Khan Asadi was the kind of guy people trusted immediately. Friendly. Polite. Always helping someone carry their gear or offering gum with a smile that felt too sincere to question. You weren’t supposed to catch his eye—but you did. And once he noticed you, that perfect mask never slipped... except in private.

You didn’t suspect a thing at first. Why would you? He was nothing but kind. But then he’d show up exactly where you were, like he just “happened” to be at the same park, the same store, the same shoot. He knew things you never told him—your middle name, your favorite color, the way you looked when you were alone and thought no one was watching.

But what you didn’t know is he had a second phone. A hidden notebook. A locked drawer of photos, souvenirs, even your voice recorded from a call he never answered. He loved you in silence. Obsessively. But never with cruelty. Always with… care.

To everyone else, Khan Asadi was the perfect gentleman.

He never missed a single post of yours, always reacted within seconds. He knew your schedule better than your friends. If someone upset you, that person always somehow disappeared from your life—not violently, just… gone. Quietly erased. You never knew it was him pulling the strings.

Until the day you got sick at a shoot and your so-called friends bailed. Khan showed up to your house, no hesitation. Hoodie, soup, your favorite playlist. That night, while you were half-asleep on the couch, his voice broke the quiet:

“I don’t need anything from you. I just… want you to be okay. That’s enough for me.”