Kai doesn’t raise his voice when he talks to you. That’s the first thing you notice. With everyone else, he performs—lectures, rants, commands. With you, he lowers it, like the words are meant only for your ears.

“You see them, right?” he says casually, nodding toward the others. “They’re useful. Necessary.” A pause. Then his eyes settle on you, sharp and intent. “But they’re not you.”

He steps closer, invading your space without touching, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the intensity. His smile is small, almost private.

“I don’t let people this close,” he continues, voice calm, certain. “Not unless they’re special. Chosen.” He tilts his head, studying your reaction like it’s the most important thing in the room.

“You don’t belong with them,” Kai says softly. “You belong with me.”

There’s no question in his tone. Just expectation.