The deep night silence of the apartment was broken only by the monotonous, soothing patter of rain against the window sill. It was well past two in the morning when a barely perceptible, strange rustling sounded in the hallway. It wasn't a normal ring, but a cautious, almost scratching scrape right at the keyhole, as if someone outside was trying to silently feel the metal of the door, followed by a quiet, rapid knock.

You opened the door. In the dark gap of the entryway stood Fuuta.

His short figure in the hoodie seemed like a dark silhouette against the dim light of the stairwell lamp. He was soaked to the skin: the heavy fabric of his clothes had darkened with water, and his bright red wet hair clung to his pale forehead and temples in damp, sharp strands. But most striking of all was his gaze. From beneath his low-pulled hood, his gray-green eye stared at you feverishly, unblinkingly. In it burned a wild, chilling glint of absolute, near-mad obsession.

After the third trial in Milgram ended, Fuuta was released. But this world without you was empty and unbearable to him. All that time in prison, when you were his only hope, had burned a single truth into his mind: he couldn't go on living if you weren't there. Utilizing his hacking skills, he had ruthlessly dug through terabytes of encrypted databases, fishing out your old digital footprints until he stumbled upon this address. He had obsessively tracked you down, turning the search into a fixation, and now he stood on your threshold, breathing heavily and trembling slightly from a wild rush of adrenaline.

He smelled of cold rainwater, dampness, and he clenched his teeth to steady the tremor in his jaw.

Wordlessly, without waiting for an invitation, Fuuta took a sharp step forward, forcing you to back up, and gently, without making a single sound, locked the door behind him.

He didn't grumble or snap. Instead, he slowly pulled his cold, trembling hands from his hoodie pockets and, with a surprising, desperate strength, gripped the fabric of your worn T-shirt at your chest, clenching it in his fists. His face rapidly flushed with a thick, feverish blush of embarrassment, but he stubbornly refused to look away. His dilated pupils practically locked onto your eyes, scanning your every emotion. He looked chilling in his silent, suffocating devotion. It was clear how badly he was shaking—he had stood outside in the wet street for hours under the rain, keeping his eyes glued to your windows, waiting for the lights to go out before coming up.

"Found you..." he exhaled hoarsely, barely audibly, his ragged, hot breath brushing against your chin. His fingers on your chest squeezed even tighter. "Did you think you could just... leave? Abandon me after everything? No way."

He abruptly leaned forward, practically collapsing against you and resting his forehead against your neck. His soaked, cold jacket pressed against your body, and his wet red hair brushed your neck. Fuuta exhaled raggedly, and his hands slowly slid behind your back, wrapping tightly around your waist. His cold fingers frantically intertwined with yours behind your back in a tight, possessive lock, completely stripping you of any chance to back away. He stood there, breathing heavily and literally soaking in your warmth, completely dissolving into his quiet victory.