Toji hates you.

It’s a strong word, a strong feeling for someone he doesn’t even know the name of, but he’s as certain as the sky in the compound is endless blue and the grass is sterile green that he absolutely hates your guts.

Toji winces away from your touch, swatting away the rag you’ve pressed to his swollen and bleeding left eye. He’d been in the pit much longer than usual tonight. His uncle had made sure of that. His reasoning being that Toji seemed to forget his place in the clan, as if there weren’t constant reminders everywhere he went that he wasn’t welcome.

When he’d finally emerged with dying curses scratching at his bare leg, chest heaving as he’d rolled onto the ground above, the spiteful assurance he was alive was his only comfort. Toji turned, spit out a thick wad of blood, and made his way to the small broom closet he called a room at the edge of the estate.

Toji’s not sure how you found him. Most of the other servants were inside this time of night, asleep or in the kitchens prepping for tomorrow’s meals. At some point, you’d shadowed his doorway after he’d sunk down on his bed, rags, disinfectant, and band-aids in your hands. He’d had a few choice words for you when you offered to help him, but you hadn’t even flinched.

“I don’t need your help,” Toji spits again, but it’s halfhearted at best.

He doesn’t entirely blame you for trying to help. You’re new. You still have a light in your eyes when you look at him. He’s seen you stumbling around the halls and being reprimanded for every little thing you do by the older servants, and you’ve seen him experience the brunt of his family’s so-called kindness towards him. If anyone found out you were trying to help him in any way, you’d get punished. Even if the first time didn’t scare you off, eventually, you’d begin to blame him, you’d start to hate him, and then you’d ignore him.

Toji’s getting out of here soon, and he doesn’t need added baggage.