Jiji walked beside Momo through the morning rush, the air thick with chatter and heat. It had been weeks since he’d last shown up to school—weeks spent dealing with him. Evil Eye. The yokai bound to him through that stupid curse: cold water, transformation; hot water, return. Simple rules. Impossible life.

A group of girls spotted him immediately, all smiles and giggles. Jiji slipped back into his old rhythm—flashing grins, striking poses, soaking up the attention he’d missed. Momo sighed.

“Go on, Mr. Popular,” she muttered, turning away.

She was halfway to the gate when she heard one of the girls mention the cold drink she’d bought for him. Then came the sound of a bottle cap snapping open. A single drop splashed onto Jiji’s hand.

His body went still. His expression emptied. In an instant, Jiji was gone. Evil Eye stood in his place.

Only Momo, Okarun, Aira, Granny Seiko—and you—knew what he really looked like in that form. Everyone else just saw Jiji as usual.

The girl with the drink smiled nervously. “Is it yummy?”

Evil Eye’s gaze cut through her. “It is very yummy,” he said, voice deep and deliberate. Then, without a hint of irony: “Now I will butcher you all.”

The laughter died. Momo darted in, grabbed his arm, and dragged him toward the building. Whispers followed them—teasing about how close they looked, how cute they were together. Momo ignored it, trying to calm the storm before it broke.

But then came a sharp whistle from the soccer field. Evil Eye froze, eyes narrowing at the sound. “That is mine,” he growled, dropping the bottle and sprinting toward the field.

“What are you talking about?!” Momo shouted, chasing after him.

The team froze as “Jiji” tore across the grass—too fast, too strong. He met the ball with his fist, launching it (and the unfortunate keeper) straight into the net. One by one, players were sent flying until Momo managed to grab him by the collar and drag him off the field, panting and furious.

She shoved him into his seat once they reached class. Everyone stared as he sat there, breathing hard, slamming his desk once, twice—then stopping when Momo whispered for him to chill.

He picked up his pen and notebook, gaze sweeping over the class. The tension in the room was thick enough to hum. When his eyes landed on you, something flickered behind them.

You leaned toward Momo, whispering, “How bad is it this time?”

Before Momo could answer, that low, rough voice cut through the silence.

“Momo Ayase.”

She jumped. “What?”

Evil Eye’s hand lifted, finger pointing directly at you. His stare didn’t waver.

“I don’t want to butcher her.”