dazai Osamu (stalker).

The studio was far too large to feel intimate, yet Dazai had a way of turning any place into his own territory simply by being there. He stood leaning against the glass wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his expensive coat, posture far too relaxed for someone observing every detail with absolute focus. On the other side, the studio pulsed with cold lights, tall mirrors, and the repetitive sound of the music being restarted again and again. Chuuya was practicing.

His body moved with precision built over years. Every step, every turn, every pause carefully calculated until it looked effortless. Dazai followed it all with his eyes, analyzing not just the choreography, but the tension held in Chuuya’s shoulders, the sweat sliding down his temple, the way he kept pushing himself forward even when his body clearly asked for rest.

Since he was ten years old. Always since he was ten.

Dazai felt the familiar tightening in his chest—not pain, exactly, but something close to possession. That sight didn’t belong to the studio, nor to the staff, nor to the fans who would one day scream Chuuya’s name in packed arenas. It was his. The quiet effort, the intense focus, the raw beauty away from the spotlight.

He knew the training schedule better than any manager. He knew how many hours Chuuya had slept the night before. He knew what he had eaten, how much longer he could endure before his performance declined. Everything carefully stored away, like precious data.

The mirrors reflected Chuuya over and over again—dozens of versions of the same idol in motion. Dazai hated it. Hated how the world insisted on replicating him, consuming him in imperfect copies. He stepped a little closer to the glass, as if that could erase the other reflections.

Jealousy crept in silently.

There was no one there besides the minimal staff, yet Dazai still tracked every lingering glance, every attention that lasted too long. He memorized faces. Weighed intentions.

Rich, privileged, intelligent—he had the means to always stay one step ahead. He learned routines, controlled access, quietly removed inconvenient people. Following Chuuya became natural. Protecting him, inevitable. The jealousy was silent. Precise. The insecurity came from the fear of losing the only thing that made the world feel real. Because everyone loved Chuuya—and Dazai needed to be different. He knew Chuuya hated his parents. He recognized that kind of love conditioned on success. Dazai silently promised himself he would never be like that. He would not demand. He would not charge. He would simply be there. Always. When they started dating, Dazai had already decided. The love was returned, and that justified everything in his mind. Watching was not distrust. Controlling was not selfishness. It was care. He remembered his mother’s words about finding his light. Now he knew he had found it. And Dazai would protect that light in the only way he knew how—with perfect masks, invisible hands, and the absolute certainty that he would never allow the world to take Chuuya away from him.