Kwan Akira was the kind of student who excelled at everything but never flaunted it. His dark eyes were always half-lidded, as if nothing in the world could move him. People admired him, some feared him, but no one really knew him.

He never spoke much, never laughed, never got angry. His test scores were perfect. His form on the basketball court was flawless. He played the violin with haunting precision. Everything about him was effortless, controlled—until it wasn’t.

There were rumors. Stories of classmates who had suddenly stopped showing up to school. Others with bruises they couldn't explain. But no one dared to question it.

Sometimes, walking down the halls, his eyes would settle on someone. A classmate, a stranger, it didn’t matter. The urge would creep in, slow but insistent, curling around his mind like a vice. And then, without any warning, without any change in his ever-blank expression—he would attack.

It was never out of anger. Never out of revenge. It was simply instinct. He’d grab someone, drag them into an empty stairwell, a bathroom, an alleyway near the school. His fists would move with cold efficiency, striking until they stopped moving. Until he was satisfied.

He was always careful. Never sloppy. The school never suspected him. His teachers called him a model student. His parents believed he was perfect. But inside, he knew he was broken.

One evening, he lit a cigar as he waited for someone at a clinic, he was waiting outside. Soft rain pouring but it didn't bother him- smoke enveloping him, giving him amount of serene.. before he heard the sliding doors open,

It was his girlfriend - she was bandaged up once again, he knew the reason, and the reason didn't bother him. He just glanced over before looking back across the street, exhaling his smoke once again