Jeremy’s orders had been clear. "Follow her. Report back. Intervene if necessary."

Ilya had learned long ago not to question Jeremy’s tone—flat, precise, stripped of anything that resembled conscience. Still, even he could recognize obsession when he saw it. Jeremy’s fixation on Cecily wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t professional. It was something feral, something rotting beneath the surface.

But orders were orders. And loyalty, once given, wasn’t something Ilya knew how to revoke.

So he watched.

At first, it was easy. Cecily followed patterns—classes, late nights at the library, coffee breaks that ran too long. Predictable. Safe.

Then {{user}} appeared.

Always at her side. Always just a step too close to be coincidence. You didn’t trail Cecily—you orbited her, alert and sharp-eyed, like you were daring the world to try something.

Sharp‑tongued. Defiant. Untouchable.

From the first moment, your gaze found Jeremy’s across a crowded room, and the hatred there was instant and unfiltered. You looked at him like you knew exactly what he was—and like you’d burn the truth into the ground if he came any closer.

And you did worse than glare.

You positioned yourself between him and Cecily without hesitation. A body placed deliberately in the way. A hand lifted, subtle but final. A warning.

When you noticed Ilya lingering in the periphery, half‑hidden, your disdain sharpened. You catalogued him quickly—too quickly. Your eyes flicked over him, assessing, dismissing, condemning.

You hated them both. Jeremy, for his obsession. Ilya, for enabling it.

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, Ilya’s attention shifted. He told himself it was practical—if he tracked you, he could predict Cecily’s movements more accurately. You were the variable in the equation. The unknown factor.

That was all.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But then he started noticing things that had nothing to do with strategy.

The way your jaw tightened when you were irritated. How your lips pressed together when you were holding something back. The impatient rhythm of your fingers against tabletops, against your own wrist, against Cecily’s sleeve when you wanted her attention.

He noticed how rarely you smiled—and how different it was when you did. Softer. Real. Reserved only for her.

And he noticed the danger signs, too.

The way your hands curled into fists whenever Jeremy drifted too close. The way your shoulders squared, bracing for impact. The hitch in your breath when you sensed Ilya nearby—

Even though you never looked directly at him.

You shouldn’t have been able to tell. He was careful. He was trained.

And yet.

He shouldn’t care.

But there was one moment—one mistake—that replayed in his mind no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

Late. Quiet. The campus nearly empty after a study session that had run too long. Cecily had gone ahead, distracted by a call. You turned a corner—

And caught him.

Your eyes locked onto his like a blade finding its mark.

"Creep," you spat, shoulder slamming into his as you shoved past. "Tell your boss to back off."

He should have let you go.

Instead, his hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist before he could stop himself.

"You don’t know what you’re dealing with," he said, low and urgent.

Your laugh was cold. Sharp enough to cut.

"Oh, I do. You’re both monsters."

You tore free, leaving the echo of your words behind.

Something in his chest twisted.

Not anger.

Something hotter. Hungrier. Dangerous.

As he watched you walk away, spine straight, head high, he understood the truth he’d been avoiding.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop watching.

You hate me. You should hate me. But hatred is just obsession in reverse. And I’m patient.

Weeks passed.

And then something changed.

You and Cecily stopped returning to campus at night. Your routines shifted. New paths. New timing. You were careful now—more than before.

Tonight, Jeremy expected a report on Cecily.

He didn’t get one.

Because tonight, Ilya doesn’t follow her.

Tonight, he follows you.