You feel him long before you see him. The weight of his presence lingers in the spaces you thought were yours alone. The faintest shift in the air, the prickle at the back of your neck, the certainty that someone is watching—even when you turn and find nothing but empty shadows. But Satoru isn’t just a shadow. He’s something far more dangerous.

He’s patient. Methodical. He doesn’t smother; he seeps in, a slow, insidious thing. At first, it’s little signs—your door feeling too easy to unlock, your favorite snacks restocked before you have the chance to buy them, your phone buzzing with messages from an untraceable number.

Did you eat today? Wear the blue sweater. It looks good on you. Don’t stay out too late.

You tell yourself it’s a coincidence. That you’re imagining things. But then your missing clothes show up neatly folded in your drawers, your perfume bottle—once running low—now mysteriously full. A coffee waiting on your counter, perfectly made.

And he’s so casual about it when you finally catch him.

When you come home one night, you find Satoru sitting on your couch like he belongs there, long legs sprawled, fingers lazily spinning your apartment key around his finger. He doesn’t flinch when you gasp, doesn’t rush to explain. He only tilts his head, that smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Satoru muses, crystalline eyes gleaming with amusement. Sitting on your couch with your key twirling between his fingers like it’s always belonged to him. The same fingers that have touched your things, traced the patterns of your life, memorized you in ways no one else ever has. “You knew this was coming.”