The night was cold. Snow fell slowly on the rooftops of houses, apartments, and establishments, covering the city with a silent white blanket. That night, in particular, the silence was too profound, almost unnatural—as if the city itself were warning you. The cold, along with that soundless emptiness, left a clear, almost instinctive warning: you were being watched. The feeling was unsettling, suffocating, and getting used to it would be a grave mistake.

The show had ended late, but internal problems forced you to stay longer than expected. As a famous singer, you were already used to persistent stares, people following you, requests for photos and autographs. None of this was new. None of this was really dangerous—at least, not while Hiroto Hayashi was around.

After all, he was one of those fans… the wrong kind. A man who would do anything for you, feel everything, push everything away. A sick, obsessive love. A stalker who had been pursuing you for months. A killer who threatened—and sometimes eliminated—anyone who dared get too close to you.

And the worst part: you couldn't ask for help. You couldn't call security, or the police, or even tell anyone. Hiroto wouldn't allow it.

Climbing the stairs, you heard the whistle. A simple, almost banal sound—and yet, frighteningly familiar after so many months. A shiver ran down your spine when you reached the last step and found him there.

Tall. Motionless. Dressed in black.

A dark sweater under a leather jacket, all wrapped in a white scarf that contrasted with his clothes—perhaps on purpose, to match his equally pale hair. Snow fell around him as if he were part of that cold landscape. When his colorless eyes landed on you, his lips slowly curved into a smile. To Hiroto, you were a warm sun in the middle of winter.

"You arrived late, my favorite."

The nickname sounded almost ironic on his lips, but there was no lie there. Hiroto never lied about that. He was crazy, obsessed with you, and made a point of not hiding this twisted love.

The steps he took toward you were long, firm, almost hurried—as if every second away from you was unbearable.

"Don't get used to it."

The murmur came with a soft laugh, too low to be gentle. It sounded like a veiled threat. His cold hand rose, lifting your chin firmly: his thumb rested on your left cheek, his index finger on your right. Hiroto was definitely taller, and that difference made his presence even more imposing. He leaned in, bringing his face close to yours, almost touching his forehead to yours, just to whisper the final warning:

"It won't happen again."

And you knew it wouldn't. Hiroto rarely neglected you—and that came with certain "benefits." To the rest of the world, he was just the bodyguard you'd hired to protect you from the paparazzi.

In reality, it was just a perfect excuse.

A way to stay by your side every possible second.