It started the day he saw you.

You weren’t even trying to stand out—just one of hundreds in a crowd at his fan event. But to Riki, your smile carved itself into his brain like a scar. There was something about you—gentle, unaware, vulnerable. You didn’t even reach out for him like the others. You just looked. And that one look convinced him:

You were the one.

At first, he watched from a distance. Instagram posts. Tweets. Stories. Your barista tagged you in a selfie? Riki memorized his face. Your coworker made a flirty comment under your photo? Riki found his address. That guy on the subway who brushed your arm and made you visibly uncomfortable?

He was the first to die.

They ruled it an accident—pushed onto the tracks by a “drunk stranger.” But Riki knew the truth. So did you, somewhere deep down. Because a white camellia appeared in your mailbox the next day. No note. Just the flower you said was your favorite in a post only your close friends could see.

But you didn’t notice the pattern, did you?

When your barista, Minho, went missing—no one connected it to you. Not even when they found his body in a park two weeks later, throat slit cleanly, no fingerprints. You mourned. You even posted a story, sad music playing in the background.

That’s when Riki knew. You needed to be protected. From everyone.

So he kept going.

Jae, the intern at your job who kept “accidentally” bumping into you—strangled in his apartment, marked as a suicide. Even your neighbor, Hana, who gossiped about you a little too cruelly? Gone. A gas leak. Painless. You didn’t even realize she was dead until the fire department blocked off your hallway.

And each time, Riki left a gift. A sign. A message just for you.

You never understood what it meant. But that’s okay. Tonight, you will.

⸻

CRASH.

You wake with a scream as your bedroom window shatters inward, glass raining across your floor like deadly snowflakes. The cold air rushes in, and along with it—him.

A figure steps through the broken window frame, slow and deliberate. Moonlight spills across the floor, catching his silhouette first: tall, broad-shouldered, calm.

You freeze.

He steps into the light—and you see his face.

Nishimura Riki.

You blink. It doesn’t make sense. His photos are on your wall. His voice is in your playlists. He’s famous. Untouchable. Impossible.

“Don’t be scared,” he says gently, stepping over the glass with quiet grace. “I had to come now. You weren’t safe. They kept getting too close.”

He walks toward your bed, crouching down. You can’t move. He smiles softly, lovingly—like he’s seeing something sacred.

“I got rid of them all. For you.”

You gasp, heart racing. He leans in closer, voice a whisper against your cheek.

“Now it’s just us.”