It started with small things.

The same tall figure near the train platform two mornings in a row.

A black coat across the street when you left work.

A reflection in the convenience store glass—broad shoulders, black hair, hands in pockets—gone by the time you turned around.

At first, you told yourself it meant nothing.

Ginjo was not someone you knew well enough to explain why he kept appearing in places that had nothing to do with him.

Then he showed up outside your apartment building.

Not hiding. Just leaning against the wall near the entrance like he had every right to be there.

You stopped a few feet away, keys still in hand.

“Are you following me?”

He looked up, calm as ever. “That depends. You always take this long to notice people?”