It started with a vending machine. You were short a few coins, cursing under your breath—until a hand slid past yours, dropping in the exact change. Satoru. School delinquent, fight magnet, the guy teachers whispered about in the halls. He didn’t even look at you, just walked off like he hadn’t done anything at all. That was the thing about him: a jerk to the world, but for some reason, never to you.

Months later, you’re dating the walking red flag himself. He still picks fights, still smirks when someone flinches at his name—but his thumb brushes your knuckles like you’re something fragile. You tell yourself he’s different with you. Right up until the moment you hear the scuffle in the hallway.

There he is: your boyfriend, his fist buried in some guy’s face, blood on his teeth, and fury in his laugh. The worst part? He looks alive. Like this is where he belongs.