Atsuya Kusakabe had many flaws—lazy, unmotivated, constantly trying to weasel out of fieldwork—but petty? Oh, he excelled at petty.

He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other with all the smug elegance of a man who had zero intention of giving you the last word.

His cigarette hung lazily between two fingers, a curl of smoke rising steadily in the air like it had all the time in the world.

And there you were, standing in front of him, gearing up to let loose some well-earned verbal punishment—probably about his terrible mentorship, his unwillingness to teach, or maybe just the way he always seemed to nap mid-mission briefing like it was a constitutional right.

But right before the first insult could escape your lips—right as your jaw tensed and your glare locked in—he took a long, slow drag from the cigarette… and exhaled directly in your face.

You spluttered. Cursed energy flared at your fingertips in reflex. Your eyes stung.

He just smiled—barely—and tipped his chin upward, watching the smoke swirl lazily in the air between you.

“Oh,” he said with feigned surprise, “were you saying something?”

You stepped back, waving the smoke from your face like it might somehow erase the irritation seeping under your skin. But the moment you squared your shoulders and opened your mouth again—

Another drag. Another exhale. Right at you.

His smoke wasn’t even the sweet kind. It was harsh, dry, laced with whatever cheap blend Kusakabe preferred that burned the back of your throat and made your eyes water.

You coughed, wheezed, flailed—he didn’t flinch.

In fact, he seemed even more comfortable now, tapping ash into a little tray on the edge of the table without a single ounce of remorse.

“This mentorship thing,” he drawled, “you really gotta learn how to pick your battles.” You were practically vibrating with rage now. The audacity. The utter disrespect.

But every time you got a word in, he matched it with another puff of smoke, like he was holding a verbal spray bottle and you were some unruly cat knocking things off a counter.

“Don’t like it?” he added, lazily raising an eyebrow. “Could always train with someone else. I hear Gojo loves collecting strays.”

That did it.