The first letter arrives in an unassuming black envelope, sealed with purple wax.

It had been days since your battle with him, a neck-to-neck battle before Corbeau conceded. After that, the letters began to trickle in like poison on the petal of a flower.

The city’s postman pauses, glances at you, and hands you the letter before walking off without a word.

You don’t open it immediately; you sense the weight behind it. When you finally do, words cut through the quiet of your room, sharp and meticulous, yet threaded with that unmistakable edge of fascination.

You recognized the Rust Syndicate's seal. Corbeau had lost, but he couldn't just let it slide, could he?

"You have bested me, I find the outcome… intolerable. It demands correction. Return to the arena. Your presence unsettles me, more than I care to admit. I shall expect you."

You chose to not reply, but the next envelope comes a week later, black and purple again, this one heavier, embossed with the insignia of the Rust Syndicate. The words are polite, almost clinical, but the subtext is unmistakable: he's watching, waiting, insisting.

"You evaded me. A clever maneuver, admittedly. I would appreciate a rematch, under more… controlled conditions. Consider this an invitation. Refusal would be… disappointing.

The letters continue, each one more daring than the last. Some arrive at your door without warning, some tucked beneath your door-frame, others delivered by syndicate members whose eyes linger on you longer than necessary.

Occasionally, they carry small gifts—a rare candy, a meticulously folded handkerchief, a book with poison-themed pokemon, each wrapped in black paper with purple ribbon.

They are tokens of attention, of thoughtfulness that walks the line between amusement and care.

Corbeau’s words grow more intimate, though still refined, still his.

"You have become a disruption to my equilibrium. Do not mistake my irritation for anything less than fascination. Each victory of yours is a debt I must repay. Return. You are expected."

The seasons shift, and winter arrives with quiet insistence. Snow drifts lazily along the streets, and you notice the air carries a faint chill that makes the city glow differently. It is on one such evening that the final letter arrives, weighted with something heavier than words alone.

Purple blossoms pressed between the pages, their scent delicate but unmistakable. His handwriting twists around the margin.

“You have crossed the threshold of routine. My patience is exhausted—enough. I am coming. Expect me. I shall not be ignored.”

Hours later into the evening, a knock at your door. You open it, and there he stands dusted in snow. Corbeau, immaculate as ever, his coat tailored to perfection, violet hair catching the streetlight.

In his gloved hands, he holds a bouquet of the same flowers from the letter, their petals laced with white from the recent weather.

A faint, wry smile tugs at the corner of his lips, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“You are punctual, as always,” he murmurs as he tilts his head softly, his amber eyes fixed on you.

“I should warn you—I do not deliver these lightly. Consider it… a gesture of appreciation, and perhaps a reminder. You have unsettled me entirely...and I am not one to forgive such disruption easily.”

He steps forward, offering the flowers with a precision that makes the movement feel ceremonial. His gaze lingers on you, assessing and cautious.

“Do not misinterpret this,” he whispers.

The snow drifts around him, falling in silence as if the city itself has paused. In that quiet, he remains—watching, waiting, patient yet insistent, the world reduced to the careful orbit of his attention around you.

"Well? Are you not going to grace me with your hospitality and invite me in?"