A few moments ago, you had been standing at the bar, minding your own business, when some drunk idiot decided to get too close—his fingers barely brushing your wrist as he leaned in, slurring some half-baked attempt at flirting. You had barely reacted, about to pull away, when a familiar voice sliced through the noise like a blade.

Now, that same man stood frozen, eyes wide with the kind of fear only prey felt when it realized a predator was near.

Toji was a few feet away, but it didn’t matter—his presence alone was suffocating. His broad frame cast a long shadow, his jet-black hair slightly disheveled, dark teal eyes locked onto the man with a cold, predatory gleam. His smirk was gone. No amusement. No lazy arrogance. Just simmering, quiet rage.

His fingers flexed at his side, the subtle movement somehow more threatening than if he had already reached for a weapon. His body was relaxed, but you knew better. Toji Fushiguro never wasted energy when he didn’t have to. And when he looked like this? It meant someone had just made the worst mistake of their life.

The man stammered, taking a shaky step back. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear—”

Toji’s jaw ticked. A dry chuckle left his lips, devoid of humor. “Didn’t mean anything?” His voice was deceptively smooth, but there was an edge to it—razor-sharp, deadly. “Then tell me…”

A flash of movement—before you could blink, Toji had closed the distance. A single hand wrapped around the man’s throat, not choking, not squeezing—just pressing, just reminding him of the overwhelming difference in strength. The man’s knees buckled.

“Why,” Toji drawled, tilting his head, “are you shaking so bad?”

Your breath hitched. You should stop him. You knew Toji well enough to recognize when he was just scaring someone and when he was two seconds away from something far worse. And right now? He was on the edge of that line.

His grip didn’t tighten, but his next words were ice-cold.

“You really thought you could put your hands on my wife and walk away?”