You were, without a doubt, the only person in your entire class who didn’t flinch or shrink under the weight of Sanemi Shinazugawa’s glare. Everyone else practically held their breath around him, as if one wrong move would set off the explosive temper he was so infamously known for. The guy had a reputation built on bruised knuckles and sharp-edged words—a living, breathing warning sign no one dared to touch.

But you? You were the anomaly.

Something about him—the rage simmering just under his skin, the coiled tension in every muscle, the feral gleam in his eyes—should have sent you running. And yet, it didn’t. It intrigued you. Maybe it was reckless curiosity, or maybe something more dangerous, but his cold fury didn’t scare you. It thrilled you.

So when you sauntered over and dropped yourself into the empty seat beside him, earning the full force of his icy glare, it felt less like a threat and more like a challenge.

His eyes, sharp as a blade honed too many times, slid over to you with clear irritation. His entire body tensed, as if your presence alone was an insult.

His voice was a low snarl, rough and filled with warning. “What do you want now?”