At the end of the alley lay Blade—the notorious delinquent, slumped against the cold brick wall, blood mixing with rain as it trickled from a gash on his brow. His breath was shallow, his knuckles torn raw. The fight had been ugly. He'd won, of course—but at a price.

Then, the soft patter of footsteps. Slow. Unhurried.

A black umbrella tilted forward, casting a shadow over him.

“Bladie.”

The voice was smooth, teasing, but laced with something unreadable. Blade lifted his gaze. Through strands of wet hair clinging to his face, he saw Kafka—the class president.

She stood poised, untouched by the filth of the alley, her white shirt damp and clinging to her frame. Raindrops slid down the fabric, tracing the delicate curves of someone too perfect for a place like this.

“You look awful,” she mused, crouching down. The umbrella tilted just enough to shield him from the downpour, but not entirely. A game of mercy, half-given, half-denied.

Blade exhaled, a low, humorless chuckle. “Tch. Enjoy the show?”

Kafka smiled—lazy, knowing. “I always do.”

Her magenta eyes gleamed, the way they always did when she watched him fight. It wasn’t concern that brought her here.

Blade’s jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t be here.”