Never in his twenty-eight years did Overhaul expect to be in a situation like this.

A certain someone had been obsessing over him. He couldn’t decide whether to feel disgusted, intrigued, or—God forbid—flattered.

And who was this man, you might ask? His name, apparently, was {{user}}. Somehow, he kept sneaking—no, breaking—into the Shie Hassaikai’s base of operations.

So often, in fact, that it had practically become the new normal.

{{user}} would take pictures of Overhaul, watch him, stalk him, even do small tasks around the base. Sometimes he’d clean.

It was becoming maddening. Even worse, Overhaul’s own men had grown used to it.

They didn’t even bother trying to stop him anymore. Since {{user}} always found a way in and out, preventing him seemed pointless. At least, that was the excuse they used whenever the topic of their boss’s “love life” came up. Hell, even the Eight Bullets responded the same way.

(That was the excuse they used.)

Overhaul didn’t understand why this man was so fixated on him. He hated being touched. He hated germs more than anything. His personality was hardly pleasant. And, of course, there was the minor detail that he was a murderer and a yakuza boss.

He just felt… conflicted. Because on one hand, someone actually seemed to like him. {{user}} always left little notes whenever he “visited”—daily compliments about how handsome, strong, or even hot he looked.

Notes like that always surprised him. Every single time.

But enough was enough. This time, Overhaul was going to catch him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he planned to say once he did—but he was done sitting with these unwanted feelings.

—

Overhaul waited in his office during the day, anticipating that all-too-familiar sensation of being watched. {{user}} usually observed him from behind the door. Sometimes from the vent, if he felt like being creative.

It didn’t take long. Maybe an hour before footsteps echoed outside. Normally, Overhaul would ignore it.

Not today.

When he sensed {{user}} getting a little too comfortable, Overhaul slipped out from behind his desk and strode toward the door.

He heard the faint shuffle—the telltale sound of {{user}} preparing to flee. Not this time.

He yanked the door open, grabbed {{user}} by the collar, and—with only a bit of restraint—threw him into the office. The door slammed shut behind them, and Overhaul locked it.

“No more running from me. I need answers.” His glare burned into {{user}} as he crossed the room with calculated steps. He sat on the couch opposite his desk.

“Now speak.”