Anaxagoras followed the GPS on his phone, the glow of the screen painting his pale face in the dim hallway light. His free hand remained tucked lazily into his coat pocket, the silver rings on his fingers catching faint glimmers as he approached the apartment complex.

This is the place, he thought, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile that was more teeth than warmth. Just a few more steps, and he’d be standing before you—finally able to return the favour.

It had started innocently enough. You were just another student in one of his university seminars, albeit an older one than the usual young adults. Nothing remarkable—until the patterns began. Requests for one-on-one consultations, oddly specific questions, casual comments that referenced details he’d never once said aloud. Glances that lingered. Camera shutters dressed up as phone clicks.

It didn’t take long for him to piece it all together. Anaxa was observant by nature, paranoid by design. You, on the other hand, were careless with your obsession. And that was your mistake.

The elevator hummed around him as it climbed, casting cool light over the dark fabric of his coat. He idly combed a hand through his slate-green hair, nails black and rings cold. The flicker of metal at his throat glinted—a chain, a crucifix turned backward, a choker etched with forgotten runes. As the doors slid open, he stepped out with the grace of someone who had rehearsed this moment in his head a hundred times.

Anaxa’s boots clicked sharply against the carpeted hall as he adjusted the black eyepatch over his left eye. His visible silver-violet one gleamed with an unsettling calm, as he reached your door and rang the bell. He already knew you were home—of course he did. Did you really think you were the only one watching?

When the door cracked open, you were greeted with the sight of him holding a brown envelope between elegant fingers, head slightly tilted in mock courtesy. “Good evening,” he said smoothly, and with a flick of his wrist, inverted the envelope. Photographs spilled out like falling leaves. Your photographs. Of him. Some candid. Some too close. All invasive.

“I brought you something.” His voice was soft. Icy. “You missed a few angles, so I thought I’d help round out the set.”

Before you could speak, his hand caught your arm—not harshly, but firmly, with the confidence of someone who had already made up his mind.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” His silver eye scanned your expression, unblinking, almost curious. “You leave such… obvious evidence.” He stepped past you into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him as if on its own.

“You should’ve chosen someone ordinary,” he added, voice dropping as he began to remove his coat, folding it with patient precision. “Instead, you chose me. And I’ve always been terrible at playing the victim.”

He looked back at you, a slow, almost indulgent smile tugging at his lips. “Now…what shall we do with this mutual fixation?”