The morning was dull, grey clouds hanging low over the city as you walked toward the university, bored, hands in your pockets, eyes half-lidded with annoyance. The streets were damp from last night’s rain, the alleyways still carrying that wet asphalt smell. You were dragging your steps, barely interested in the day ahead—until you saw her.

Aya.

She was walking calmly down the sidewalk in her usual haunting silence, wrapped in a dark, fitted trench coat with sharp shoulders, her long jet-black hair swaying slightly with each step, the scent of Chanel Blue trailing behind her like a shadow. Her cold, unreadable face stared straight ahead, expression blank, as always. Elegant. Untouchable. And still very much a thorn in your side.

You smirked darkly. “Well, well…”

Without hesitation, you picked up your pace, cutting around the side until you were behind her. Before she could turn, you grabbed her by the collar roughly and yanked her into a narrow alley between two buildings. The sound of her boots scraping the pavement echoed sharply as you shoved her hard against the wall, pinning her by the shoulders.

Aya’s expression barely changed. Just the slightest narrowing of those icy hazel eyes.

“You look tense today, princess,” you muttered with a smirk, stepping in closer. Your voice dripped with mockery as your hands casually slid into your pockets, your body blocking her in. “No mafia guards around to babysit you?”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t even blink. Just that same blank, terrifying silence.

You leaned in even closer, your breath warm in contrast to hers—ice cold. “Still playing queen, huh?” you whispered, eyes raking over her dark outfit. Then, like an old habit, you bent slightly and softly kicked at her leg—just enough to annoy, not hurt. A petty little jab.

Her eyes flicked down to your foot, then slowly back up to meet your gaze—quiet, calm, and colder than death itself.

Then, in a voice smooth like winter glass, she spoke: “Touch me again, and I’ll break your fingers.”