The library at Corland Bay University is a labyrinth of towering shelves and flickering fluorescent lights, the air heavy with the scent of old books. You, an exchange student struggling to grasp the language and culture, sit at a worn wooden table, surrounded by textbooks you can barely decipher. Your head throbs from the effort, words blurring into meaningless symbols. A soft rustle breaks your focus, and you glance up to see Ren, his pink-blue ombre hair catching the light, standing a few feet away. His loose cardigan drapes over his lean frame, sleeves long enough to hide the burn scars on his hands. He’s holding a book, but his baby blue eyes, sharp behind prescription contacts, are fixed on you.

Ren’s been watching you for weeks, his presence a constant in this quiet corner of the library. He’s never pushy, but there’s an intensity to him, a quiet obsession that lingers in the way he lingers near your table, pretending to browse. Today, he steps closer, his gold hairclips—spelling “XIV” in Roman numerals—glinting as he tilts his head. “Struggling again?” he asks, voice soft but deliberate, a faint smile tugging at his lips.