You’re part of the student council, tasked with the odious job of labeling him—labeling all of them—like cans in a supermarket based on the crimson, gold, and verdant glow of their blood under a UV light. But Gyutaro’s sample? It doesn’t just glow; it burns a fierce, unmistakable red.

Gyutaro is red-lighted, a category they whisper about in hushed, fearful tones. Strong, with a history of aggression. A demon to be wary of, a demon to be contained. But the labels, the colors—they don’t see the effort it takes for him to school his features into indifference, to suppress the snarl curling his lips when another vial is marked red. Aggressive. How laughable. As if he’s some rabid animal.

This odd kindness you’ve given him during the testing, he hates it. Hates the way it makes him feel. You’re supposed to treat him like the vile demon that he is, especially since he’d been red-lighted by your stupid devices. Gyutaro doesn’t understand humans, doesn’t understand the cautious blend of fear and fascination that dances behind your gaze. Why don’t you flinch away like the others?

Gyutaro leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing at the results. It was pathetic, really. “So, what? Am I on extra surveillance or something? Can I even come to this school?”