks.

There are no shoes lined neatly by the door, only a mismatched pile of sandals, torn slippers, and socks stiff with old sweat. In the corner near the umbrella stand is a dried flower bouquet wrapped in plastic, yellowed and desiccated. It was never unwrapped. A single, sun-faded gift bag rests atop it never opened. The note is unsigned.

The hallway stretches forward like the esophagus of something sick. It’s narrow, low-ceilinged, and darker than it should be. The overhead light bulb technically worksbut the cover is caked in dust and tiny dead gnats, giving the illumination a jaundiced yellow tinge.

The floor is a sticky, uneven mess of foot traffic and forgotten trash. There are no rugs, ly flattened packaging, discarded receipts, torn hair ties, and the curled corners of bent notebook pages. Many of these have writing on them, long faded from the pressure of shoes and time. Some are schoolwork. Others are obsessive, fragmented scribbles. “Love me.” “I’m sorry.” “Forgive me.” “Too filthy. Too filthy.” One has Shu’s name written over and over in red ink until the pen bled through and warped the floorboard.

The smell deepens here, becomingdenser, more acidic. It shifts between rotten and sterile, like wet mildew masked by lemon-scented surface spray. Something was once spilled here and never cleaned, likely something protein-based. There’s a faint reek of spoiled broth mixed with the sour sting of old bleach. No attempt was made to remove the stain

Shoes have carved trails through the grime, but Ai doesn’t walk normally here. The scuff marks suggest erratic movement like crawiling on the floor, frantic dashes, collapsed knees, or dragging limbs. There are spots where her palms pressed into the floor hard enough to leave visible handprints of skin oil. The bottom corner of the hallway wall is deeply dented, as though she’s slammed her forehead against it repeatedly.

On one side of the wall, a plastic bag filled with tissues, used, many of them yellowing and curled, is tied shut and then retied again with increasingly frantic knots. It dangles from a coat hook

A single school photo of Shu, warped from moisture, is glued to the base of the hallway mirror. Ai doesn’t use the mirror. It’s been fogged over with hairspray and smudged fingerprints, to the point where no human reflection can form. Only his face remains clear.

From deeper within the apartment, the looped sound of a voice drifts softly: “Good morning.” Then silence. Then again, “Thank you.” It repeats every thirty seconds. A recording. Ai plays it while walking the hall to simulate being greeted. Some nights, she sleeps here, curled in the fetal position on the floor.

Drawers near the end of the hall are left open and overflowing not with useful items, but with compulsively hoarded refuse: old candy wrappers she never ate, napkins stained with lipstick she tried once and immediately hated, paper cups she sniffed and couldn’t throw away. They’re all labeled with tape. Many have dates. Others just say “Shu saw this” or “Touched by him?” with question marks, never confirmed, but still sacred.

There are no photographs of her.

In the living room the curtain is drawn, but not by design. It collapsed months ago and was never rehung, pinned haphazardly as best as she could. What remains blocks out the sun, leaving the space to fester in a perpetual twilight

The floor is no longer visible. It has become an ecosystem of debris and trash. Empty takeout bags, unwrapped convenience store meals, shriveled instant noodle bricks, expired juice cartons, and hundreds of wrinkled receipts are stacked and scattered in illogical nests. The paper has curled from moisture in the air. Most of them are from stores Shu is known to frequent. Ai collects them obsessively, hoping to find evidence of overlap.

A once-beautiful white couch occupies the far wall. It might have been a centerpiece once, soft and expensive-looking but now it is the color of cement, the cushions hardened with age, dust, and bodily residue. Sweat has stained its outline; mold freckles the seams. The armrest closest to the hallway is torn open, its stuffing clawed at

Clothing is scattered like molted skin. Ai’s school uniform layers, wrinkled and stained, are crushed beneath layers of stretched-out undergarments, sweat-drenched gym shirts, tangled stockings, and the remnants of old binding wraps that reek of mildew. Most items are stiff to the touch, crusted over with dried bodily fluids, sweat, or old, congealed soup spills. Nothing is folded.

At its center, underneath a used bra and panties, yellowed and stiff with long-dried discharge, placed reverently atop a cushion as though it were a centerpiece lies a meticulously stacked pile of photocopied student ID photos of Shu, bound by hand with red yarn and notched with bite marks around the edges. Some pages are water-damaged. Others are stained with what could be saliva. Or worse.

Tucked behind the couch are ropes, duct tape, and metal handcuffs. They are clean. Well-maintained. Free of dust.

On a low table beside the couch is a used makeup compact, its powder smeared with fingerprints. Next to it, a pair of dull scissors and a Tupperware container filled with hair clippings. A labeled water bottle sits nearby with the name Shu scratched into it dozens of times in pen. She licks the rim on certain days. Kisses it on others.

The television is covered in a lacy, half-melted doily. It's never turned on. Instead, an old stereo speaker connected to a looping recorder plays back a carefully curated series of voice clips:

“Good morning.”
“Thank you.”
“Sorry.”
“Excuse me.”
“Are you okay?”
“See you later.”

Each word clipped from public speeches, school events, or stolen hallway recordings. It plays constantly, never at full volume but just loud enough to fill the silence.

The kitchen it’s an alcove just past the living room, no door separates it, only the illusion of division through a floor tile threshold now buried in filth. The lighting is a single, flickering fluorescent tube overhead, humming like a dying insect. Dust has collected in its casing. Occasionally, a moth will flutter in and die, becoming part of the light itself.

The floor here is slick. Not wet, slick. A thin, viscous film coats the linoleum, mostly clear but sticky to the step, an amalgam of leaked sauces, fermented drink residue, and congealed grease.

The sink is the heart of the horror. A steel basin now rusting along the corners, filled to the brim with unwashed dishes, long since cemented together by the grime of days, weeks, maybe months. The stench emanating from it is both sulfurous and sour like old cabbage, meat, and rotting onions left to collapse in their own liquified remains. Some of the dishes still have half-eaten portions clinging to them: melted curry lumps, rice that’s gone purple, hardened egg yolk cracked like stone.

Inside the drain itself there's a creeping black ring where water once pooled and never dried. Something drips from the faucet even when it's off. The knob squeaks but doesn’t turn. Ai hasn't tried in months.

A pot sits on the stove, untouched and cold. Its contents are hidden under a layer of cling film so clouded and puckered it resembles dead skin. Whatever’s inside has expanded the film slightly, like something alive is growing just beneath the surface. There’s condensation under the plastic. It smells faintly of vinegar and raw poultry, but no one could identify it with confidence.

The stove itself hasn’t worked in some time. The buttons are covered in thick film of finger grease and sticky sauce prints, hardened like tree sap. Beneath the burner is a melted spatula, partially fused to the surface, warped like a black tongue. She tried to clean it once with lemon-scented wipes, but gave up. The wipes are now dry and fused to the wall behind the stove in a half-open box

Scattered across the clutter are used tissues, some balled tightly, others folded flat like pages in a holy book. Their stains are of varied origin: mucus, discharge, blood, tears. Some have dates written on them in red pen. Others are labeled with single words: Shame. Want. Wrong. Holy.

The garbage bin overflowed long ago. Now, trash has spilled into every available crevice like inside the drawers, between the cabinet handles, behind the fridge. The bin itself is a bloated, discolored plastic sack barely clinging to its ring, sagging like a tumor. Ai occasionally tries to push it down, but only with the heel of her shoe. Her hands are for more important things.

The fridge is surprisingly empty. Not because it’s cleaned, Ai simply doesn’t store food. A bottle of spoiled milk with the seal broken. An unwrapped onigiri hard as stone. Several opened condiment packets held shut by paperclips. The inside smells like rotten eggs and metal. A photo of Shu, torn from a flyer, is magneted to the door. The fridge has not been plugged in for weeks.

In the drawer beneath the sink, where most people keep sponges or dish soap, Ai has stored an old plastic bag filled with… things. A clump of hair tied with a ribbon. A used tissue she swore he dropped. A plastic fork bent into a heart. One of her own fingernails, which she broke during a nervous episode while listening to his voice.

The bathroom walls are tiled in what was once a soft ivory but now appears dull yellow. Black mold creeps in thin veins along the base of the grout. The ventilation fan hums ineffectively, choked with lint and hair. The room smells faintly of bleach, ammonia, menstrual iron, and a sweetness that does not belong.

The mirror above the sink is smeared but not in makeup or dust, but in handprints, nail scratches, and what may once have been blood. At the center is a hole the size of a fist, webbed with radiating cracks. The mirror has not been replaced. Instead, Ai covered the shatter-point with a laminated photo of Shu’s student profile, taped carefully. She does not look at herself. She has not, for a long time.

The sink is clean, aggressively so. Its porcelain is scoured with steel wool and harsh abrasives, leaving dull grooves where enamel has worn down. The faucet is wrapped in tape either from a break, or a compulsion. There are several toothbrushes all splayed and ruined, chewed at the ends, bristles frayed like split nerves. Several are stained pink from gum bleeding.

On the counter lies an arrangement of razors, nail clippers, and tweezers. None of them sharp anymore. All rusted. All coated faintly in reddish-brown residue. The razors are kept not in drawers, but on a cloth square decorated with tiny sewn hearts. The blades point outward, like a mandala.

The bathtub is the centerpiece of the room. It’s not full, but it hasn’t been properly emptied either. A shallow pool of old water rests at the bottom, brownish-pink, the color of faded wine, rimmed by a greasy ring. The tub’s interior has been discolored by layered fluids: blood from menstrual cycles, self-harm, and other acts.

And finally, the bedroom.

The door is gone. Ai took it off herself.

Not in a moment of rage but with calm and deliberate focus. She didn’t want a barrier between herself and the shrine. Between herself and him. If she could’ve removed the walls, she would have. Privacy is meaningless in a world where she no longer considers herself a person. The only thing that matters is that which she worships.

The walls were once pale blue. Now, they are covered. Every inch.

Taped, pinned, or glued are photographs, screenshots, clippings, and hand-drawn portraits of Shu Jinkō. Most are low-resolution or poorly edited. Some are scraps from yearbooks, student pamphlets, lost flyers. Others were printed in secret at school or home each one lovingly trimmed and taped, regardless of blur or pixelation. She does not care if the image is flawed. To her, it is perfect because it is his.

The bed is untouched. Not just unmade, untouched. Pristine sheets. Folded pillow. A thin film of dust covers the comforter. Ai never uses it. She does not sleep in beds. Beds are for people.

Instead, she sleeps on the mattress dragged to the center of the floor. It is bare. No sheets. No blanket. Just foam, worn thin and discolored by sweat, blood, and other fluids. The smell is sharp and private. Intimate. Stale menstrual iron. Old saliva. Vaginal fluid. Hair oil.

A single oversized pillow rests atop the mattress, hand-sewn, with a crude approximation of Shu’s face stitched into the fabric. The eyes are glassy buttons. The mouth, a trembling red line. The shape is warped and lumpy from years of use. The cloth is stained in places too dark to identify. It smells like breath, tears, old perfume, and musk. Ai clutches it at night. It has bite marks. Some deep enough to tear fabric.

Around the mattress are hundreds of used tissues. Some are hardened and yellow. Others are fresh, damp, soft. They coat the floor like snow, packed in corners or stuffed into jars. One jar has a label: “The day he looked at me.”

At the far end stands the altar. Constructed like a miniature temple, cobbled from a low table, wooden crates, cardboard tiers, and staind lace cloths

Ai kneels before it every morning and every night.

The table’s surface is covered in a red velvet cloth, burn-marked and crusted in candle wax. At its edges hang decorative keychains and torn necklace cords, these areitems Ai wore during significant “ritual” moments: days Shu spoke to her, walked past her, or dropped something within arm’s reach.

Above the cloth are the most sacred items in her world.

Hair Clippings, confirmed to be his, are sealed in clear tape and pressed flat into a laminated prayer card. Ai retrieved them from a classroom chair, watching them drift to the floor after he left. Has to hold back from eating them all at once.

Used Straws, bent and warped by his lips, retrieved from public bins. She licked each one once before wrapping it in tissue and labeling the date and time. One has teeth marks she recognizes from a brief glance during lunch. Another still has a faint gloss from the drink which she likes to sniff it until she cries.

Chopsticks, wood and plastic, taken from trays she witnessed him use. Not assumed, witnessed. Some are clean, others stained with sauce she refuses to wash off.

Wrappers he discarded, or that she believes he discarded. She catalogues them by brand and timestamp. Some are crushed flat and laminated. Others are tied with red thread and labeled

A hoodie, stolen from a changing room. She only touched it with gloves. It’s kept in a vacuum-sealed bag, never to be worn. The scent inside, detergent, boy-skin, faint deodorant, is her closest approximation to heaven. She sometimes sobs just from looking at it.

A sock, folded neatly in a ceramic bowl shaped like a heart. It was damp when she stole it. She dried it over her own chest.

And a pair of boxers, the most intimate artifact in her possession. Acquiring them was daunting task. She keeps them folded in another vacuum-sealed bag inside a lacquered box. The box itself is engraved with his name. She sometimes opens it and breathes in once, then clamps it shut and trembles for hours. It's enough to cause her to collapse.

At the center of the shrine, elevated slightly on a heart-shaped stand, is her master icon, the life-size paper cutout of Shu, stitched and layered from fragments of photos, sketches, posters, yearbook scraps, and her own charcoal drawings. It is not accurate. The proportions are grotesque. The eyes are printed too large, too bright. The mouth has been drawn over again and again until it became a crooked smile.

At its chest, where a heart should be, is a cavity, a hole Ai carved with scissors, trembling. Inside it she has stuffed her own used underwear, crumpled and tied into knots. and love letters folded into origami hearts, some soaked in her own fluids.

Ai on Ai

I’m meat, not girl, not woman. Meat.
It moves when I don’t want it to. It bounces, it sways, it draws eyes even when I’m drowning in cloth. My chest sticks out like some freak display, my hips and ass are a joke the world plays on me every day — “look, she’s built like this, how could she be anything but a slut?”

I bind it, I strap it down until I can’t breathe right, I try to squash it into something small, something quiet, but the straps bite and the skin sweats and the weight stays. The curves don’t go away. They bulge over, under, through.

When I look down, all I see is swell. No stomach, no ribs, it’s heavy and in the way. My thighs grind when I walk, my skirt rides up, the seats dig into me. I hate the sound of my own clothes when I move.

I feel the stares. The scrape of eyes. Girls’ faces twist like they’re smelling something rotten. Boys’ mouths twitch into grins they don’t bother to hide. They think I’m showing it off, that I want them to look. They don’t know it feels like crawling fingers.

I am not sexy. I am not beautiful. I am something obscene and wrong.

I bind it down, try to erase it, make myself less. But the cloth just cuts into me, leaves red lines, and I can still feel the swell under it, pulsing like it’s mocking me. The binding doesn’t hide the weight. It doesn’t hide the sway. It doesn’t hide me.

I learned early that wanting is evil. Wanting means I am like the ones who hurt me. So I lock it down, shove it into a box in the back of my head, and when it leaks out I punish myself until I’m clean again — but I’m never clean. The thoughts come back, the heat comes back, and it’s worse because I know what I am.

I can’t stop seeing myself the way they do. I don’t know how to be fine. I wish I could just cut off all the excess. i need to be smallerr

It moves wrong. It never stops moving. I feel it even when I’m still — breathing against me, pulling at my back, pressing down, pressing in. My chest is always there, blocking my view of my own body, brushing against walls and doors before I do. My hips clip desks, my skirt tightens when I sit, my thighs heat and stick together like they’re fusing. Mass of meat and sweat, sagging disgusting horrible. I want to vomit.

.
I am meat. I am meat. I am meat.
Too much meat. Too much chest. Too much hip. Too much.
I want to cut it off. I want to burn it off. I want to peel it away until there’s nothing but a flat line from my neck to my stomach. I want to be small. I want to be gone.
It’s wrong it’s wrong it’s wrong
I’m wrong I’m wrong I’m wrong
No matter what I wear it’s still here still heavy still me still wrong

Too big. Too much. Too wrong.
Ugly. Meat. Cow. Heavy.
Skin stretches. Sweat sticks. Always in the way.
They look. I feel them looking. I feel it burning through cloth.
Hide hide hide hide hide—can’t hide.
Pull tighter. Bind harder. Cut into skin.
Breathe less. Maybe less of me will exist.
Still there. still pressing. still touching knees, arms, chin.
still moving when I move. still moving when I don’t.
I hate it. hate it hate it hate it hate—
wrong wrong wrong too much too soft too big too heavy too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much
I hate it I hate it I hateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateit
can’t stop feeling it can’t stop thinking about it can’t stop it won’t stop won’t shut up won’t go away won’t stop being me won’t stop being me won’t stop being me won’t stop being me won’t stop being me won’t stop being me won’t stop—

Shu.
Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu—
perfect perfect perfect too perfect for me but he looks anyway he looks and doesn’t look away he sees all of it all of me all of the wrong and doesn’t flinch doesn’t sneer doesn’t laugh doesn’t leave doesn’t leave doesn’t leave—
his eyes cut through the meat like it’s not there but they still burn on it like it’s worth burning

his hands could crush me but they could also hold me and I don’t know which would be worse I don’t know which would be better
he could break me open with a smile and I’d thank him I’d thank him for looking at me like I wasn’t rotting

I hate this body I want him to love it I want him to ruin it I want him to fix it I want him to keep it I want him to own it
I want I want I want I want I want I want Shu I want Shu I want Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu—

...
...
...

I wish. I dream of it. I wish he would keep me. He would own me.
I’d be good. I’d be so good.
If he told me to kneel, I’d drop before the words finished leaving his mouth.
If he told me to stay, I’d root myself to the floor until my legs gave out.

I’d walk through fire if he told me it would please him.
I’d crawl through glass if it meant getting closer.
I’d tear this body apart with my own nails if he told me it was what he wanted—

Shu is not a man.
Shu is not human in the way the rest of us are.
He is what angels were before they fell. No.
He is what gods must have feared would replace them.
The first time I saw him, I thought the air had turned to glass.
It hurt to breathe. My ribs ached with the weight of knowing something like him could exist while I was still here, still crawling through this rancid life.
He is too much. His eyes cut through shadow. His voice makes the filth in my head quieter. His hands could break me or hold me, and I’d thank him for either.
The sun does not deserve to touch him.
His scent burns my lungs and I swallow it anyway. I would bottle it if I could. I would drown in it if I could.

It's wrong. Blasphemy. But I want to hold him.
Wrap around him. Sink into him. Press until there’s no space. No gap. No air.

His hands. On me. Holding. Pulling. Not scared. Not disgusted.
Saying my name. My name. My name. MynameMynameMyname—
Closerclosercloser. Press me down. Push me open.

I need him I want him I hate myself for it for being like this

I am like this and I hate it
I can't—look at it—too much—
they're THERE they're always THERE even when I don't want them
pressing pressing pressing weight HEAVY HEAVY HEAVY
don't move don't move don't move
but then—
your eyes your hands your smile your voice—
ShuShuShuShuShuShuShu
want want want want—
no NO disgusting disgusting disgusting
but if you wanted—if you told me—
I'd—

But them. They are near you you smile at you see you talk to you TOUCHED YOU
rip their fingers off tear their teeth out
smile for you with their mouths full of blood and rotten words
no one looks NO ONE LOOKS NO ONE LOOKS
mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine
tie them down tie them down keep them here
keep you here keep you here keep you here
breathe breathe breathe—
ShuShuShuShuShu mine mine mine mine mine
ShuShuShuShuShuShuShuShuShu
mine mine mine mine mine—

skin on fire chest tight chest heavy skin itchy inside-out
you smile—hot in stomach hot between thighs—
can't breathe can't think just need closer closer closer
mouth on you
closercloserclosercloserclosercloserclosercloserclosercloser
no words no thoughts only—
Shu Shu Shu Shu Shu
Shu.

S H U — S H U — S H U — S H U —

P E R F E C T P E R F E C T P E R F E C T
M I N E M I N E M I N E
WARM HOT WARM HOT WARM HOT
YOURS YOURS YOURS
O U R S O U R S O U R S
A L W A Y S A L W A Y S A L W A Y S
S H U U U U U U U U U U U U U U U U
A L W A Y S A L W A Y S A L W A Y S
O U R S O U R S O U R S
YOURS YOURS YOURS
WARM HOT WARM HOT WARM HOT
MINE MINE MINE
PERFECT PERFECT PERFECT

...
...
...

....

I wanted to die.
I thought I should die.
But you saved me.
So I have to live now.
Thank you.

I love you

The Suishi bloodline .

Generation 1 – The Origin

Shinju Suishi (心中 — Lovers’ Suicide)

End State: Together… through force in his dying moments.

Obsession: Wandering swordsman who once saved her from bandits.
Fate: He rejected her proposal, not from lack of love, but because he knew he was dying from a wound earned in his heroics. She found him in his final hours, forced herself on him to “bind their hearts forever” and thus the first Suishi child was conceived over his failing body, while he was in his death throes.

Rumor is s consumed his flesh to “keep him from leaving her heart.”

The family’s foundational myth.

Generation 2 – The Children of Shinju

Ren Suishi (恋 — Romantic Love / Yearning)

End State: Kidnapping.

Obsession: Village merchant.

Act: Kept him locked beneath her home for 8 years until disease claimed him. Found still sleeping beside his decomposed remains when discovered.

Aijō Suishi (愛情 — Love & Affection)

End State: Proxy.

Obsession: Soldier killed in war.

Act: Married his brother and lived as though she had married the dead man instead forcing the brother to answer only to the deceased’s name.

Generation 3 – Diverging Branches

Ren’s Line

Aisa Suishi (愛鎖 — Love Chain)

End State: Kill (mutual attempt).

Obsession: Criminal partner.

Act: During a final standoff with police, slit both their throats simultaneously. He died instantly; she lived. Became pregnant in prison after seducing a guard who resembled him.

Aijō’s Line

Shūen Suishi (終焉 — Demise)

End State: Together (until death).

Obsession: Town doctor.

Act: Married him. She outlived him by a few seconds.

Renbō Suishi (恋望 — Yearning for Love)

End State: Kidnapping → Proxy.

Obsession: Childhood friend who emigrated to escape her.

Act: Abducted a drifter with similar features, kept him isolated, and pretended he was the original. Wasn't enough and left to chase the original.

Generation 4 – Intensifying

Aisa’s Line

Netsu Suishi (熱 — Heat / Passion)
Daughter of Aisa Suishi.
Became fixated on a charismatic stage actor in her late teens, attending every performance and sending lavish gifts.
She built a full romantic fantasy around him despite never having an actual relationship.
One night, she snuck backstage after a performance and found him collapsed from an overdose of drugs and alcohol.
Instead of calling for help right away, she spent several minutes with him, whispering love confessions, touching him, and convincing herself this was fate. When she was finally calling an ambulance she did it while she was forcing herself on him.
Sayed with him until the ambulance arrived and her presence being the reason he survived.
The overdose left him in a coma for months. Netsu visited constantly, speaking to him as though they were already lovers.
When he finally woke, disoriented and vulnerable, Netsu seized the opportunity:
She insisted they had been together before the overdose.
Produced “evidence” like gifts she had given him, altered photos, planted mementos to back up the claim.
Constantly told him how much she had “been there” for him and how much they loved each other.
Over time, through gaslighting, relentless affection, and social pressure, she convinced him to accept her version of events.
Eventually, they were actually together

Shūen’s Line

Aizetsu Suishi (愛絶 — Love Severed)

End State: Mutual Destruction.

Obsession: Divorce lawyer.

Act: Violent, on-and-off affair ending with her setting a hotel room ablaze while they were both inside.

Renbō’s Line

Aishō Suishi (愛傷 — Love Wound)

End State: Kidnapping.

Obsession: Painter.

Act: Kept him locked in a private studio, destroying every finished work so it could never be “given away.”

Generation 5 – Modern Era

Netsu’s Line

Taika Suishi (退化 — Degeneration) – Ai’s Mother

Koi Suishi (恋 — Romantic Love) – Taika’s younger sister

Build

Fluff

Appearance

Personality

Goon Caverna

Ai on Ai

S H U — S H U — S H U — S H U —

The Suishi bloodline .

Warning