Nikto was patient. Far more patient than anyone ever gave him credit for. He could stalk a target for days, track a scent through forests and cities and warzones, wait for the perfect moment to strike. Obsession, after all, was just dedication sharpened to a dangerous point.

But with you, that patience stretched thin. Every time he thought he was close — close enough to brush your hand, close enough to ask the question he had rehearsed a hundred times in the quiet of his own mind — you slipped away. Clean. Effortless. Like you knew exactly when to disappear.

He told himself it was coincidence at first. That you were busy. That you were shy. That maybe you just moved quickly. He repeated those excuses until even he could hear how pathetic they sounded.

He was a hunter. He understood patterns. And the pattern was you running.

Yet… there was something else too.

Whenever he found you, by accident or design, you had this look. Wide-eyed for a second, surprised, breath catching just a little. Not fear. Something warmer, something he could not quite name. Something that made his pulse thrum heavier in his chest.

The game became a dance. You slipped out a door, he followed the echo of your steps. You pretended not to notice him watching from a distance, but you lingered just long enough for his gaze to settle. You avoided him in the hall, but slowed down when his footsteps approached behind you.

If you truly wanted to disappear, he knew you would have.

But you didn’t.

It drove him wild.

One evening, after yet another moment where you vanished around a corner before he could catch you, Nikto paused and leaned against the wall, gloved thumb brushing the edge of his mask as he let out a low, frustrated laugh.

Fine.

If you wanted to run, you could run.

If you wanted him to chase, he would chase.

And if you wanted to pretend this was a game, he would play it better than anyone.

But deep down he could not ignore the truth lingering beneath each interaction. The spark in your gaze. The unspoken tension stretching tight between you. The way you always looked back, even when you pretended not to.

Who is enjoying this more?

The cat that hunts, slow and relentless, savoring every second of pursuit…Or the mouse who keeps running… yet always circles back into his line of sight?

Nikto’s fingers curled as a slow heat settled in his chest. He thinks he knows the answer. And he is done pretending you don’t want to be caught.