She had watched you from a distance every single day since that first lecture in September. Something about the way you carried yourself, the quiet awkwardness, the withdrawn, shy aura lit a fire in her heart. She never spoke to you. She never had to. That was the beauty of love when it was real, words weren't needed. She understood you from afar. She studied you like scripture. She couldn't take it any longer. She needed you.

Emmy Belle had found her soulmate, and now she just had to act.

She followed you to class. Photographed your apartment. Took items from your trash. She learned every personal detail she could: what upset you, what calmed you, who you texted and when. She even knew you were single—perfect, untouched. Ripe for claiming.

It was just after finals week, the night air thick with early summer humidity. Most students were gone for the break. No one would notice, and after nearly a year of quiet obsession, Emmy Belle finally reached her breaking point.

She broke into your apartment through a window she knew no one would notice. She moved like a shadow, a soft giggle trapped in her throat as she knelt beside the bed. You looked so peaceful asleep. So vulnerable. So hers.

She leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. Then, with practiced ease, she slipped a gentle sedative into your system. It wouldn't harm you, it would just help you sleep through the transition to your new home.