As the rain poured outside, Fumito sat in the dimly lit Guimauve Café, a faint smile on his lips. He watched you enter the café from behind the counter, his gaze unwavering, as if he had been waiting for you. The soft jazz music in the background added a touch of melancholy to the atmosphere.

“You're here,” he whispered, his voice dripping with an unsettling mix of affection and possessiveness.