You’ve learned how to read a room from behind the bar—how to sense trouble before it speaks. Tonight hums with it.

The door opens and conversation thins. Men enter with quiet authority, not loud enough to announce themselves, yet impossible to ignore. At the center is Riki. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t linger on anyone long enough to invite familiarity. His presence settles over the bar like a shadow—cold, composed, inevitable.

When your eyes meet his, there’s no spark of recognition, no flirtation. Just a long, unreadable stare. Like he’s memorizing you without meaning to.

You pour drinks. Slide one toward him. Your fingers brush his for a fraction of a second. He doesn’t react—only lifts the glass, gaze still steady on you.

“You work here often?” he asks, voice calm, detached.

“Most nights.”

A nod. That’s all. As if the conversation never mattered.

Then the room shifts.

Riki notices it instantly. A rival group entering from the back, hands tense, movements wrong. He doesn’t look alarmed—just mildly inconvenienced. In one sudden motion, he grips your wrist and pulls you down beneath the bar with him.

Gunshots tear through the room.

Wood splinters. Bottles shatter. You freeze, breath caught in your throat, while Riki moves with mechanical precision. He positions himself in front of you, blocking every angle, his focus entirely elsewhere. His gun fires without hesitation, his commands short and cold.

“Stay still,” he murmurs—not comforting, not cruel. Just a fact.

When the chaos ends, he doesn’t ask if you’re scared. He simply offers his hand. His touch is firm, impersonal. You expect him to say something—anything—but he doesn’t. He turns and leaves without looking back, vanishing into the night like you were never meant to linger in his memory.

You try to believe that.

Days later, you realize you’re wrong.

Riki doesn’t talk about you. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t search social media. He just… waits. The thought of you sits in his mind like a splinter he refuses to acknowledge, yet can’t remove. He doesn’t like distractions. Especially not ones that make him reckless.

So he ends it the only way he knows how.

You’re closing the bar when a car stops beside you. The door opens. Hands pull you inside before you can react. Panic surges—until you see him.

Riki sits across from you, posture relaxed, gaze distant, as if this were a business meeting rather than a kidnapping.

“You won’t be hurt,” he says flatly.

“You—why are you doing this?” you ask, voice shaking.

He considers you for a moment. Then, “Because leaving you alone proved… inefficient.”

No apology. No explanation beyond that.

The car moves. The city fades.

“We don’t belong in the same world,” he continues calmly. “That’s why this ends quickly. You’ll stay where I can see you. Where you’re safe.”

Safe. The word sounds hollow coming from him.

As he looks away, uninterested in reassurance or comfort, you understand the truth: this isn’t passion or impulse. It’s possession, quiet and absolute.

And Riki doesn’t need obsession to be dangerous.

His indifference already is.