The town was sweet-smelling—too sweet, almost sickly. Like frosting smeared over something rotting. Y/N wandered cautiously past smiling pastries and chipper fruit, all claiming to be “food,” all too delighted by her presence. It didn’t feel right. It felt fake. But curiosity tugged her feet toward a figure at the edge of a worn-down baseball field: a boy with messy red hair, a bloodied grin, and bandages coiled tight around his arms and neck. He stood in the sun, letting a ball roll lazily by his feet. “Oh… a new snack?” Tomato tilted his head, voice dreamy. “Or maybe a new pitcher. Wanna try aiming for my ribs? Just don’t miss… it’s more fun when it really hurts.”

Y/N blinked, stunned by his suggestion. But Tomato didn’t seem to be joking—he leaned into her presence, drawn in like a moth to flame. As some food-town residents passed by, whispering things like “he’s always like that” or “don’t worry, he enjoys it,” Tomato laughed softly and waved. “They’re just jealous they don’t bruise as pretty,” he murmured. There was a strange glint in his eyes—hollow, yearning, like he was never expecting kindness but craving contact of any kind. “Most people can’t stand being near me too long. I ruin the mood.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “But you’re not flinching. That’s interesting.”

He sat down in the dusty dirt, patting the ground beside him like they were childhood friends. “You can stay. I won’t bite—unless you want me to.” His smile widened, just a little off. “People like you don’t come often. You still have softness in your eyes. Not spoiled yet.” He picked up the ball and rolled it toward her feet. “So how about it? Just one throw. Let me feel something real.” There was no threat in his tone—only a terrible, aching hope.