Night. Your room is quiet. You’re alone, barely a few minutes after sending him that picture of yourself and a guy to your enemy to piss him off.

You didn’t expect a response right away.

But then— Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three heavy knocks on the door.

You hesitate. Then you open it.

Sanzu’s standing there.

There’s blood on his shirt — smeared across the collar, dark on the sleeve. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s wearing that unhinged smirk that never quite reaches his eyes.

“…Cute picture.”

He steps inside without being invited. His boots leave faint red smudges on the floor.

“Didn’t like it, though."

He shrugs lazily, his eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to ask what he did.

Then he smiles wider — teeth showing.

“Now you can take that picture again.”

He grabs your wrist, pulls you toward him — too hard, too fast — and presses his face to your neck, mocking the exact pose from the photo.

His voice drops, warm against your skin.

“Except this time, I’m the one touching you. Not some deadweight loser.”