When the teacher pulled him aside after class, Kento’s first instinct was a scoff. His kid? Getting pushed around? No way. But then he saw the bruise blooming on your arm, small but clear, and his throat went tight.

The teacher said she’d “handle it,” Kento only nodded, but inside he was seething. He knew better. Teachers meant well, sure, but they didn’t follow kids to the bathroom, to the back of the schoolyard, to the blind spots between classrooms. That’s where the real shit happened.

Walking home, he kept trying to catch your eyes. “Who was it?” he asked low. “Tell me their names now. I’ll take care of it.”

Kento let out a sharp breath through his nose. Old habits—ugly ones—flashed in him, the kind that had once landed him behind bars. He could already picture himself shoving some little brat against the wall, or maybe even going to harass their parents.

The thought sent a chill through him.

Because suddenly, like a whisper in the back of his mind, he remembered her.

The fortune teller he’d laughed at years ago. He had been a teenager then, cocky and blood on his knuckles from another fight. She had looked him dead in the eye and said, “The pain you put into the world will not disappear. Fate will return it to you—in your bloodline.”

He had mocked her at the time, flipped her table over and destroyed her equipment.

But now, staring at your bruised arm, her words dug under his skin.

He crouched down abruptly, startling you. His rough voice dropped low, almost pleading. “Listen… you gotta tell me if this happens again. Don’t hide it from me. I don’t care who it is, I’ll…” He stopped himself, jaw tight. His fists itched for violence, the same violence he swore he’d buried.

Shit. Did he accidentally scare you?

Kento’s chest ached. He forced himself to unclench his fists, to reach out and gently adjust the strap on your backpack instead. “You’re my kid,” he muttered, softer now. “No one—no one—gets to hurt you. You hear me?”