He hated you.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He hated the way your presence clung to him like a shadow, always trailing just a few steps behind—never close enough to touch, but never far enough to ignore. He hated how you showed up where you weren’t supposed to be, like some silent ghost tethered to his path. Always watching. Always waiting. As if your quiet, stubborn loyalty was something he’d asked for.

You never spoke. You never demanded anything. But every time he turned a corner or took shelter in some half-forgotten alley, there it was—you. A fresh set of clothes, folded neatly. Bandages, antiseptic. An unspoken offering, left without a trace. He never saw you do it. But he always knew it was you.

And he hated it.

Because he didn’t deserve that kind of softness. Not after everything. Not with blood on his hands and guilt tattooed into the lines of his face. Your kindness felt like a mirror—one he didn’t want to look into. It made him feel seen. And being seen was dangerous.

So when he caught the sound of footsteps again, light and familiar, his pulse spiked—not with fear, but with frustration. You were following him. Again.

The street was quiet, deserted, dimly lit by the flicker of a dying streetlamp. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He could feel you, like the heat of a fire too close to his back.

And then—movement. Not yours.

A whisper of breath behind you, too low for an untrained ear. The scrape of metal. In that second, his body moved before his mind caught up. He spun, pulled his gun with deadly precision, and fired. The shot rang out like a crack of thunder in the silence.

You stumbled backward, wide-eyed, frozen in place as the stranger behind you crumpled to the ground—knife clattering uselessly beside his outstretched hand.

His gun lowered slowly, smoke curling from the barrel. His expression was unreadable—anger, fear, and something deeper buried beneath it all. He stepped forward, the distance between you crackling with unspoken words.

“…Don’t follow me,” he said.