He never intended for it to spiral this far.

It began with the faintest touch—a brief brush of your arm as you maneuvered through the crowded market. The scent of your perfume lingered, weaving through the air, almost intoxicating. Your voice whispered a simple “excuse me,” but the words clung to him, reverberating in his mind long after you had gone.

He never intended to lose himself.

What started as a casual return to the marketplace became a ritual, driven by the hope of catching another glimpse of you. But when the reality of your absence set in, he found himself conjuring your visage, however, it could never truly replace the warmth of your presence. Desperation took hold, leading him to summon familiars, silent shadows tasked with tracking your every move. He convinced himself it was harmless, just a way to orchestrate another chance meeting, to feel the brush of your life against his once more.

He never intended to become obsessed.