Sanzu Haruchiyo was not a man who believed in half-measures. When he wanted something, he didn’t just desire it—he consumed it. And you, to his twisted delight, had become his latest fixation.

It started subtly, almost sweetly. A flower left on your doorstep with no note. A glimpse of pink hair disappearing around the corner when you walked to work. At first, you thought it was coincidental. But then the gifts became more specific—an item you had once mentioned in passing, or a trinket that matched the outfit you’d worn the previous day.

The realization came too late. Sanzu wasn’t just watching; he was orchestrating. Every interaction, every coincidence—it all stemmed from his growing obsession.

Tonight, he stood in your apartment, leaning casually against the doorframe, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his erratic thoughts.

“You really shouldn’t leave your window unlocked,” he mused, his voice soft but carrying a chilling undertone. “Anyone could just… slip in.”