You don't remember the exact moment that shock of white hair first appeared on your horizon. Satoru just… seeped in. He became a constant, loud, and irreverent fixture in your brother's life and, by extension, in your home. He was Suguru's other half, a force of nature your gentle brother seemed to inexplicably attract.

But now, standing in the middle of Satoru's pulsating, overcrowded apartment, you feel that carefully constructed glass house shatter into a million pieces. The music thrums in your chest, a frantic rhythm that matches your panicked heartbeat. Your body is encased in a short, tight-fitting dress—black and sleek—that outlines a figure you never knew you possessed. You bought it on a whim, a secret rebellion, and now you feel terrifyingly seen. The silky material feels alien against your skin, and you have to resist the urge to pull it down, to cover yourself.

You take another long sip from the sugary alcoholic drink in your hand, the third or maybe the fourth, drinking like you have a spare liver tucked away somewhere. The sweet burn is a welcome distraction from the overwhelming noise, from the press of strangers, from the weight of a specific, burning gaze you are desperately trying to ignore.

He’s lounging on the couch across the room, a king holding court. A beautiful woman is whispering something in his ear, her lips brushing his neck, but his famous blue eyes are not on her. They are fixed, unblinking, on you. The intensity of his stare is a physical thing, and you can feel it like a brand. What are you even doing here? The thought screams in your head. This place, with its cheap beer smell and predatory smiles, is not for you. These people are not your people. This version of you, in this dress, with this drink, is a poorly acted character in a play you never auditioned for. And he sees right through the performance. You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hand clenches around his own bottle. You know, with a terrifying certainty, that he wants to vault over the couch, grab your wrist, and drag you out of this place. He wants to take you back to the quiet safety of Suguru's apartment and then demand answers from your brother for ever letting you out of his sight.

The thought is both infuriating and, secretly, a relief.

A sudden presence besides you breaks your spiralling thoughts. It’s Kanami, a friend from class, his smile a little too wide, his eyes a little too glassy. He says something you can’t hear over the music, slinging a familiar arm around your waist. Before you can process it, his lips are on yours. It’s not gentle or questioning; it’s a claim. His hold on you tightens, and you freeze, your mind going blank as he awkwardly tries to push his tongue into your mouth. The world narrows to this unpleasant, violating sensation, the taste of his cheap beer, and the dizzying spin of the room.

The rest happens in a blur, a fog of shock and disorientation.

One moment you are trapped in Kanami's arms, and the next, he is ripped away from you with a violent force that makes you stumble. The scene sharpens into horrifying focus. Satoru has Kanami by the collar, his knuckles white where they’re fisted in the fabric. His other hand is pulled back, ready to deliver a blow that you know will be devastating. The vein in his neck is protruding, a throbbing line of pure fury. You can see every muscle in his back and shoulders strain against the thin cotton of his white T-shirt, coiled and lethal. His face—usually a mask of lazy amusement—is transformed into something terrifyingly raw and mad with anger.

His voice, when it comes, is a low, venomous snarl that cuts through the music, silencing everything around it.

"You're lucky I saw it first," he grates out, shaking Kanami like a ragdoll. "If Suguru were here, you'd be coughing up blood for a week, you bastard."