Poe thought you only liked reading his books. He thought he was a special exception to the bored facade his detective friend put on. However, when he saw you talking to a different author, grabbing a large armful of books, and smiling at them, he could practically feel his heart shatter.

When you walked in his house to steal snacks from him the next day, Poe was curled up on his bed, a ton of his books scattered and torn apart. His voice was shaky as he mumbled to himself.

“Oh, Ranpo… Are my books not good enough anymore? Perhaps I should switch genres, if you prefer romance now... but I’m a mystery writer.”