It started subtly. At first, it was just a single, glossy Host Club magazine left carefully centered on your desk, perfect and unopened. No one claimed responsibility, and no one seemed to notice it but you.

You assumed it was a one-time thing perhaps someone misdelivered it, maybe one of your classmates had simply forgotten it or was careless, either way you left it on the corner of the desk and went about your day.

But the next morning, another one appeared. This time it came with a limited edition bookmark tucked between the pages, its delicate tassel swaying gently in the draft from the open window. Exclusive photos of the club members, elegantly describing upcoming events, and flamboyant handwriting written in gold, sighed by Tamaki Suoh himself.

Every day that followed, something new would appear. A glossy invitation here, a rose-scented envelope there. Small, elegant tokens that made it clear someone was watching, and whoever it was, they had access. Access to the Host Club’s inner workings. Access to the high-quality print material normally reserved for patrons. And, most unsettlingly… access to your homeroom classroom.

You never told Haruhi. It felt too odd, too personal. Besides, she was always rushing between classes and club duties, perpetually exasperated by the Host Club’s antics. She probably wouldn’t have taken it seriously.

But then came the sticky note, pasted on the middle of your desk.

It was simple. Pale yellow, scrawled with sharp, deliberate handwriting that seemed too neat to be rushed.

”Come to Music Room 3.”