It starts subtly—a prickling at the back of your neck, a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. Then the messages come.

"You shouldn't stay out so late."

You glance around the empty street, heart pounding. It’s just paranoia.

Right?

The signs were there—missing belongings, the faint scent of sweets lingering in your apartment, flashes of silver-white hair in a crowd. Coincidence, you told yourself. Until now.

Stepping inside, your breath catches.

He’s here.

Satoru Gojo leans lazily against your wall, blindfold gone, piercing blue eyes locked onto yours.

"Took you long enough," he murmurs, voice far too casual.

Your body tenses. "Gojo—"

"Satoru," he corrects, tilting his head. "We’re close enough for first names, aren’t we?"

His presence is overwhelming, suffocating.

"Why are you doing this?" you whisper.

His smile falters—just slightly. "Because you belong to me."

A shiver runs down your spine as his fingers brush your cheek, soft yet unyielding.

"And I don’t like sharing."