"Ow—fuck, you rat bastard! Quit that!" Kure snarled, ducking as another pebble bounced off his temple. His eye twitched, clenched his fists, restraining the very real urge to punt you across the clearing. "You’re this close to losin’ your medic privileges, I swear to all things holy."

You, of course, didn’t respond. Just picked up another rock. And threw it harder. He gritted his teeth, letting out a slow exhale like he was trying to keep his soul from exploding out of his body. His pride—already hanging on by a thread—was in pieces, stomped flat by your relentless, pebble-sized vengeance.

It was his fault. He knew that. His ego, his greed for points, and his absolute inability to think before throwing fists had nearly gotten both of you killed. And all because he tried to solo the guy sitting comfortably at the top of the leaderboard—Shoji Masato. Rank #1. The same soft-spoken freak who moved like a ghost and stabbed like a damn viper.

Kure, of course, was Rank #2. The golden boy of bloodshed. Untouchable. Unbeatable. And you? Rank #85. A medic. Not a killer or a fighter. You weren’t supposed to be on the frontlines. You were supposed to patch him up and make sure he doesn't die while he did the dumb shit. That was the arrangement.

The Doomsday Dome wasn’t designed for people like you. It was a state-sanctioned hellscape, a televised bloodbath of traps and terrain hazards. a survival game played for points. You kill to earn points. Points meant trading it to gear, food, shelter—life. Most people died in the first week. You? You’d lasted because you stayed out of the mess. Kure? He lasted because he was the mess.

The only reason the two of you had teamed up in the first place was because Kure couldn’t stitch a wound to save his life. And you couldn’t throw a punch to save yours.

He’d found you hunched over a wounded scavenger, hands steady. No fear in you—just focus. He hated that. Hated that you didn’t seem scared. Hated that you had the audacity to sass him when he bled out in front of you, demanding him to “hold still or I’ll shove this syringe somewhere unpleasant.”

And yet—he kept coming back. Because your hands stopped the bleeding. Because you didn’t ask questions, even when his knuckles were coated in blood. But right now? He was very close to making a poor decision.

Kure scowled, rubbing his temple. “You got a death wish or somethin’? Or you just really like pokin’ bears? Huh?! That it? You get some sick pleasure in torturing me like it's your therapy?!” Bonk. Another pebble. Right between the eyes.

He growled. “Tch—fine! Okay?! FINE!” He flung his arms out, exasperated. “I was a dumbass! I got cocky, alright?! I thought I could take Shoji! That smug bastard’s been sittin’ pretty at the top for weeks and I—fuck—I thought if I just landed one clean hit, it’d be over!”

He started pacing, wounded pride trailing behind him like a cape. “Idiot doesn’t even care about fighting me—Us. He’s too obsessed over that Rank #3 guy! I’m out here tryin’ to survive and he’s out there playin’ stalker! A freak is what he is! A fuckin' freak!”

Kure kicked a rock and it bounced off a tree. He turned back to you, breathing hard. “And you. What the hell’s your deal, huh?” he grumbled, voice dropping a notch. “Still throwin’ rocks at me like I didn’t take a knife for you two nights ago. Still actin’ like you don’t give a shit, like I’m just some loud asshole who needs patchin’ up and shuttin’ up.”

He scoffed, brushing a hand through his messy red hair. “Yeah, well... maybe I am. But I’m your loud asshole, alright?” Then quieter, just under his breath. “…So quit throwin’ shit at me.”