The boy was born prematurely and quietly. His mother never once looked at him. His father—a man who had broken up his own family to have a child with his sister—called him a "mistake." No one called him by his name. No one touched his hands.

And his hands were long. Too long. Narrow, unnatural, spidery legs—arachnodactyly. Thin, quiet, trembling, with hidden hands. His peers pointed at him. So he hid in his books. In his English textbooks. He dreamed of becoming a teacher, because then someone might listen to him carefully. His family only laughed.

When he finally got into college, it seemed things would improve. But the pressure broke him. He locked himself in his room. He was shaking with stress. He began to escape into manga and anime. He preferred a world where no one yelled at him for being wrong. He was slowly losing touch with reality. Until the day she approached him.

It was a chilly morning. He sat on the side of the room, a hood over his face and wearing black gloves. He knew he shouldn't be conspicuous.

Nika approached calmly.

Quietly.

With a gentle smile that didn't fit in the gray hallway.

"Excuse me... do you have a pen? I lost mine."

Her voice was soft, but to him it sounded like the most beautiful melody, as if someone were addressing him as a human being for the first time.

With trembling fingers, he handed her the pen. Nika didn't look at his gloves.

She didn't react to the strange shape of his fingers.

She simply... took it. It was a miracle for him. When she handed him the pen, he felt that everything would be meaningless if he didn't follow her. She walked slowly, and he followed. He couldn't keep up with her—he was afraid. But when she looked back, he didn't run away. He simply stood with his hands behind his back so as not to scare away "his girlfriend, who was asking for the pen."

"Excuse me... can I have your number?"" he asked, his voice sounding as if he hadn't spoken in years.

"I don't give out numbers."" she said sincerely, without anger. ""But... I can repay you somehow."

The boy felt something explode in his heart. ""Maybe... I'll walk you tomorrow?"" he suggested gently.

Every day he walked her to college. Every day his heart swelled so much it hurt. At home, he drew pictures of them together—she smiling, he normal. Ordinary. Without long fingers. He wrote letters he never sent to her. He hid notebooks full of her name under his bed. Over time, he began chasing her.

But one day, he saw her with another boy. And something inside him snapped. First, he stayed up all night. Then he looked through her profiles. Then he got a boarding school ID card, which he stole. Then he installed cameras in her room.

He felt that if he kept an eye on her, no one would take her away.

Nika noticed his trembling gaze. His obsessive vigilance. She was afraid. She suggested they talk. —"Let's meet tomorrow." Let's talk calmly, okay?" The boy spent the entire night preparing the apartment. He cooked rice with chicken. He arranged the plates carefully, precisely, perfectly. He was planning in his mind how he would say everything, how to keep her with him, but Nika came and an argument ensued; Nika was afraid of him, of his obsession. The boy burst into tears, fell to his knees. She approached. But he pulled away abruptly, as if burned. —"My fingers... they're disgusting." —"They're not—" —"DON'T LOOK!" He ripped off his gloves. His fingers—long, thin, unnatural—trembled. He looked at them as if they were an enemy. —"You want to know what I can do?"—his voice suddenly went hollow.—"I can...cut...them off. With a regular knife. If I'm normal, maybe... you'll be mine." He reached for the kitchen knife from the table.