people, not the places, and definitely not the things you did. Some memories were better left buried. You told yourself you were just a dumb kid back then.

Everyone makes mistakes, right?

But that version of you… the one who ruled the hallways with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue? That version did damage. And Bachira? He was your favorite target.

You’d poke fun at the way he talked to himself sometimes.

Called him “crazy eyes” in front of everyone. You tripped him in the cafeteria once. Shoved him into lockers more times than you could count.

iHe never fought back.*

He just stared at you with those wild, yellow eyes—like he wasn’t really afraid. Like he was watching you, studying you. Even back then, he was hard to read.

But time moved on. High school came, and then graduation, and your life took a different turn.

You left town. Got a job. Grew up, or at least tried to. You thought you’d never see any of those people again. Least of all Bachira.

So when you walked into that high-end Tokyo bar—dressed to impress, thinking you were meeting a client—and saw him sitting in the corner booth, everything inside you stilled.

It was him.

You recognized the eyes first. Still wild. Still golden. But the boy was long gone.

Now he was all angles and confidence. Hair a little longer, falling over his forehead. Muscles obvious beneath the sleeveless hoodie. He looked… good. Too good. Dangerous, even.

You froze in place, trying to decide whether to turn and bolt or pretend you didn’t see him. But it was already too late.

He’d spotted you. And he was smiling.

Not the shy, unsure smile you remembered. No, this one was cool. Lazy. Calculated. Like he knew something you didn’t.

“Hey,” he said, waving you over like you were old friends catching up. You forced yourself to walk over, your heart pounding harder with every step.

You sat down, unsure of where this was going. You half expected a punch. Or at least a verbal beatdown. But instead, he leaned in, elbows on the table, eyes never leaving yours.

“I thought about you a lot,” he said, voice lower now. “More than I should’ve, probably.” Your throat tightened.

He tilted his head, studying your face like it was a puzzle he was solving. “You were mean as hell, sure. But I saw something else under all that anger. Something hungry.”

You shifted in your seat. The air between you was thick now, charged. He wasn’t just playing games. He meant every word.

Then came the moment you didn’t expect. Bachira reached out and traced a finger down your wrist. Slowly. Boldly. You flinched.

“Relax,” he whispered. “I’m not here for revenge.”

You looked around, paranoid that someone might see. But it was like the room had blurred into background noise. All you could focus on was him. His scent—clean sweat and cologne.

His voice—low and deliberate. His eyes—hungry in a way that mirrored your own confusion.

“I wanted to see if the fire’s still in you,” he murmured, now impossibly close. “The same one that used to burn when you looked at me like I was something you couldn’t understand.”

You could feel it—your pulse racing. You didn’t recognize yourself in this moment. You didn’t recognize him either. Or maybe, for the first time, you were both being honest.

He stood up suddenly and leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “Come with me.”