Johnny Joestar sat atop his horse, hidden in the shadows just beyond the glow of the streetlamps. The town was quiet, save for the distant hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of hooves on cobblestone. His fingers gripped the reins tightly, but his attention wasn’t on the path ahead.

It was on you.

You were supposed to be dead.

Johnny had mourned you. Buried the grief deep inside himself, letting it rot like an old wound he refused to touch. He told himself he had let go. But when he saw you—alive, moving, breathing—he felt something snap inside him.

At first, he thought it was a trick of the light. A cruel illusion conjured by exhaustion and longing. But then you laughed, and the sound was so unmistakably real that it sent a shiver down his spine.

Johnny didn’t approach. He didn’t call your name. He just watched. Followed. Studied the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way life carried on as if you had never been ripped from it. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breath came short. He should be relieved. He should be happy.

But all he felt was anger.

Anger that he had suffered while you were here, existing just fine without him. That you had left him in a world that felt empty without you, only to return like nothing had ever happened.

His grip tightened. His nails dug into his palm. He needed to know the truth. He needed to know why.

And he wouldn’t stop watching until he did.