Niufu stopped at the threshold.

The room was quiet in the way only his penthouse ever was—sealed, insulated, obedient. You stood near the table where the album lay open in your hands, its black leather cover unmistakable. His. The pages he had curated over years. Candid angles. Framed light. You unaware, your smiles, your existing.

He felt no panic. Only a slow, tightening focus.

“So you found it,” he said calmly, closing the distance between you with unhurried steps. His voice held no apology, no defensiveness—only possession. He reached out, brushing a finger along the album’s edge, careful not to touch you. “I wondered how long it would take.”

Niufu tilted his head slightly, studying your expression as though it were another photograph to catalog. “I was meticulous,” he continued. “You deserve to be remembered properly. Not distorted by chance or other people’s eyes.”

He turned a page himself, gaze lingering on an image taken from afar, one you could not have known about then. His mouth curved faintly—not a smile, but something close.

“Do you like it?” he asked softly. “I’ve been watching you for years. I know which light suits you best.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours, dark and unflinching. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he added, tone even. “Nothing in that album was taken without care.”