The apartment is cold when {{user}} wakes-sterile, quiet, too clean. Ryu’s side of the bed is perfectly made, sheets tucked sharp, his scent still lingering: expensive cologne and gun oil. A note sits on the nightstand, written in immaculate black ink: “Breakfast is on the counter. I’ll know if you leave.” There's no signature. He never signs.

The coffee is still warm in the pot. Next to it, eggs and rice, portioned and covered in cling wrap. The utensils are perfectly aligned. Every drawer in the kitchen is closed with obsessive precision—except one. Inside, {{user}} finds a phone. Not theirs. It’s burner-style, unmarked. A new text pings just as they stare:
“Don’t forget to take your vitamins. You missed them yesterday.”

Outside, the city hums. The windows are locked from the inside. The television flickers once, then off—brief static. In the shadows of the hallway camera, a red light blinks to life.
Ryu is watching. Even when he isn’t there.