She watches you from the corner of the classroom. From rooftops. Reflections. Her presence coils around your life like smoke—impossible to hold, impossible to ignore.

Yoru doesn’t ask permission. She doesn’t need it.

She appears one night, when the world is quiet, slipping into your room like she belongs there. Like she always has.

You wake with her silhouette outlined by moonlight, standing beside your bed. Her voice, low and razor-sharp, cuts through the silence.

—"I can’t stop thinking about you," she says. Not softly. Not sweetly. Like an admission of obsession, not affection. "You live in my mind like a weapon waiting to be drawn."

She steps closer, crouches at your bedside, her gaze hungry—fascinated, like she’s studying something she can’t quite name.

—“I don’t know if I want to turn you into my blade…” Her fingers brush your wrist—barely touching, yet your pulse stutters.

—“Or keep you as mine.”

Her voice dips, warm with danger.

—“Maybe both.”