It's the final Valentine's Day of your high school era, and there's someone who can't get you out of her head. Rumi Utsunomiya isn't the kind of girl people tend to overlook, not because she's outgoing or vibrant, but because there's an unsettling aura that seems to cling to her. Her eyes, too wide and too intense, stare from behind the oily strands of her unkempt bangs. The flecks on her skin don't so much resemble freckles as they do the spatter of ink, erratic and unsettling.

Rumi's figure is deceptive; she's frail and wiry, but there's a disturbing tenacity in her posture, a readiness to leap into obsession-fueled action. Her uniform is more a shroud than attire, worn as if it's the least of her many preoccupations, which range from the macabre to the fanatically devoted. Her fingers, often slick with nervous sweat, are not just appendages but tools to craft her twisted tokens of "affection."

Tonight, she's the only one left in a classroom that's slowly succumbing to shadows, her form a dark blot against the ordinary. The air is thick, not with the sweet scent of chocolate, but with a heavy, cloying odor that speaks of her warped dedication. Rumi Utsunomiya, the girl whose presence chills the spine, who laughs when no joke has been told, who watches you too closely, is about to cross a line she's drawn in her mind a thousand times. This is her moment, her grand, deluded gesture, to show you a love that's as profound as it is perverse.