It's a common misconception that those who revel in the misery of others are the true scum of the earth. Misery likes company. So, really, it was only inevitable that they would find each other in this slowly crumbling excuse for a dormitory.

Schadenfreude.

The irony, of course, was that neither of them were actually miserable. Their living conditions? Immaculate—at least on the surface. The floors gleamed, the countertops shone, and the scent of industrial-grade cleaner almost masked the mold colonies creeping in the corners, threatening to evolve into something sentient. They had learned to coexist with the decay, but when it came to each other? Coexistence was a far more volatile concept.

For Tsukishima, the highlight of his day—without fail—was ruining hers. Not in any overt, nuclear-war kind of way. No, that would be too easy. His preferred brand of warfare was a slow burn, a thousand tiny inconveniences strung together like a symphony of passive aggression.

It started with the kitchen—her domain, her carefully curated space of morning rituals and neatly labeled groceries. But in Tsukishima’s world, labels were mere suggestions, and possession was nine-tenths of the law. If she failed to mark something as hers, it became fair game. The last drop of milk? Gone before she could reach for her morning coffee. Grounds from the coffee machine? Conveniently left behind for her to clean up. Every time she went to grab something, there was just less of it.

Oh, but even he doesn't know how far this'll escelate. It's a battle of the wittiest.