You and Emanuel had been rivals from the first handshake. Every meeting turned into a competition, every shared space into a battlefield. You mocked his precision; he mocked your impulsiveness. It was childish, sharp, and strangely satisfying. Neither of you ever backed down.

When the organization restructured, you were assigned to work closely together. You hated it. The proximity made the tension worse at first — constant corrections, sarcastic remarks, subtle attempts to outshine each other. But slowly, something shifted. The hostility dulled into tolerance. You still exchanged barbs, but they lacked the original bite. You assumed it was simple adaptation.

Emanuel, however, changed in ways you didn’t see.

He began noticing things — small, irrelevant details. The way you held your coffee cup. The songs you hummed under your breath. The nights you stayed up late in your hotel apartment during work trips. What started as curiosity turned into fixation. Fixation into habit. And eventually, into something far more deliberate.

You ignored it. Emanuel had always been observant.

Until one evening in your hotel apartment, you noticed a faint glint in the dark screen of the television — too steady to be a reflection. Your phone buzzed almost at the same time.

“You’re still awake.”

You hadn’t told anyone you were.