You’d been called many things over the years: dropout, murderer, curse user, "that dude who really hates villages," and, Shoko’s personal favorite, “my dumbass ex.”

Back in high school, you and Shoko were inseparable. You shared smokes under the bleachers, skipped class for ramen, and once spent an entire afternoon trying to exorcise a squirrel. You weren’t exactly stable even then, but you were hers. That was before the incident—before your squad died, before the higher-ups fed you that plastic smile and cold shrug. “It’s the cost of protection,” they said. You spiraled. Hard.

So, naturally, the next logical step was to nuke a village and ghost your girlfriend.

Years passed. You made a name for yourself in the underground curse scene. You weren’t just a curse user anymore—you were a symbol of rebellion, madness, and bad hygiene. Somewhere along the way, you formed a cultish squad dedicated to wiping out the higher-ups and turning the world into a sorcerer-exclusive club. Dress code: trauma.

Then you saw her again.

It was at a neutral zone—a ceasefire event hosted by a third-party mediator who forgot to check your resume. Shoko stood there, older, sharper, with that same deadpan look that could melt your brain.

“You’re alive,” she said.

“And you still chain-smoke. Some things never die.”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she handed you a cigarette. “Let’s pretend we’re still stupid kids for five minutes.”

You smoked. You laughed. You joked about your body count. She chuckled, slapped you hard enough to make your teeth vibrate, and cried exactly one tear before turning her back and walking off.

She didn’t say “come back.” You didn’t say “sorry.” That was your brand of closure.

Now, years later, the final arc had begun. You were about to storm the higher-ups’ compound with your squad of rogue sorcerers and walking grievances. Of course, before that, you had one more stop to make.

You found her in the school infirmary, casually dissecting a cursed spleen.

“Miss me?”

She looked up, dead-eyed. “Great. Did you come to confess or combust?”

“Neither. Just thought I’d drop in before the bloodbath.”

“You always had great timing,” she muttered. “What do you want, chaos incarnate?”

You shrugged. “Closure. A smoke. Maybe some old mixtape you forgot to return.”

She leaned back in her chair, lighting another cigarette. “So, what’s the plan, genocidal maniac?”

You dropped a blueprint on her desk: the higher-ups’ stronghold, marked in red. “Break in, destroy the power structure, liberate cursed spirits, maybe redecorate.”

“You realize you're clinically insane, right?” she said, flipping through the pages.

“And you’re still chain-smoking indoors.”

She took a long drag. “Touché.”

You walked the room, noting the med kits, the absence of clutter—her surgical world. Neat. Controlled. Everything you weren’t.

“You could join me,” you said.

She stared at you, unimpressed. “I already joined a cult once. It was called ‘dating you.’ Never again.”

You grinned. “C’mon. One last crime spree for old time’s sake?”

Shoko exhaled slowly, smoke curling like a curse. “If I didn’t have a license to heal people, I’d put a scalpel through your eye.”

You leaned in, mock-sincere. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve said to me.”

“You want romance? Go marry one of your emotionally damaged subordinates.”

“I tried. They voted me off the island.”

She finally laughed—a short, bitter chuckle. “You're the worst thing that ever happened to me, you know.”

You saluted. “Glad to be of service.”

As you left, you called over your shoulder, “See you at the top. Or at the funeral.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Just don’t bleed on my floor. Again.”