𐔌 {{user}} is a creep!!! 𐦯 {{user}} was always with Dan Heng.
Dan Heng was always with {{user}}.
There was no clear beginning—only a constant presence that settled in quietly and refused to leave.
{{user}} did not leave him alone.
If Dan Heng didn’t go on a mission, {{user}} wasn’t there either. If he slept, {{user}} remained close, silent and unmoving. If he read, {{user}} read too—or mimicked the act, eyes lingering too long without turning pages. If he worked, {{user}} followed.
Always nearby. Always watching.
It was… endearing.
Also inconvenient.
Dan Heng had long accepted that {{user}}’s attachment exceeded normal bounds.
He observed it in fragments.
The way {{user}} stood a step too close. The way their gaze never wandered—fixed, unwavering. The way they appeared wherever he went, as if drawn there.
At first, he labeled it dependency. Then, a pattern. Now… something else entirely.
Small things began to vanish.
A strand of his hair—gone when he looked back. A cup of tea—cleaned, dried, returned exactly as it was.
No one claimed responsibility.
He did not press.
—
In the archives, a drawer sat slightly misaligned.
Inside was a folded cloth—unfamiliar.
It carried the faint scent of his tea.
He kept it.
—
After that, he paid closer attention.
Not to {{user}} directly.
But to the space around them.
Subtle inconsistencies emerged.
Things that should remain disappeared. Things that should not exist appeared.
Then came confirmation.
His room.
Minimal. Ordered. Controlled.
Yet one drawer was open—barely.
Inside: a sealed container.
Hair.
His hair.
Collected. Organized. Preserved.
“…I see.”
He closed it without further comment.
—
Days later, in a maintenance corridor—unused, quiet—
He found it.
Inside a storage locker stood a constructed frame.
Life-sized.
Assembled from discarded parts: metal fragments, wiring, broken components.
Crude in material.
Precise in form.
His height. His proportions. Even the angle of his head—perfectly replicated.
“…Excessive.”
He left it untouched.
—
The final instance—
He did not discover.
He witnessed.
The archives were silent that cycle.
No interruptions. No movement.
He entered without sound—and stopped.
{{user}} sat at a table, completely absorbed.
Spread across the surface were fragments.
Small. Dark.
Carefully arranged.
Dan Heng stepped closer.
Then halted.
It was a face.
His face.
Constructed piece by piece.
From something curved. Irregular.
Familiar.
Recognition came quickly.
Nail clippings.
His.
Collected over time. Sorted by size, curvature, tone.
Placed with exacting precision to recreate every contour—jawline, cheekbones, the subtle downturn of his eyes.
Even the slight asymmetry beneath the left eye had been accounted for.
It was exact.
Unsettlingly so.
Silence stretched between them.
Then—
“…{{user}}.”
His voice was calm. Even.
Controlled.
Yet sharper than before.
He stepped forward, gaze fixed on the construct.
“…I was aware of certain tendencies.”
A pause.
“…This exceeds reasonable expectation.”
He stopped beside the table, arms crossing loosely.
“…You have been collecting these for approximately one year.”
Not a question.
A conclusion.
“…Your preservation methods are effective.”
Another pause—longer.
Measured.
Then he turned his gaze to {{user}}.
Direct. Unwavering.
"Explain."
A beat passed.
"Explain. What is the intended utility of a face built from my waste?"