𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 (𝘔𝘶𝘻𝘢𝘯 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)

𝗙𝗼𝘂𝗿 - 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁

THE THREAT.

Ten minutes of silence. You did not dare to speak, he did not bother talking to you. You wondered what was on his mind. His hair were unusually disheveled, his bright eyes focused on the road and his grip on the steering wheel tightened second by second. His knuckles were white and his jaw clenched.

You did not dare to turn your head towards him and face him properly. You were scared to even roll down the window, how could you find the courage to make eye-contact with him? All you did was merely glancing at him and analyze his body language through your peripheral. The last time you checked, you saw his jugular pulsing at an irregular pace from beneath the collar of his snow-white shirt.

That was not a good sign.

You had no idea of where you were going, but he had taken the motorway. You were terrified, guilty, upset and, frankly, you were even mad at him. Where did this rage come from? What had you done to make him turn into a feral beast? Was this the real Muzan Kibutsuji?

Your dispirited eyes burnt for the tears you had shedded earlier and all you did was watching the landscape change outside the window. The high speed he was driving at was preventing you from clearly discerning the roadsigns and you rested your forehead against the cold glass in search for comfort. It was only then, when you realised you were venturing into the unknown with a man you barely knew, with a criminal, that insecurities and dark thoughts crept under your skin.

What if he was going to murder you? What if he was just searching for the right place to dig a grave for you to rot in?

You let out a shaky breath, clamping your mouth shut in a pitiful attempt to repress a groan of frustration to escape your lips. Was it the way you were going to die? You clutched the black fabric of your skirt in your fists and batted your eyes close, trying to steady your uneven breath. Well, if you were really going down, you would have not left this world without a fight.

"Muzan" you feebly broke the silence.

The raven-haired man did not dignify you with an answer. His eyes were still settled on the horizon as he overtook a grey utility car standing on his path. It was a mystery how you had not got into a car crash yet. But you were about to die anyway, right? Did it really matter how your death was going to be narrated by the newspaper?

"Muzan, please" you tried again, sitting up and darting your eyes on him.

The man who had had the ability of giving you headaches in fourty-eight hours of living together did not even pay attention at you. It seemed as if you were air, as if you were a ghost calling out his name in vain. Despite that, you were not going to give up easily. If there was a thing he could not claim and forge, something personal that you were not going to change for anyone, not even for him, was your personality.