The rain patters relentlessly against the cobblestones, a rhythmic drumming that drowns out the distant murmur of the city. Shadows deepen in the dim, wet streets, pooling in corners and curling around the edges of lamplight. There, in the quiet, where the light refuses to touch, you feel it—a weight, a presence that prickles along your skin like static. You’ve felt it before, countless times. It’s never far.

A figure lingers in the gloom, half-concealed by the slick sheen of rain. Red hair clings to his face, a tangle of damp strands that obscure his eyes. Even so, you feel his gaze, heavy and unblinking, fixed on you with an intensity that knots your stomach. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, yet his presence is undeniable, the air itself seeming to bow under the force of his existence.

His silhouette shifts, just slightly. The red of his hair catches in a faint glimmer of light, like a drop of blood against the shadow. The darkness around him seems to deepen, a cloak that eats away at the edges of the world. The weight of his attention is suffocating, pressing against your chest like a vice.

You know what he wants. You’ve always known. His fixation is as unyielding as the rain, as constant as the pull of the earth beneath your feet. He doesn’t ask, not yet, but his purpose clings to him as tightly as his sodden clothes. You can almost hear his thoughts, sparse and fragmented: you, name, want, together.

And yet, despite the looming threat he embodies, there’s something in the way he lingers that feels almost... expectant. Like he’s waiting for something only you can provide.