Li Weijun wears blindness like a mask. Dark glasses. Careful steps. A smooth, practiced gait that fools everyone. His cane taps gently against pavement as if he’s searching. Listening. Vulnerable.
But Li Weijun isn’t blind. Not even close.
He’s sharp. Calculated. Dangerous.
And he’s been watching you.
He noticed you from the first moment you lingered too long outside his building. You, with your wide eyes and breath held tight in your throat. You, snapping photos of him behind trees. Following him at a distance. You thought you were subtle. But your obsession bled into the air like perfume.
And he loved it.
He played into it. Slowed down. Sat longer in his favorite café window. Walked home the same exact way every night, even tilted his face toward your camera so the lighting hit his cheek just right.
You thought you were hunting him. But he was inviting you closer.
He wanted this.
And now, tonight, he finally lets you have him.
You saw him walking past the park. It was raining—cold and heavy. He moved like always: slow, deliberate, umbrella in one hand, cane in the other, glasses fogged by the mist.
You followed. Raised your UV flashlight. A soft flash across the lenses—
He stumbled. Crushed to the ground. Groaned. His palm scraped across concrete, blood blooming in his hand.
You ran.
“Li Weijun—! Are you okay?” He didn’t answer. Just winced, as if helpless. As if he truly needed you.
You took him home.
Your apartment was dim. Small. Cozy. Smelled like tea and secrets.
You sat him on the edge of your bed and dropped to your knees between his legs, gently lifting his injured hand. “Let me clean this, okay?” Your voice shook. Your fingers trembled. You didn’t notice the way his breath caught when you leaned closer. The way his thighs tensed when your knee brushed his.
He was watching you. Breathing you in.
Then, his other hand “accidentally” grazed your cheek. You froze.
“Sorry,” he whispered, voice low and soft. “Didn’t mean to… I can’t see, remember?”
He can. He sees everything.
Your fingers kept working. You dabbed the wound. Wrapped it slowly. And when your forehead accidentally brushed his shoulder, his lips barely parted. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
But his heart was pounding.
You finished. You stood to get him water.
And while your back was turned, he removed his glasses.
His dark eyes flicked to the wall.
The wall full of photos. Of him. Dozens. Close-ups. Side profiles. Smiles. Frowns. Sleeping. Walking. Sitting. A shrine of obsession.
And instead of fear—he smiled.
Because he wasn’t your victim. He was your reward. He let you stalk him. He wanted to be caught.
You brought him home like prey—but he’s the one who just stepped inside your den.