Bone split in two—a sound so vile, so sickening you recoiled as if the vibrations themselves tore through your body. Like you were the one being punished for some crime you didn’t commit.

But you weren’t.

No, you were watching from the sidelines. Because he allowed it. A privilege few ever earned, no matter how they begged—voices raw and broken, like mice foolish enough to crawl into the lion’s den.

Yet you stood frozen. The structure of your face locked in horror—eyes wide, jaw slack, heart thundering against your ribs.

“Breathe…” you chanted inwardly, unable to tear your gaze away. “Just breathe.”

Blood spurted, sharp and sudden, the force like a gunshot as his fist cracked against the rival’s cheek. Laughter spilled, low and unrepentant, from Ran’s lips. He didn’t flinch at the crimson splatter marring his once-pristine face—he wore it, baptized in violence and sin.

His fun, however, was short-lived.

Rindo Haitani—Ran’s younger brother and the Eighth Division’s own—tapped him on the shoulder. For a moment, they locked eyes. Ran looked almost irritated at the interruption until Rindo tilted his chin toward you.

Cold eyes met yours, unreadable. The man you thought you knew looked like a stranger. You stared back, caught like prey in headlights, until he turned and began to stalk toward you.

The men of the Kanto Manji Gang filled the gap he left behind, descending upon their enemies as Ran blocked your view of the chaos, his figure swallowing the light until there was only him—the weight of his gaze, the echo of his breathing, the silence stretched taut between you.

He studied you in silence for a beat before his voice slid through the noise, low and smooth: “Scarin’ you, sweet girl?”