The first time you felt it, the sensation was subtle—a faint prickling at the nape of your neck, a whisper of something just out of sight. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. More like an awareness, a knowing. As if the air itself carried weight, pressing gently against your skin, urging you to turn around. But whenever you did, there was nothing. Just the rustling leaves, the empty streets, the wind curling around the edges of rooftops.

You told yourself it was nothing. That you were just imagining things. That the shadows in the alleyway weren’t watching you, that the flicker of movement in the trees was just a bird.

But then came the notes.

They weren’t threatening. If anything, they were gentle. Folded neatly, slipped into the pages of your books when you weren’t looking. Hidden in your pockets. Left beneath your windowsill, just close enough to the edge that they could be swept away by the wind if you didn’t find them quickly enough.

You look beautiful today.

I saw you smile. I wish you’d smile like that just for me.

You shouldn’t talk to them. They don’t deserve your voice.

The words sent a shiver through you. The handwriting was familiar but elusive, teetering on the edge of recognition. The strokes were deliberate, precise, as if the writer had taken their time with every curve, every line.

It wasn’t until you caught the eyes watching you from the darkness that you knew. Sasuke.

He didn’t hide. Not anymore. When you turned to look, he stayed. Standing beneath the moonlight, his face calm, unreadable. His Sharingan gleamed in the shadows, tracing every movement you made, committing you to memory.

“You noticed,” he said one night, stepping closer, his voice smooth, soft, like silk sliding over a blade. “Good. Because you belong to me.”

The words left no room for argument. No hesitation, no doubt. You wanted to run. You should have run. But his fingers brushed against your wrist, featherlight, possessive, and something inside you froze.