The rooftop reeked of cigarette smoke, oil, and sweat — which was to say, it felt like home.

You sat cross-legged near a crate someone had dragged in to use as a makeshift table. Kisaki was arguing with Hanma over who'd land the cleanest punch in a fight against Haitani Rindou, while Kazutora sat beside you, legs dangling off the edge of the building.

"You ever think we’re the villains?" you asked him.

He tilted his head toward you, golden eyes unreadable. Then: "Nah. We’re just what’s left after everyone else lies to themselves."

Hanma laughed from behind you — the sharp, too-loud kind of laugh that always felt like it belonged in a church being burned down. “So philosophical, Tora-chan. What’s next? Matching tattoos with the newbie?”

“Tempting,” Kazutora muttered. You didn’t deny it.