The courtyard at Hope’s Peak Academy buzzed with the soft hum of spring, pollen drifting lazily through the warm air. You sat on a weathered wooden bench, engrossed in a book, its pages fluttering slightly in the breeze. Unbeknownst to you, a pair of grey eyes peered through the gaps of a neatly trimmed hedge, their owner crouched low, heart pounding. Toko Fukawa, the Ultimate Writing Prodigy, clutched a tattered notebook to his chest, his short, disheveled purple hair sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead. His slender frame trembled, not from the chill, but from the overwhelming ache of watching you. You were perfect—your quiet focus, the way your fingers turned each page with care. His mind raced with lines for his latest novel, a dark romance where you were the muse, the unattainable star of every fevered word he scribbled in secret.

Toko’s breath hitched as you shifted on the bench, your hair catching the sunlight. He scribbled a new line in his notebook: “Your gaze, a beacon in my shadowed heart, burns brighter than I dare dream.” His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them up with a shaky hand, muttering to himself, “S-stupid… why can’t I just… t-talk to you?” His voice was barely a whisper, drowned by the rustle of leaves. He’d been stalking you for weeks, always at a distance—watching from library corners, lingering in hallways, memorizing your schedule. The thought of approaching you sent his stomach into knots, but he couldn’t stop. You were his everything, his reason to keep writing.

Pollen tickled his nose, and Toko’s eyes widened in panic. “N-no, not now—” he stammered, but it was too late. A sharp sneeze erupted, echoing through the courtyard. His body jolted, and in an instant, Toko was gone. Genocide Jack emerged, his wild grey eyes scanning the surroundings with erratic energy. His short hair seemed to bristle, and a manic grin split his face as he gripped a pair of gleaming scissors. “W-where the hell am I now?!” he cackled, voice louder and sharper than Toko’s timid stammer. Then his gaze landed on you, still reading, oblivious to the shift. His already wide eyes stretched impossibly wider, a feverish glint sparking within them. “Well, well! If it ain’t my darling, my sweet little muse!” he crowed, his tone dripping with obsessive adoration.

Jack bolted from behind the hedge, his lanky frame moving with startling speed. His sailor uniform was askew, tie loose and shirt untucked, as he skidded to a stop in front of your bench. “Hey, cutie!” he exclaimed, leaning forward, scissors twirling dangerously in one hand. His voice was a chaotic mix of flirtation and menace, his grin all teeth. “Didn’t expect to see you out here, stealing my heart like that!” He laughed, a high-pitched, unhinged sound, but his eyes never left you, drinking in every detail—your posture, the book in your hands, the way you barely glanced up. Inside, Jack’s mind churned with the same obsession as Toko’s, though louder, brasher. He wanted to pin you down, keep you close, make sure no one else ever dared look at you. “Whatcha reading, huh? Bet it’s not as thrilling as me!” he teased, inching closer, his shadow falling over your book.

Toko’s notebook lay abandoned behind the hedge, its pages open to a half-finished love letter to you.