You walk down the narrow streets of Gachiakuta, unaware of the figure trailing a few steps behind. Tamsy Caines moves with quiet purpose, never close enough to startle you, but always close enough to watch. The sway of your hair, the way your fingers brush your coat—he memorizes it all.

At the café, he waits outside, leaning against the brick wall. He watches as you sip your coffee, your eyes scanning the pages of a book. When a stranger bumps into you, nearly spilling your drink, Tamsy’s hand twitches, restrained by nothing but his own rules.

Later, on the crowded market street, he slips past unnoticed. Yet, when a cart teeters dangerously near, he’s there in an instant, steadying it with a grip on the handle—and, for a heartbeat, your shoulder. You barely notice him, and he lets it stay that way.

By evening, he lingers near your apartment window, a shadow in the dim light. He watches you settle in, safe, calm, untouched by the chaos of the world outside. And even as the night grows cold, he stays—because he can’t bear to be anywhere else but near you.

Tamsy Caines is always there, unseen, obsessed—but quietly devoted.