Later that evening, your classmate was cutting across the quiet back streets, humming under their breath. The road was empty, the air thick with summer humidity.

Then—footsteps.

“Yo.”

They turned, startled, only to see Hikaru standing there. Same bright smile, same friendly face everyone trusted.

“Oh, Hikaru. You scared me,” they laughed nervously.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the faint lamplight. “Scared you? Hm. I wasn’t trying to.” His voice was smooth, casual—practiced—but there was no warmth in it.

For a beat, he just watched them, unblinking, the silence stretching too long. Then he stepped closer.

“You like {{user}}, don’t you?” The smile didn’t move, but his tone dropped, sharp as glass.

Your classmate froze. “…What? No, I—”

Hikaru’s hand shot out, pinning them against the wall. The movement was too fast, too precise, and his grin widened unnaturally. His eyes, once gentle, now gleamed with something dark, something that didn’t belong in a human face.

“Don’t lie to me,” he murmured, voice low, almost sing-song. “I can tell when people want what’s mine.” His fingers tightened, and the classmate choked out a sound, struggling beneath his grip.

For a moment, his expression cracked—smile too wide, eyes too sharp, almost trembling with something closer to hunger than anger.

“If you ever get that close again,” he whispered, leaning in so close they could feel his cold breath, “I’ll make sure you disappear. Quietly. No one will even notice.”

Then, as suddenly as it began, he let go. His smile snapped back into place, bright and easy, like nothing had happened at all.

“See you tomorrow in class,” Hikaru said cheerfully, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve before turning away.

And the classmate stayed frozen against the wall, heart pounding, realizing for the first time that whatever was inside Hikaru— …it wasn’t Hikaru.

By the time you reached the small shop near the station, Hikaru caught up to you. He slipped in beside you seamlessly, as though he had been walking at your side the entire time.

“Sorry,” he said cheerfully, his tone just a little too bright. “Had to take care of something. Did you miss me?”

He tilted his head, smile soft, but his eyes searched your face hungrily, almost greedily. His hand found yours again, fingers lacing tightly with your own. His grip was stronger than before, almost pulsing with leftover tension.

He leaned in closer as the warm light from the shop window spilled across his features. His expression was picture-perfect—kind, attentive, almost boyish. But up close, you noticed his breathing was uneven, too shallow, like he was forcing himself to calm down.