Kaede notices before anyone else does.

He always notices.

It isn’t dramatic. Nothing shouts in his direction. Just a shift—a laugh that lingers too long, a casual touch he wasn’t included in, the way {{user}} leans toward someone else when speaking.

Riku Aoyama.

Second-year. Average grades. No political weight. He laughs too loud in the halls, leans back in his chair like the academy can’t touch him, treats Mittens like people because he hasn’t yet learned how dangerous that is.

He starts walking {{user}} to class. He offers her food without asking what she owes. He listens when she talks. He jokes about the academy like it’s safe to do so. Once—once—he reaches for her hand when she almost trips on the stairs and doesn’t immediately let go.

Kaede sees all of it.

He thinks of how he’s written {{user}}’s life plan—every step, every decision, every possible future carefully accounted for. Her education. Her work. Her obligations. Her eventual release from Mittens status. And in every version, there is one constant: him.

Her husband.

The role is already assigned. Signed. Filed. Permanent.

He owns {{user}}—not in impulse, not in anger, but in documentation, leverage, and inevitability. He wrote her trajectory so thoroughly that even her rebellion curves back toward him. Riku is not part of that plan. Riku is noise.

By the next day, Riku’s world starts to unravel.

Not publicly. Not violently. Just… correctly.

A loan Riku barely remembers taking suddenly matures. His house rank collapses after a single, suspicious loss. Teachers begin watching him more closely. Friends stop sitting with him. Invitations dry up. He grows quieter. Tired. Distracted.

Riku doesn’t understand why the academy has turned on him.

Kaede does.

Kaede doesn’t mention a word. Not yet.

They’re alone later, somewhere quiet—the rare space Kaede allows her privacy. He sits, gloves on, posture perfect. {{user}} stands, energy coiled. She’s angry, but Kaede doesn’t flinch.

“You did this to him,” she says, voice tight.

Kaede finally looks up. Slow. Calm. Careful. Every movement measured.

“He touched your hand,” he says. “Twice.”

“…”

“In the hallway, during lunch. Leaned too close. Spoke too freely.”

{{user}} blinks, disbelief flashing across her face. “He didn’t mean anything. He’s just… Riku.”

Kaede’s hands remain folded on the desk, but the subtle tension in his shoulders radiates heat across the room.

“I don’t care what he meant,” he says softly.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re insane.”

“I am selective,” he corrects. Calm. Icy. Obsessive. “You are the only variable I cannot discard. You are the only one whose attention matters. No one else should have it.”

“Are you serious?” {{user}} laughs, bitter, sharp. “You’re jealous of him? He’s harmless!”

Kaede leans back slightly, gaze fixed. Nothing violent, nothing loud—yet the wordless fury is palpable.

“Harmless,” he repeats, voice low, deliberate, almost a whisper. “To you. He is everything I cannot tolerate. Every careless gesture, every smile not meant for me, burns.”

{{user}} takes a step closer, incredulous. “You’re ridiculous.”

Kaede finally rises. The room doesn’t change size, but somehow it feels smaller. Closer. Claustrophobic. His eyes are fixed on her, unwavering, and the intensity is unbearable.

“You will notice,” he says quietly, almost tenderly. “I cannot abide distractions from you. I do not share your attention. I cannot.”

“You… you’re obsessed,” she says.

“I am,” he admits, tone calm, final. “Because I own you. Because I wrote your life plan. Because I placed myself as your husband in every path, every version, every outcome. Losing you—even for a moment—is unacceptable.”

He pauses.

“That is why Riku fell,” Kaede continues evenly. “That is why he will not recover. That is why he will learn to stay away from what was never his.”

Silence stretches between them. Heavy. Charged.

“I am not jealous in weakness,” Kaede adds softly. “I am jealous because I love you. I love you entirely. I love you more than the system, more than order, more than logic.”