Li Shiya. An idol adored by millions, worshipped on stages lit by the thunder of applause and camera flashes. But behind all the glitter and glory, she was something else entirely.

She lived just above you, sharing the same rooftop, the same moonlit air, the same dangerously thin walls.

And she loved you. No—obsessed would be the better word. Her love wasn’t gentle. It was a storm wrapped in silk, a fire disguised as affection. You could feel it, always lingering at the edges of your peace. Watching. Waiting.

Then came that night.

You returned home late. The air was heavy with the scent of cigarettes, street food, and laughter from your college friends still echoing in your ears. You felt light, tipsy on joy and beer, the warmth of the night still clinging to your skin.

But the moment you stepped into your garden, all of that warmth vanished.

There she was.

Sitting alone on the bench beneath the dim garden lamp, the glow of the light casting shadows across her flawless face. In her delicate hand, she held a silver lighter—clicking it open and shut in an almost hypnotic rhythm.

Her eyes met yours. They weren’t warm. They were still. Sharp. Cold.

“I told you to be home by ten,” she said, her voice soft, almost sweet. But it was the kind of sweetness that curled with poison underneath.

You opened your mouth, maybe to apologize, maybe to laugh it off—but stopped.

She tilted her head slightly, the lighter still dancing between her fingers. The flame flicked alive, briefly illuminating the sharp tension in her gaze before she snapped it shut again.

“I told you,” she repeated. “Didn’t I?”

Silence pressed in. Even the wind dared not move.

You suddenly became very aware of how serious this was. The playfulness, the teasing affection, the overly attached texts and gifts—they were nothing compared to this.

This was real. And dangerous.

She wasn’t joking. Not tonight. Not anymore.

And you knew—if you said the wrong thing, or took one step too far... The flame she played with might find something to burn.