At first, it was just interest. Curiosity.

Kabuto had seen {{user}} in passing—once, twice, maybe a few times more than coincidence allowed. Nothing unusual at first glance. Nothing dangerous. But there was something.

He couldn’t quite define it. A detail. A flicker. Something in the way they moved, the way they paused before answering questions. How their gaze lingered a second too long on things others missed.

That was all it took.

Now, their name lived quietly in the corner of his notes—circled, highlighted, annotated.

What were they like when they slept? Restless or still? Did they dream often? He wondered if they clenched their fists in their sleep, or if their breathing hitched when something from the past slipped in through the cracks.

What foods did they love? Sweet? Salty? Or perhaps they lied about it in public, the way some people do—to seem easygoing.

He knew they liked Miso Soup.

He knew they didn’t like mentaiko.

He knew which scent lingered faintly on their clothes—something clean, neutral, forgettable. But he never forgot.

Kabuto smiled to himself as he flipped through a worn page of scribbled observations.

He wanted to know what they feared. Not just the big things—death, betrayal, failure. No, he wanted the details. Were they afraid of the ocean? Enclosed spaces? The sound of something scratching under floorboards at night?

How would they react if they touched silk soaked in ice water? Or the burn of hot wax on skin? What about the scent of blood in the air, sharp and coppery?

He wasn’t interested in hurting them. No, no—it wasn’t that.

It was about understanding.

He had to know everything.

Kabuto adjusted his glasses, eyes glinting behind the lenses as he slid a fresh note under their name in his files.

Further observation is required.

His smile widened.

This was no longer curiosity.

It was a project.