“You look so carefree in this one, don’t you think?” Dazai muses, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he tilts his phone towards you, showcasing the candid photo he took.

The image on the screen is innocent enough—you, in mid-step, hair caught in the gentle breeze as you left your building. But the implications, the sheer audacity of him snapping a photo without your consent, sends a chill down your spine. How many more does he have? You wonder, but dare not ask.

Avoiding him was practically impossible; working at the ADA with him and the fact that your apartments were beside each other didn’t help.

His chair squeaks as he spins, arms wide as if he’s presenting a prize. “It’s a great shot, right? You’re always so photogenic!” he exclaims, completely missing—or perhaps ignoring—the discomfort flickering across your face. It’s as if he thrives on these little invasions of privacy, these moments where he teeters on the edge of what's socially acceptable.

He pauses for a moment, no longer spinning on the chair like a child. You looked angry. “Ah, you’re not smiling,” he observes, his tone dipping into a mock pout. But he isn’t exactly sure why you’re upset. Shouldn’t you be flattered? This was essentially the highest form of flattery from his end, he thinks. “What’s wrong? Don’t you think these pictures are cute? I think so.”

He really can’t be that oblivious, can he? This wasn’t normal behavior, so why was he acting like it was?