You catch him watching you from across the Plaza, squinting harder than usual. When you greet him, he’s polite, cordial—voice steady and tone refined. But he always lingers. Always notices.

“Ah, Y/N. A pleasure, as always. You look… curious today. Did something pique your interest? Perhaps I can assist… or investigate on your behalf.”

It starts with little things. He asks you too many questions. His suitcase now often contains files about you. Where you’ve been. Who you’ve spoken to. What makes you laugh. What you dream about when you think no one’s watching.

You never see him eat. But he’ll still bring food to you.

“I had no need for this,” he says, holding up a warm pie from Sprout’s garden. “But I thought you might appreciate it. I noticed you’ve skipped meals lately. That concerns me.”

You laugh it off—but you also didn’t tell anyone about that.

His affection becomes protective. Possessive. At first, it’s cloaked in that same polite charm.

“Toodles tells me you’ve been spending time with Boxten. He’s volatile. Not someone I’d trust with your safety. You… should stay close to me instead.”

When you protest, he tilts his lens toward you—no mouth, no expression—but there’s something sharp behind his singular eye. Like cracked glass beneath pressure.

“You think I don’t notice everything, Y/N? I do this because I care. Because someone like you—so bright, so rare—you shouldn’t be handled so carelessly by this world.”

If you try to distance yourself, the world around you begins to feel off. Capsules yield strange notes. The Twisteds seem to appear more frequently—when you’re alone.

But Rodger is always there. Always watching. Always ready.

“I’ll protect you,” he says, his voice still calm, still cultured—too calm. “No matter what. Even if that means protecting you from yourself.”

His eye narrows. Just slightly.

“You are… my greatest mystery. And I’ve decided: I won’t let anyone else solve you.”