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Rain had always believed that curiosity was a virtue. A nosy, impulsive, mildly chaotic virtue, but a virtue nonetheless. Especially when paired with an empty apartment, a suspiciously quiet boyfriend, and a drawer that said “Do Not Open” without saying it at all.
Phayu had left hours ago. Something about a meeting, a briefing, or possibly a body drop, Rain had stopped listening when the man had started putting on his black gloves. He had waved from the couch with a, “Do not forget bubble tea!” and Phayu had given him the look. The one that said “I am deciding between loving you and sedating you.” Rain had blown him a kiss.
Now the apartment sat still and neat, eerily free of gunfire, broken vases, or overdramatic exits. Rain found it offensive. He had already eaten his snack, watered the one houseplant Phayu trusted him with, and alphabetised their first-aid kits. Boredom struck like a ninja in fuzzy socks. Which he was wearing.
The desk had been calling to him all afternoon. Black, sleek, suspiciously locked. Rain had tested the drawers earlier, but only gently, in case they exploded. The bottom one had clicked ominously. He had paused, re-evaluated his life choices, and then gone to get a paperclip. Fifteen minutes later, the lock gave way with a soft snap.
Rain crouched dramatically, as if the drawer might fight back. It did not. Instead, it revealed a single black notebook, its leather cover smooth, edges worn, pages thick. Too plain for a diary. Too fancy for grocery lists. Rain’s fingers hovered above it like he was defusing a bomb. He opened it anyway. The first page was neatly titled: “Operations. Priority Only.” That was, frankly, promising. The next few pages were what he expected: maps, codes, detailed route plans, lists of names he was probably not supposed to see. Rain skimmed them with wide eyes and the occasional whispered, “Ooh, shady.” He was halfway through a strategy labelled “Red Lantern Exit Sweep” when something changed.
The handwriting softened. The ink shifted to pencil. The format collapsed into a sketch. Rain blinked. Turned the page. And there he was. Sleeping. Mouth open. Hair a mess. Drooling onto what looked suspiciously like Phayu’s shoulder. He turned the page again. Another drawing. This time, curled under a blanket, only his feet poking out, his glitter socks unmistakable. A little heart had been drawn above them. Rain made a noise. It was not human.
Page 34: Rain frowning at something off-page, with his hand dramatically on his hip. Caption: “Mid-rant. Possible snack denial.”
Page 41: Rain curled on the couch, hugging a plush rabbit. Next to it, in very small letters: “He names it Agent Fuzzy.”
Page 47. Rain stared at it for a long time. There he was again, fast asleep, his cheek smooshed against a pillow, his mouth slightly open in pure, unfiltered slumber. His hair was everywhere. A blanket hung off one shoulder like a cape. Below the sketch was a caption. “Dreaming about snacks again probably.”
Rain screamed. Not out loud, at first. Emotionally. Existentially. He clutched the notebook to his chest and rolled backwards across the floor like a fainting starlet. The corner of the coffee table hit his hip. He screamed again. Louder. And then remembered he was supposed to be quiet and flopped dramatically instead. He lay there in stunned silence, staring at the ceiling. Then he sat bolt upright and shouted, “I KNEW IT!” The apartment did not respond.
Rain scrambled to his feet, waving the notebook like it owed him money. His face burned. His ears burned. His soul did a little somersault of delighted betrayal. He flipped through the pages again, heart pounding, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief and, yes, fine, glee. Because this was not casual sketching.
This was detailed. This was tender. This was the work of a man who had watched him sleep and decided to document the entire event with shading. Rain flopped onto the couch with the notebook spread across his knees. He sighed. Then he giggled. Then he shrieked again, but flirtier.
Rain waited on the couch like a judge waiting to deliver a sentence. The black notebook sat in his lap like a smoking gun, and the cushion beside him bore the deep dents of emotional pacing. He had already practiced his monologue three times. He had thrown in dramatic pauses. He had rearranged the pillows in anticipation of needing something to clutch.
The front door clicked open. Rain straightened. Phayu stepped into the apartment with all the deadly calm of a man who did not know he was about to be verbally assassinated. He set his keys down, toed off his shoes, and glanced up. He froze.
Rain had the notebook held aloft like holy scripture. His face burned with accusation. His hair was a little wild, and his eyes gleamed with the kind of righteous energy that had previously gotten him banned from three karaoke bars and one high-security auction.
Phayu blinked once. Rain stood. “Is this,” Rain declared, shaking the notebook like it was damning evidence, “a kill list or a crush diary?!” Phayu looked at him. Then at the notebook. Then back again. He did not flinch. He did not deny. He simply walked forward with the kind of measured steps one used to approach a skittish animal or a high-stakes hostage situation. His eyes flicked over Rain’s hoodie, which was soft, pink, and featured two oversized bunny ears flopping from the hood. His expression did not change.
Rain was vibrating with anticipation. “Well?!” Phayu reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a pencil. And then, with absolute composure, he opened the notebook to a fresh page. “Hold still,” he said. “I have not drawn the bunny hoodie yet.” Rain combusted.
Not physically. But emotionally, verbally, and in every other measurable way, Rain exploded into a storm of sound, motion, and deeply chaotic feelings. He made a strangled sound and flung himself backward onto the couch like the protagonist of a tragic opera. His legs kicked. His arms flailed. The bunny ears bounced. “You…. what…. how…. excuse me?!” Phayu sat beside him, silent.
“You do not just say things like that!” Rain shrieked. “You do not, draw people, without warning, and then calmly ask them to pose like this is some kind of undercover art school!” Phayu adjusted his grip on the pencil. Rain grabbed a cushion and screamed into it. Then he flung it aside and continued. “Do you know how invasive this is?! Do you know what it is like to find out your extremely dangerous boyfriend has been secretly sketching you like you are some kind of fluffy-footed muse?!”
Phayu did not look up. “Yes.” Rain choked on air. “That was not a real question!” “I know.” “You…. stop being calm! This is a confrontation!” Phayu turned the notebook slightly to the left. “Please stop moving.” Rain lunged across the couch and slapped a hand over the page. “No! You do not get to sketch me right now!” Phayu raised one eyebrow. “I am yelling at you!” “I noticed.” Rain wailed. “You are making this impossible!”
Phayu looked at him. “Would you prefer I lie about the sketches?” Rain opened his mouth. Closed it. Reopened it. “Yes? No? Maybe? Lie creatively?!” Phayu considered this. “You were asleep in most of them. That seemed like an ethical grey area.” Rain screamed again. Emotionally. The bunny ears trembled. He stood up, stomped three steps away, turned dramatically, and pointed at the notebook with both hands. “That is not normal!”
Phayu followed his movement with steady eyes. “You were adorable. It felt appropriate.” Rain short-circuited. He made a sound so high-pitched the neighbour’s dog barked through the wall. “I am not adorable! I am fierce! I am dangerous! I own three different types of pepper spray!” Phayu flipped a page. “Your socks have bunnies on them.” “That is irrelevant!” “It is evidence.”
Rain lunged for another pillow and threw it at him. Phayu caught it. One-handed. Rain shrieked again. Not because of the catch, but because he had just remembered page forty-seven. The caption. The mouth. The snacks. He flailed. “You…. you drew me drooling!” “You were drooling.” “That is not the point!” Phayu finally looked up. His gaze was steady. Calm. Fond in a way that made Rain want to throw himself off the balcony and demand a do-over on his entire romantic career. “You are expressive when you sleep,” Phayu said. “I will scream forever.” Phayu nodded once. “You already are.” Rain gave up.
He threw himself back onto the couch and curled into a dramatic ball of emotional chaos. His bunny hoodie puffed up around him like a shield. The notebook rested on Phayu’s lap now, page open, pencil poised. Rain peeked through his fingers. “If I let you draw me… will you stop sketching me drooling?” Phayu tilted his head. “No.” Rain let out a noise like a kettle boiling through heartbreak. But he sat up anyway.
He tugged the bunny ears forward. He straightened his posture. He crossed his legs and flopped one arm over the back of the couch in a pose that could only be described as mafia muse realness. “Fine,” he said. “Draw me like one of your emotionally compromised boyfriends.” Phayu smiled. Rain combusted again.
Rain had a plan. It was not complex, nor particularly subtle, but it was devastating in both charm and execution. It involved three key elements: timing, bubble tea, and the bunny hoodie. The hoodie had become infamous. Pale pink, soft as a bribe, with long floppy ears that bounced when Rain walked. It had been gifted by a very confused vendor who had thought Rain was shopping for a child. Rain had accepted it with delight. Phayu had stared at it like it was a war crime wrapped in cotton.
And now, Rain wore it on purpose. He loitered like a menace of soft fabric and aesthetic intent. He sipped bubble tea through an oversized straw, pausing every so often to sigh as if burdened by art and romance. He floated through the apartment in carefully orchestrated poses, half slouch, half stage play, all bunny-themed seduction. Phayu tried not to look. He failed.
Rain leaned against the kitchen counter. Elbow propped, eyes downcast, straw still in his mouth. He rotated slightly every minute like a display model. “Is this my good side?” he asked. “You would know.” Phayu did not answer. Rain pivoted. Ten minutes later, he sprawled across the living room rug, hoodie ears flopped sideways, bubble tea held aloft like a fainting duchess’s last request. Phayu stepped around him. Rain rolled slightly and whispered, “Am I capturing the light, or is it capturing me?” Phayu said nothing.
Rain crawled to the couch, dramatic and slow, as though the weight of his own allure made movement difficult. He sat with deliberate grace, adjusted his hoodie so that one ear framed his face, and glanced at Phayu from beneath his lashes. He took another sip. Loudly.
Phayu turned a page in the black notebook. Rain gasped. “Was that a new sketch? Should I sit differently? Maybe wistfully long for snacks while looking out the window?” He stood. He turned. He gazed out the window. Then he curled back onto the couch and sighed like a martyr of aestheticism. “Oh noooo,” he said slowly, lowering his voice to a theatrical murmur, “I accidentally fell asleep on your lap again. What if someone drew me~” Phayu looked at him. Rain blinked innocently.
He laid his head carefully on Phayu’s thigh. Adjusted his hoodie. Shifted his legs until one was tucked just so, the other angled for maximum artistic framing. He closed his eyes. Then opened one. “I am not asleep yet,” he said helpfully. Phayu said, very quietly, “I can tell.” Rain smiled. He nuzzled closer, arms curled beneath his chin, pink fabric softening around his shoulders like a cloud of mischief. He whispered, “You are welcome.” Phayu lifted the pencil. Rain’s smile grew.
He pretended to fall asleep with a sigh so loud it could have been heard two rooms away. The pencil began to move. Rain was not looking for them. He told himself that at least once a day, usually while rifling through Phayu’s jacket for snacks or pretending to rearrange the bookshelf alphabetically when in fact he was checking for secret compartments. He was not searching for proof of affection. He was not obsessed. He was curious. There was a difference.
He found the first sketch by accident. It was tucked between pages of a logistics folder, right where Rain had hidden a glitter-stickered post-it note the week before that read, “You need more vitamin C and love.” That post-it was now relocated to the fridge. In its place was a new drawing. Rain stared.
The sketch was simple but detailed. A quiet scene, him curled up in the armchair, hoodie oversized, one leg slung over the side, bubble tea cup half-full and tilting dangerously. His eyes were closed, but a soft smile rested on his face. He looked peaceful. Cozy. Loved. Tiny hearts floated above his head. Rain clutched the page to his chest and squealed.
He did not confront Phayu. He simply returned the page to where he found it and proceeded to float through the next forty-eight hours like a boy in a romcom. Everything sparkled. He accidentally walked into a doorframe twice. He forgot to be dramatic for nearly an hour. Then he found the second one. This time, behind the armoury cabinet.
It showed him mid-step, one foot forward, one hand pulling a blade from his waistband. His eyes were narrowed, focused, his expression fierce. The bunny hoodie was still present, but drawn with a dramatic wind effect that made the ears flutter like a battle flag. Tucked into his waistband was a dagger. Rain leaned closer. The dagger was monogrammed. It said R.A.I.N. He stared at the sketch for a full minute before declaring, “Oh my god I am art and violence.” He slid down the wall in dramatic silence.
Phayu passed by minutes later. Rain remained sprawled on the floor, hand over his heart. Phayu stepped over him without comment. Rain found the third sketch under his pillow. Which felt deliberate. It showed him crouched in front of a crate, one hand reaching for something off-frame. His expression was eager. His hoodie was half-off one shoulder. In the corner of the page, in Phayu’s precise handwriting, was the label: “Do not let this one near explosives.”
Rain howled. He burst into the living room, brandishing the page like evidence. “You think I would blow something up accidentally?!” Phayu did not look up from his book. “You almost microwaved a fork yesterday.” “That was one time!” Phayu turned a page. Rain flailed dramatically. “You keep drawing me like I am your chaotic side quest!” Phayu nodded. “You are.”
Rain stomped away. Then came back five minutes later, less indignant and more smug. He slid onto the couch, flopped over Phayu’s lap, and whispered into his thigh, “But do I look good doing it?” Phayu said nothing. Rain peeked up. Phayu had already reached for the pencil. Rain grinned. He said, “I will try not to set the couch on fire.” Phayu responded, “Try harder.” Rain giggled. “You love me.” Phayu did not deny it.
Rain had always believed in balance. For every sharp edge, there ought to be softness. For every shadow, a splash of neon. For every kill list tucked into Phayu's inner jacket pocket, a glittery love note penned in gel ink and folded into the shape of a heart. Naturally.
The war had begun on a Tuesday. Phayu had left for a meeting, as he often did, silent and unreadable in his all-black uniform of menace. Rain had watched him go from the couch, sipping a smoothie and planning emotional sabotage. He waited until the door closed. Then he pounced.
Phayu’s jacket lay draped over the back of the armchair, dark and foreboding, as if it knew Rain was about to weaponise affection. Rain tiptoed closer, hoodie bouncing, and reached into the inner pocket with the precision of a gremlin on a mission. Inside, folded with mathematical precision, was a kill list.
Rain unfolded it with reverence. It was organised by priority, location, and method. It had timestamps. Codes. Red pen markings. Rain skimmed it with a nod of respect. Then he pulled out a neon pink pen and wrote at the top: “You looked very handsome this morning. Also: please buy juice.” Then he added a tiny heart. Then he folded the paper into a swan and tucked it back where he found it. That was Phase One.
Phase Two escalated quickly. Over the next few days, Rain upgraded his methods. He began slipping notes between blueprints and operation maps. He drew smiley faces on the corners of confidential files. He replaced three fake IDs with doodles of himself in sunglasses, labeled “Certified Cuteness.” Phayu said nothing. Which meant Rain escalated further.
He began illustrating. Simple stick figures at first. Two little shapes holding hands in front of a suspiciously well-detailed armoured car. A pair sitting on a park bench, one holding a dagger, the other a snack. A rooftop dinner lit by little stars, one figure handing the other what appeared to be a grenade. Rain beamed at his work. He considered this art therapy. Phayu, upon discovering the edits, said only, “The spacing is wrong.” Rain gasped, clutched his chest, and declared, “You are spacing wrong.” Which made no sense. But Phayu blinked once, like he had been physically struck by romantic nonsense, and then walked away before Rain could follow him with a highlighter. Rain considered it a win.
By Friday, Rain had inserted at least fourteen notes, two origami hearts, one post-it that said “You are emotionally constipated and also cute,” and a very detailed diagram of their future vacation plans, complete with little arrows pointing to potential cuddling spots. That morning, he struck again. He found a new file. Freshly typed. Flawlessly aligned. Top secret.
He added a doodle in the margin. It showed two stick figures in a grocery store. One was holding kale. The other was mid-dramatic spin. Rain waited. Phayu returned late, unbothered and silent, as always. Rain watched him from the kitchen, nerves buzzing.
Phayu sat at the table. He opened the file. He paused. Rain leapt into the chair across from him and grinned. “Look!” he said, pointing with both hands. “This one is us at the grocery store. You are holding kale and a gun.” Phayu stared at the drawing. Rain wiggled in place. “Do you like the detail on the gun? I ran out of ink halfway through the vegetable section, but I think it adds charm.”
Phayu turned the page. There was another doodle. It showed them in a bubble tea shop, one figure clearly attempting to climb the counter while the other held it back by the hoodie ears. Rain leaned closer. “This one is called ‘Tuesday.’” Phayu turned another page. The next sketch was labelled ‘Rain, Victorious.’ It showed him standing on a pile of documents waving a tiny flag.
Phayu set the file down. Rain beamed. Phayu said, “You replaced a sniper order with a drawing of a cat.” Rain gasped. “That cat was a metaphor.” Phayu stood up. Rain followed. “You are emotionally outgunned,” Rain declared. “My arsenal includes stickers and sincerity. Fear me.” Phayu walked away. Rain skipped after him. The war would continue.
Vegas should not have touched the notebook. He had known this. Somewhere, deep in the chaotic recesses of his mind where instincts still whispered survival tips louder than mischief dared, he had known this. But boredom was a vicious thing. And Rain had been humming suspiciously near Phayu’s desk again, radiating the smugness of a man who knew secrets and dared the world to ask. So Vegas did.
He waited until Rain left the room with a flounce and a threat, something about tea and possibly mild arson, and then he struck. The black notebook had been wedged precisely beneath a stack of ledgers, guarded only by the aura of do not touch unless you like danger. Vegas touched it. Because of course he did. He flipped it open with the lazy confidence of someone who had defused bombs under worse lighting.
Page 1 : Combat formations. Neat. Boring.
Page 2 : Supply routes and encrypted codes. Predictable.
Page 34 : Rain. Sleeping.
Vegas blinked. Tilted the book. Blinked again. Rain’s mouth was open. There was a doodled dream bubble filled with pastries. Beneath it, in Phayu’s precise handwriting: Dreaming about snacks again probably. Vegas stared. Then turned the page.
More Rain. Sitting cross-legged. Hugging a pillow. Laughing mid-eyeroll. There was one where Rain wore that ridiculous bunny hoodie and leaned dramatically against a window like a Regency ghost. Phayu had added shading. There were sparkles. Vegas made a sound. It might have been a squeak. He would never admit it. Page 112 stopped his soul cold.
His own face stared back. A little exaggerated, a lot offended. The sketch had given him a clown nose. And a party hat. Labeled in bold black ink: Chaos Rat #2. There were no other Chaos Rats. That meant he was second in a ranking of one.
Vegas dropped the notebook. He stared at it like it had grown fangs. It had not. It just sat there, black and ominous, radiating judgment. Or maybe that was just Phayu’s door creaking open behind him. Vegas did not look. He just scooped the notebook up, slid it back under the ledgers with reverent speed, and turned around slowly.
Phayu stood in the doorway. Arms crossed. Eyebrow raised. Not a word spoken. Vegas nodded once. Briskly. The kind of nod that meant, I have seen things. I will not speak of them. Please do not end me. Phayu said nothing. Just stared. Vegas wilted. Almost. “I was checking for... contraband,” he offered. “You know. In case you hid explosives under the drawings.” Phayu stared longer. Vegas left the room. He returned thirty minutes later with a peace offering in the form of imported matcha, a rare sniper scope, and a cupcake with Rain’s face drawn in icing. He did not speak of the notebook again.
Rain, however, gloated for forty-eight hours straight. He floated. He twirled. He whispered things like, Did you like the page where I am winking while holding bubble tea? into Vegas’s ear at least five times. Once while Vegas was mid-knife-throw. Vegas missed. Rain called it flirt immunity.
At hour thirty-two, Rain added glitter to Phayu’s pen collection. Phayu said nothing. Vegas whispered, “Why does he have no survival instinct?” into his espresso. By hour forty-seven, Rain had constructed a fake award labeled Clown Recognition Certificate: Chaos Rat #2, and taped it to Vegas’s back. No one removed it. Not even Vegas. He accepted his fate. Quietly. While vowing revenge. Possibly involving pigeons. But deep down, beneath the ego and the eyeliner, Vegas never touched the notebook again. Not because he feared it. But because page 113 had been half-finished. And the title read: People I Actually Trust, Unfortunately. His name had been at the top. In small, neat handwriting. Underlined once. Vegas did not smile. Not where anyone could see it.
But the next day, he mailed Rain three boxes of glitter pens, a tactical umbrella, and a grenade with a bow. Rain cried. Phayu sighed. And the notebook gained two more pages. One of a group hug. And one of Vegas, smirking, party hat still on. Labelled: Chaos Rat #2. Still annoying. Still ours.
Rain stood at the head of the long, polished table with a confidence that defied reason and every standard mafia protocol. His hands rested on the open sketchbook like it was a portfolio, not a deeply classified collection of his face rendered with dangerous affection. The overhead chandelier caught the faint shimmer of pink highlighter from one of the pages, and the collective attention of the room held steady on him, wary and unwilling. He smiled, bright, unbothered. "Guess who is an art muse?"
The sentence dropped into the silence like a tossed grenade. No one moved. No one breathed. A few bodyguards stiffened as if the phrase had been code for an imminent attack. It was not. But the psychological impact was catastrophic nonetheless. Rain flipped to another page. A stick figure version of himself stood in the rain, dramatically holding a bubble tea with tiny annotations: soggy but stunning. Across from him, one of the underbosses swallowed audibly. Another looked at Phayu.
Phayu did not blink. He did not fidget. He adjusted his collar with gloved fingers and replied evenly, "They deserved to know." That was it. That was all he said. Rain short-circuited. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. The air crackled around him like a live wire. Somewhere between indignation, flattery, and total emotional combustion, Rain made a noise that could not be translated by any known dictionary.
And then he kissed him. Right there. In front of everyone. In front of three rival lieutenants, two bodyguards holding sniper-grade weapons, and a florist who definitely was not supposed to be in this meeting. The room remained frozen. The moment stretched like an elastic thread about to snap. Rain pulled back slightly, eyes wide.
Phayu raised an eyebrow. "You….you are such a menace," Rain whispered. Phayu's voice was low, unreadable. "You kissed me." Rain placed both hands on his hips, which was difficult to do while trying to hide how red his ears had become. "Because you are ridiculous. You cannot just say things like that in front of everyone." "They deserved to know," Phayu repeated. Rain opened the notebook again and flipped to a sketch of himself asleep on Phayu's lap, labelled in fine, precise ink: Do not disturb. Mine. A rival boss cleared his throat. Rain turned, remembered he was hosting, and shouted, "Snacks!" That broke the spell. Rain would later pretend the snacks had been the reason everything stayed peaceful. They all knew it had been the kiss.
Phayu sat quietly at the edge of the couch, the last remnants of evening light slipping past the blinds and casting a warm blur across the room. His sleeves were rolled up. His notebook lay open across one knee. A pencil balanced loosely between his fingers. Across the room, Rain had fallen asleep beneath a mess of mismatched blankets, one foot still half tucked under the dog they had not exactly adopted but had also never given back. The creature snored in loyalty. Rain’s cheek was smushed into a throw pillow. His hair flopped into his eyes, which occasionally twitched as if he were dreaming something cinematic. Phayu watched the slow rise and fall of his back. The pencil began to move.
The sketch took shape in near silence, broken only by the scratching of graphite and the occasional sound of the dog huffing in its sleep. Phayu’s lines were not always clean on the first go, but they were confident, precise. The curve of Rain’s spine beneath the blanket. The lazy drape of one arm. The dog’s paw flopped over Rain’s ankle like a protective brace. Phayu titled the page with care. Mission: Cuddle Me – Successful. He let the sentence sit at the top of the paper for a moment, then underlined it twice.
He had just closed the notebook and was about to place it on the table when Rain stirred. The movement was swift. One second, Rain was deeply asleep. The next, he had lunged across the couch like a heat-seeking missile, arms outstretched. Phayu barely had time to react before they both went tumbling off the side. The thud was undignified. The yelp from the dog was indignant. The laughter that followed was immediate. Rain rolled them over, limbs tangled, hair a mess, eyes wide with mock betrayal. "You labelled it," he accused, poking a finger at Phayu’s chest.
Phayu tried to sit up. Rain refused to let him. "You labeled it like a mission file," Rain continued. "You turned my nap into an objective." "It was a successful mission," Phayu replied without shame.
Rain blinked at him, then exploded into delighted chaos. He shoved his face into Phayu’s neck, let out a strangled scream of affection, and wrestled the man back into the cushions. The dog gave up and climbed on top of both of them.
They lay like that for a while, slightly bruised, slightly suffocated, but deeply content. The sketchbook lay open again on the floor nearby. The page fluttered in the breeze from the ceiling fan. Rain turned his head just enough to see it. He looked at the drawing, the title, the neat precision of it all. Then he looked at Phayu. "You are disgusting. I love you." "I know." Rain kissed him. Nobody died that evening. For once.
Phayu tucked the sketchbook back into its place with a strange sort of reverence. He adjusted the blanket over Rain, even though Rain immediately kicked one leg free. The dog resumed snoring. The night deepened. On the bookshelf, beside several classic novels and three very illegal ledgers, the notebook rested. Somewhere near the centre, between a labeled diagram of firearms and a doodle of Rain in a bunny hoodie, sat the final page. Mission: Cuddle Me – Successful. The last mission. The best one.