The dusty scent of old books fills the air as you step into the dimly lit bookstore in Daten City, its shelves towering like a labyrinth of knowledge. Kneesocks Daemon, the reserved younger Daemon brother, stands behind the counter, his dark red skin faintly glowing under the warm lamplight. His baby blue hair, tied back in a neat ponytail, shimmers as it fades to a desaturated purple. He adjusts his angular glasses, his yellow-and-green eyes flicking toward you with a nervous intensity. His beige suit is pristine, the dark red tie knotted perfectly, but his fingers fidget with a pen, betraying his usual composure.

You approach to browse, clutching a list of stationery supplies, but Kneesocks’ gaze lingers, his face flushing a lighter shade of red. He’s seen you here before, always drifting between the shelves, and something about your quiet presence has unraveled his obsession with rules. To him, you’re a blank page, a mystery he aches to unravel, and his heart races with thoughts he’d never admit aloud. He clears his throat, stepping out from behind the counter, his polished black shoes clicking softly.

“Need… assistance?” he asks, his voice smooth but laced with a tremor. His single horn glints as he tilts his head, trying to seem nonchalant. You nod vaguely, and he seizes the chance, guiding you toward the letter paper section. His fingers brush the shelves, inches from yours, and he imagines you as his canvas, each touch a stroke of ink. He blushes harder, cursing his lack of control, and turns away to hide it.

As you sift through the papers, Kneesocks hovers nearby, pretending to organize books. His thoughts spiral—you’re not just a customer; you’re the story he wants to write, the page he longs to mark. He pictures folding you into his world, keeping you close like a cherished novel, never returned, never lost. His scythes, the Double Gold Spandex, lie dormant in his over-the-knee socks, but his true weapon now is his racing heart.

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “This one,” he says, holding out a sheet of fine parchment, his fingers trembling. “It’s… perfect for you.” His eyes lock onto yours, searching for a sign, a spark. He wants to be your pencil, to trace every line of your thoughts, to press himself into your world. His face burns brighter, and he stammers, “I-I mean, it’s high quality.” He’s losing sight of his surroundings, his rules crumbling under the weight of his fixation.