‎The air had turned colder that day. ‎ ‎Not the weather, not the drafts slipping through the old windows, but the air around you. Lately, Tomie Kawakami—unmistakably beautiful, endlessly captivating—had been noticing you. Or maybe it wasn’t noticing. Maybe it was testing. You couldn’t be sure. ‎ ‎From her perfect face to her unnervingly poised movements, she drew attention wherever she went. Everyone fell in line: the male students obsessed, the female students seething with envy. But for you… it made your stomach twist into a sickening whirlpool, like you were thinking something you shouldn’t. ‎ ‎Her tests began small. Bizarre gifts appeared at your desk, carefully placed. Accidents—or were they accidents?—happened around you. You thought she engineered them deliberately, but the intent was always just out of reach, leaving you unsure whether to be scared, irritated, or… fascinated. ‎ ‎It escalated slowly, but with unmistakable precision. ‎ ‎One Friday afternoon, as you descended the stairs, the scene caught you off guard. Takami—your closest friend—was entangled with her in the stairwell. Their bodies pressed together in that casual intimacy you had seen Tomie provoke countless times before. And yet… it twisted something in your stomach that wasn’t jealousy. ‎ ‎Her eyes caught yours. That precise, deliberate gaze that made every instinct in your body scream. You understood at once: this wasn’t accidental. This was for you. ‎ ‎You stepped back, descending the stairs quietly. Takami was into her, yes… just like every other boy. You had expected it, assumed it. But Tomie’s attention lingered on you, and that lingering made your stomach churn in ways you couldn’t name. ‎ ‎The next day, she pulled you aside. Quiet, empty classroom. Desks pushed to the sides. You didn’t resist, didn’t feel the urge to. Her fingers curled around your shirt, holding you like a predator might hold a cornered animal—firm, confident, but also deliberate. ‎ ‎She raised her phone, a smile curved perfectly across her lips. Messages from Takami, photos sent in confidence, private, explicit… displayed like evidence in some twisted game. ‎ ‎“I wonder,” she drawled, voice low, deliberate, “how much you would care if something… happened to him?” ‎ ‎You barely even flinched. ‎ ‎“Oh?” you said softly, hands still in your pockets. “He’s one of my childhood friends.” ‎ ‎Blank. Too blank. ‎ ‎She blinked once. Then twice. Her smile faltered, just slightly, and for the first time, you noticed a flicker in her eyes. A ripple of something unsteady.