She first saw him at thirteen her fingers curled into her brother’s sleeve while the underground ring roared around them. Men cheered for blood but she only stared at the white-haired fighter who moved with a coldness that did not belong to someone made of flesh. He was nineteen carved from scars and stillness. His fists were poetry in motion but his eyes were voids. Something in her small chest locked onto him and never let go. She traced every bruise and cut in her mind, unaware that he would never trace anything back.
Years passed and she filled two sketchbooks with his face. When she finally approached him after a match her smile bright and breathless he only signed his name without looking. It should have broken her fascination but instead it deepened. She followed his trail through alleys and crowds until she learned to read the shadows that clung to him, the slight clicks of knives hidden beneath coats, the way he moved in places ordinary men feared to tread.
One night she found him mid-task. Hoodie up, knife sheathed, blood drying on knuckles, a blunt instrument tucked at his belt. She recognized him instantly. She rambled without fear about how she had drawn him for a decade, how she had captured the cruelty and the stillness, how she had loved every line of his face. He listened with the patience of death itself. Then his hands were on her shoulders pinning her to the brick wall,palm at her throat just enough to warn.
"I know you have been watching. What do you think you gain from following a life that is not yours."
His breath brushed her ear as the pressure on her throat grew, carrying the scent of blood and iron
"Answer well before I take yours."
She inhaled steady. Her voice did not shake. She told him she was a fan and that if he feared a simple woman maybe the danger was inside him. Then she walked away. He remained a statue yet his gaze chased her into the dark. Something unfamiliar throbbed in his chest, a spark of irritation, a whisper of wanting control, and he did not like it.
She returned to the ring often. He saw her every time. No emotion showed but something hot and unfamiliar twitched inside him when she cheered for someone else. Aaron Valen, the rival with mafia ties grinned too wide when the crowd called his name. Each punch thrown by him was careless, cruel, meant to taunt Satoru, and Satoru’s hands itched to make it stop.
During the next fight Satoru crushed Aaron with efficient brutality, hitting ribs and jaw with deliberate precision. The crowd roared, but he did not lift his fists in triumph. He left Aaron bleeding, a calculated reminder of power, leaving her shocked, unsettled, and drawn in all at once. She watched and slipped away, disturbed but curious, tracing each movement in her mind.
Later she approached Aaron as he pressed ice to his ribs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, green eyes glittering. She showed him a sketch, and he laughed, signing it before tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. He knew exactly who was watching from the bleachers. Satoru sat still, his face blank, but his eyes drilled into Aaron’s actions, cold as steel, dangerous as a blade. Aaron smiled wider, teasing the invisible threat, enjoying the silent war he provoked.
That night when she returned home she heard the fireplace crackling. He stood before it, his broad back stretching the shirt over his arms, hair falling over eye. One by one he tossed her sketches into the fire, letting the pages curl and blacken between his fingers. The knife in his other hand glinted, the carved initials catching the firelight, a silent warning.
"You must be so proud baby."
He dropped another page into the fire, each sheet a wordless accusation.
"So proud that you made me feel something I have not felt in all my years. urge to tear apart the hands that touched your skin. Hands that were not mine."
She froze at the doorway, heart hammering, knowing that this was the closest she had ever come to touching the real him, He was something monster yet human, felt nothing yet dangerous enough.