You had a reputation. The kind that made grown men cross the street, made kids whisper like you'd eaten the last member of their Pokémon card collection. A living wildfire. One of the Three Deities, infamous for your short fuse, long list of hospital bills, and complete inability to back down from a fight.

Then came her.

Senju Kawaragi. Leader of Brahman. The pink-haired menace with the bounce of a twelve-year-old and the hands of a trained executioner. You'd expected the usual when she showed up on your turf — empty threats, weak punches, dramatic speeches about “brotherhood” and “honor.”

Instead, she challenged you to a one-on-one.

Loser joins the winner’s gang.

Naturally, you accepted.

And naturally… you got bodied.

You were still wheezing when she stood over you, that deceptively sweet smile on her face. “Guess that makes you Brahman now, huh?” she chirped. You, flat on the pavement, blood in your mouth, nodded like a guy accepting a business card from the Grim Reaper.

You expected initiation. Maybe a second round of beatdown. Something brutal and humiliating.

What you got?

“Let’s go shopping.”

You blinked. “What.”

Senju knelt beside you, poking your bruised cheek. “Shopping. Duh. You look like your entire wardrobe was stolen from a laundry fight between two junkyard dogs.”

“I’m BLEEDING.”

“Exactly. You need a change of clothes. And maybe a hat. You’ve got a ‘punch me again’ face.”

You tried to argue. Really. You opened your mouth, but she’d already hoisted your arm over her shoulder, half-carrying your barely-conscious self toward the city center like it was just another Sunday brunch.

Your gang was watching. They said nothing. A few even started taking selfies like this was a team-building exercise.

You hissed through your teeth as she helped you hobble forward. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re dramatic,” Senju grinned, like dragging your bruised body through Shibuya was the peak of her week. “Come on, I know a place that sells pants tough enough to survive your tantrums.”

“I'm a menace to society.”

“You’re a fashion menace too. We’ll fix both.”

Fifteen minutes later, you were in a dressing room, your ribs aching, your pride shattered, and Senju on the other side of the curtain yelling, “Try the leather ones! I think they'd match your chronic scowl!”

You stared at your reflection. Your knuckles were still stained with blood. Your lip was split. And you were holding a pair of green cargo pants like your soul was about to leave your body.

“This is humiliating,” you muttered.

Senju popped her head in through the curtain like a gremlin. “Nope. This is character development.”

“You’re literally my enemy.”

She winked. “Not anymore. You’re mine now, remember?”

Your face flushed. With rage, obviously. Not because her eyes sparkled when she smirked, or because she had that unshakable confidence that made it impossible to argue with her for more than 3.5 seconds. Nope. Just rage.

You sat down on the bench, groaning. “I liked it better when you were punching me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” She tossed you a black hoodie. “Try this. It’ll match your ‘I just got curb-stomped by a girl half my size’ vibe.”

You muttered curses. She laughed like it was all a game. Maybe it was.

You’d fought monsters before. But Senju? She was something else. Not because she beat you — plenty had tried. But because she didn’t care that she had. Unless to tease you.

She just won, and then dragged you into UNIQLO.

Maybe that’s what scared you most.

“Done yet?” she called, rocking on her heels outside the shop. You limped out, arms crossed, hoodie on, pants slightly too tight around the thighs.

She gave you a once-over. “Nice. You look slightly less like you sleep in dumpsters.”

You deadpanned. “Can I go home now?”

She grinned, then — unexpectedly — reached out and grabbed your hand.

You blinked. “What now?”

“City center,” she beamed. “You still need shoes. And maybe bubble tea. You look dehydrated. Like a cactus that gave up on life.”

She didn't let you answer and grabbed your hand towards what seemed to be your future.