Kaito's Obsession

Chapter 7 Closer than Before

XHILO’S APARTMENT - EARLY EVENING

She practically runs the last few blocks, boots clicking fast against the pavement, eyes darting to every doorway and shadow. She doesn’t stop until she’s through her front door—slamming it shut, throwing the deadbolt, sliding the heavy chain home, and shoving a sturdy wooden chair tight beneath the knob, her hands shaking so bad she fumbles twice before it sits firm.

Only then does she lean back, chest heaving, pressing her palm flat against the wood as if she can hold the whole world—and him—out. Her small space feels safe enough, usually: warm, neat, every thing in its place, walls lined with old books and a few cheap but cherished mementos. Tonight, it feels far too small, far too thin‑walled. Every creak of the settling floorboard, every rattle of the window frame, sounds like him.

She yanks every curtain closed tight, pulls the blinds down until no sliver of streetlight slips through—yet even in the dimness, she still feels that familiar, burning weight of eyes on her skin, as if he’s pressed right against the glass outside.

She reaches into her pocket to pull out the napkin and the small blue flower she’d snatched from the wall, meaning to throw them both away… but freezes. The flower hasn’t wilted at all—still fresh, vivid, as if it were picked moments ago. And when she unfolds the napkin again, she notices something she missed before: tiny, precise markings along the edge—matching exactly the faint, carved design weaved into the silver pendant resting against her chest.

Her blood runs cold.

He didn’t just know about it—he made it.

A soft, nearly silent sound drifts through the glass of her kitchen window—too deliberate to be wind. She freezes, breath catching, and forces herself to step slowly toward it, staying out of direct sight. Peeking through the narrow gap between curtain and frame, she sees nothing… except one single, perfect blue petal resting right on her windowsill, placed dead‑center where the light catches it.

No one could have reached it without standing close enough to see inside.

And then, soft as a breath, drifting clear through the closed glass—his voice, low and smooth, just loud enough to be heard, just quiet enough to feel like a secret shared only with her:

Faint, warm, utterly certain. "I told you, Xhilo. You can lock everything you want… but you can never lock me out. I’ll stay right here. Watching. Waiting. Until you remember… that you belong to me."

She stumbles back from the window, heart hammering against her ribs, clutching the pendant tight in her fist. Every lock, every chain, every shadow she’d ever hidden behind—none of it matters. He is already everywhere she looks… and everywhere she doesn’t dare to.

The hours drag by, slow and heavy as lead. Xhilo lies curled tight on her bed, fully dressed even down to her boots, knees pulled to her chest, eyes wide in the dark. She’d turned off every light, thinking shadows might hide her—but instead, they only make every sound sharper, every creak louder, every whisper of wind sound like his name.

She tries to tell herself she’s imagining things—just tired, just spooked. But every time she shifts, every time her breath slows, she feels it: that familiar, unblinking weight pressing against her windows, her walls, her very skin. He hasn’t left. She knows it, deep in her bones.

Around midnight, a faint, soft melody drifts up from just below her window—low, clear, hauntingly familiar, like a lullaby she can’t quite place but knows she heard long ago. It’s played on something gentle, almost fragile… and she recognizes it instantly as the same tune she hums to herself when she thinks no one is listening, when she’s tired and alone and trying to hold herself together.

Her throat goes dry. "How? How could he know even that?"

Then comes his voice—soft enough to be carried on the breeze, close enough to sound like he’s leaning right against the glass, his tone warm, steady, and terrifyingly calm:

Low, velvet‑smooth, no anger only absolute certainty. "Sleep if you can, my dear. I’ll stand guard all night. Just like I always have. Nothing will hurt you… not while I’m here. No one will ever touch what is mine."

She presses a hand hard over her mouth to muffle the sound of her breathing, terrified even that might reach him. She hears the faint, light tap of a finger against her window pane—once, slow and deliberate, right at the edge where the curtain ends. Not breaking anything. Just reminding her: I am here. I never left. I never will.

Sometime near dawn, exhausted beyond bearing, her eyes finally drift shut—only to snap open again at the very first pale gray light seeping through the cracks.

She crawls quietly from bed, careful not to make a sound, and creeps toward the window, pulling the curtain aside by barely a hair’s breadth.

The sidewalk below is empty. No sign of him—until her eyes fall to the ledge right outside her glass, inches from where she slept.

Resting there: a whole cluster of those perfect deep‑blue flowers, arranged neatly. And tucked among the petals, a small folded scrap of paper, written in that same elegant, sharp in.

"Good morning, Xhilo. I hope you rested well. I’ll see you again soon closer than before. - Kaito"

Her hands shake as she backs away from the glass, realizing with cold clarity: He didn’t just watch last night. He claimed the night, too. And now… he’s only getting closer.