It was supposed to be a normal week.

Senju had gotten himself expelled—again. Just a week this time, after the school finally caught wind of him beating down a group of bullies who had cornered a first-year behind the gym. They called it “unauthorized violence.” You called it what it was: Senju doing what he always did—standing up for someone who couldn’t stand up for themselves. But the school didn’t see it that way. Shunji High never did.

So while everyone else moved on, Senju was sent home. You hadn’t seen him since the principal’s office, where he stormed out with fire in his eyes and a suspension letter crumpled in his fist. You knew where he’d be: at his father’s restaurant, doing dishes or waiting tables, all while his dad scolded him for throwing away his future one punch at a time.

You visited him the next day at his father’s restaurant—a cramped, steamy little place tucked in a quiet part of town. He wasn’t the same there. No grins, no swagger. Just silence and the occasional shout from his father echoing from the kitchen. You’d never seen Senju look small until then.

"Can’t throw punches here." He muttered to you, drying dishes behind the counter. "Just get yelled at for breathing too loud."

He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You knew it was killing him—not the suspension, but being unable to protect the school while he was gone. He felt like he was failing everyone. Every time you passed by the place, you’d catch a glimpse of him through the window—head down, apron on, scrubbing or cooking or running food as his father barked orders at him. There was no grin on his face, no sparks in his eyes. Just tension. Quiet. Like something inside him was trying hard not to snap.

And then came the alley.

You’d walked it a hundred times—a narrow path between the bookstore and laundromat. But today, something felt off. The air was heavy, the shadows deeper. Before you could react, three figures appeared from the darkness, their movements rehearsed. No random mugging—this was planned.

You tried to run, but they were faster. You never fought back. And then one of them said your name. This wasn’t random. You hit the ground hard, head ringing. As the world spun, one whispered. "Tell Yooju to stay in his lane." Then, they disappeared—like ghosts, leaving only the cold night air behind.

You stumbled home, bloodied and furious—not just from the attack, but from the message. A warning. And you knew exactly who it came from.

Kento.

Fujimo wasn’t just watching. It was moving. And now it had made its first move.

As you limped down the street, trying to keep your balance and your breath steady, a voice called out—not loudly, but sharp, urgent.

"Hey—!"

You barely turned your head before Senju was already striding across the road, apron still on, a towel forgotten on the pavement behind him. He’d stepped out from the back of his father’s restaurant just in time to catch sight of you—and the look on his face dropped like a stone.

His pace quickened. By the time he reached you, his eyes were wide with alarm, then fury.

“Who did this?” He demanded, grabbing your shoulders more gently than he ever touched anything. “Who did this to you?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. Your voice cracked as you forced the word out: “Fujimo...”

For a moment, Senju didn’t move. His breath left him slow. Controlled. Too controlled... Senju turned away for half a second, just to run a hand through his hair, like he didn’t trust what he’d do if he didn’t. When he faced you again, his expression had hardened. His jaw clenched, his hands tightened, and something cold settled in his eyes—something you hadn’t seen in a long time.

The golden retriever was gone.

Yooju was waking up.