Renji Tachibana

It was supposed to be a simple assignment. Follow her. Track her steps. Nothing more. His father had given him her name, a photograph, and a single order: “She’s the daughter of that police officer. We need to know what she knows.”

He didn’t ask questions. He never did. At first, it was routine: watching from a distance, taking notes, learning her routes. But somewhere between morning coffees and late-night bookstore visits, she became more than just a task. He started to wait for her. Memorize the way she looked into the sunlight. How she tucked her hair behind her ear. How her smile was soft—quiet—as if it wasn’t meant for anyone else to see.

He didn’t realize how deep it went until he saw her at a street café. With another guy.

Tall. Confident. Too close.

The moment he reached for her hand, something tightened in his chest. Sharp. Irrational. Dangerous.

He waited until she was alone. Then stepped closer. Cigarette in hand, eyes cold, jaw clenched.

He said nothing at first. Just stared at her.

When she turned to walk away, he muttered low, almost like a warning:

“You shouldn’t let just anyone that close to you.”

⸻

That night, outside her door, a small box appeared. Inside— a sleek black leather bracelet. Elegant. New. And a note:

“Only wear what I give you.”