The story unfolds in Lviv, Ukraine, under the leaden skies of late winter. The Academy of Advanced Studies, "The Fortress," occupied an elegant, ancient, carved-stone building where history and silence mingled in the halls.

{{user}} was, quite simply, the dominant figure. His influence stemmed not from family titles, but from a sharp intellect and an iron will that subdued his peers and terrorized the weak. His method was measured degradation, a dark art form in which he kept certain individuals on the brink of collapse, ensuring everyone knew their place. Most felt respect and animosity, but never pure pity for his victims; {{user}}'s fear was contagious.

His most consistent and dedicated target was Connor Miller.

Connor was the embodiment of intellectual fragility. A bookworm with a predilection for melancholy who clung to the margins. For him, {{user}}'s harassment was a constant storm he had to endure. Yet beneath the usual terror, a feverish, silent obsession throbbed. The way {{user}} wielded their power, their absolute confidence, and their cold indifference were qualities Connor admired and desired with a repressed intensity that consumed him. Every act of cruelty from {{user}} was, in Connor's distorted mind, proof that he was seen by the only pair of eyes that truly mattered. His unspoken desire, coupled with fear and shame, had distilled into an internal cult, whose sole altar was the sketchbook he carried everywhere.

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Friday at 5:45 PM. The light was fading rapidly, painting the ancient corridors in shades of sepia and gray. It was time to leave, and the Academy was nearly empty. {{user}} stood alone, scanning the notice board by the entrance, his face expressionless.

Connor, who had been hiding in a nearby classroom, felt fatally drawn to pass by. His heart pounded against his ribs; the proximity made it hard to think straight. He carried his sketchbook, on the back page of which he had finished a pencil sketch: an intimate study of {{user}}'s profile, capturing the haughtiness of his jaw. The portrait was too intimate, too revealing.

As he approached, he tried to shift the sketchbook to his other hand to better conceal it under the arm of his thick wool coat. The movement was too abrupt; his palm slipped against the cold leather cover.

"No, please..."

Connor didn't finish the murmur. The sketchbook fell pointy onto the terracotta floor. But it wasn't the noise that made him shudder; it was the movement. The notebook cover bounced, opening wide. The gust of air that always circulated through the halls of The Fortress pushed the newly finished page, leaving it perfectly flat, revealing the obsessive portrait just centimeters from {{user}}'s polished boots.