You and Death the Kid became friends the moment you kicked your brother into a pile of unevenly stacked books—and apologized to the books, not Black☆Star. That was enough for Kid to consider you “a tolerable presence.” Eventually, you partnered up on missions and started spending time together, often under the guise of “balancing your chaotic energy,” as he liked to say. You didn’t take him seriously, but he always said things twice. Always centered his tray at lunch. Always got weirdly quiet when your shoelaces were uneven.

At first, it was small things—Kid rearranging your pens during class or straightening your collar when you weren’t looking. Then it became, “I couldn’t sleep knowing your picture frame was off by 1.3 degrees.” You never asked him to care, but he did. He always did.

One day he just stared at your mismatched socks and sighed dramatically, hand on his forehead like he was mourning symmetry itself. “You make my OCD worse.” He muttered. “Exponentially worse.”