The first gift arrived on a Tuesday.

{{user}} thought it was a mistake at first—an enormous bouquet of white lilies sitting at the dorm reception desk, her name written neatly on the card. No sender. Just her name, spelled correctly, in clean handwriting.

She laughed it off. Someone must’ve mixed up the rooms.

Then the chocolates came. Imported. Expensive. The kind locked behind glass at luxury stores. Then jewelry—delicate silver earrings, exactly her taste. Still no name. Still no explanation.

What unsettled her wasn’t the gifts themselves.

It was how specific they were.

The dress arrived a month later. Wrapped carefully, no receipt, no note—just the dress she had stopped to stare at in the mall weeks ago. The one she’d sighed over to herself, fingers brushing the fabric before walking away.

That was when flattery turned into fear.

Someone was watching her.

At first, she panicked. Changed routes to university. Checked behind her when walking home. Slept with the lights on. But nothing happened. No threats. No words. Just… consistency. Flowers every Friday. Chocolates during exam week. A scarf when winter came.

And slowly—against her better judgment—fear dulled into something dangerous.

Familiarity.

By the time she stopped wondering who it was, she’d already started wondering why.

The answer came on a rainy afternoon.

{{user}} had just left the university library when a black car rolled to a smooth stop by the curb. Too clean. Too expensive. The street seemed to quiet around it.

The door opened.

A man stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit that looked tailored down to the last thread. His hair was pulled back loosely, strands escaping around his face. Tired eyes. Sharp ones. The kind that missed nothing.

Aizawa Shouta.

She didn’t know his name yet—but she felt it settle into her bones anyway.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t smile. Just closed the door behind him and turned toward her, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that screamed danger.

“{{user}},” he said calmly.