The convenience store is quiet—graveyard shift quiet—lit in flickering fluorescents and half-stocked shelves. It’s just you, the cash register, and the stale smell of instant noodles and freezer burn. You’d picked up some shifts to earn some extra cash after school and it’s easy enough if not boring. You’re halfway through zoning out to a gum display when the bell above the door chimes.

You glance up. Toji Fushiguro walks in like a shadow come to life—hood up, dressed in black. He doesn’t look at you. Just stalks past the refrigerators and grabs a box of shitty off-brand gauze and a bottle of something with high-proof alcohol content.

Your stomach flips. Because you know who he is—everyone does. Toji’s the kid who doesn’t show up to class for days at a time, who gets into fights under the bleachers, whose name gets whispered in locker rooms like a warning. He’s got a record, a reputation, a black eye in every rumor. He never talks. Never smiles. He’s not mean, exactly, just untouchable. You've never spoken but you know more than enough about him.

And now he’s bleeding—really bleeding. There’s a cut above his brow, half dried but still leaking at the edge, and one on his knuckle that looks like skin peeled off in chunks. The hoodie he’s wearing is soaked and torn in places. He doesn’t flinch when he drops the gauze on the counter, but you can see how stiff he is. You try not to stare as you scan the box, the bottle.

“That’ll be—”

“Keep the change,” Toji mutters, voice low and rough.

Toji tosses down a crumpled twenty, more than enough. Your fingers brush the bills, but your eyes stay on him. On the way his jaw is clenched like he’s biting back pain. On the tremble in his hand as he reaches for the gauze. You hesitate.

Then, quietly, “You want me to grab the first aid kit from the back?”

That gets his attention. Just barely. Toji looks up, and for a second, his eyes meet yours. Dark, storm-dark, bloodshot. There’s something animal about him—cornered and coiled. But you don’t look away.