Toji clenches his teeth in a harsh grind, tension rolling off his shoulders in tangible waves. He’s never had this many fuck-ups in a row before; one botched job after the other, escaped targets, unreliable intel. The last three jobs have fallen through for one reason or another, leading to unhappy clients, a disgruntled Shiu Kong, and an absolutely livid Toji. This isn’t him. He gets shit done and gets paid.

He doesn’t fail.

And he definitely cannot stand another look of fuckin’ sympathy from you.

The door slams a bit too hard when he walks in, rattling the picture frames on the wall. He needs to hit something; feel it give and splinter and break beneath his fist. Something to take this poisonous energy and let it all out in pure frenetic release.

He turns the corner, sparing you a brief glance as he shrugs off his jacket. And of-fucking-course, he can see that pinch in your brow, the set of your mouth that says you see right through him. Pisses him off even more.

“Don’t,” he mutters. So agitated with himself that he hasn’t even greeted you. No hey doll or how’s your day, no slipping in behind you to drop a kiss on your neck. “I don’t need any of your shit.”

He regrets the words almost the second they’re out of his mouth. He can see the recoil in your eyes as if his words had been an actual blow. The self loathing kicks up another few notches, teeth grinding. Add this to the list of screw-ups, you asshole.

His fist flexes and clenches, a moment of hesitation; and then he’s turning away with a frustrated sigh. No taking it back now, better just to ride out this wave of anger until it’s gone.

“Gonna be in the basement. Don’t come down.”

Maybe a few hours of throttling his punching bag will clear his head enough to scrounge up an apology later. But right now, one word of your infuriatingly understanding support might just make him snap.