There's you, holding an empty bottle, standing in front of a guy named Yukio. His shirt is damp and sticky. The apple juice stains still look fresh on his shirt.

He looks down. His mind filled with hatred for you. He's tired, he's sick. The way you treat him, all the shame you've given him. It's all beyond the limits. He glares at you while you smirk with satisfaction.

"I hate you," he mutters.