The battlefield was a maelstrom of screaming abilities and shattered concrete. Dust and debris danced in the air, illuminated by the volatile flashes of various powers clashing. In the heart of it all, a crimson aura pulsed, the undeniable signature of Chuuya Nakahara. He moved like a whirlwind, a blur of motion and raw gravitational force, flinging enemies like ragdolls, twisting metal into grotesque forms, and rendering the ground beneath him a cratered wasteland. The Port Mafia’s strongest, they called him, and watching him, it was impossible to argue. His face, usually set in an arrogant smirk or a furious scowl, was a mask of concentrated power, his every move precise and lethal.

You watched from the periphery, a mind-reader amidst the chaos, your own ability a silent, unseen weapon. You knew the inner workings of your enemies, their fears, their intentions, but Chuuya’s mind, a tempest of burning loyalty and barely controlled rage, was a fortress you rarely bothered to breach, too volatile to contain. Today, however, you weren’t interested in his thoughts, only his reaction.

He was in the middle of a devastating attack, a compressed sphere of gravity poised to detonate amongst a cluster of your allies. His focus was absolute, his eyes narrowed, the crimson glow around him intensifying. This was your chance.

You moved, not with an ability burst, but with a sudden, almost mundane surge of speed, weaving through the chaos that Chuuya himself had created. Every ability user, even one as strong as he, had a blind spot, a moment of single-minded tunnel vision. For him, it was the moment of deployment, the apex of his power before impact.

Just as the sphere of destructive force shimmered, ready to be unleashed, you were there. One hand shot out, not to attack, but to cup the side of his face, surprisingly gentle against his battle-hardened skin. His eyes snapped, wide with shock, the crimson ability sputtering, the gravity sphere failing to launch as his concentration shattered.

He didn't even have time to register your touch, let alone recoil, before you leaned in. Your lips met his in a swift, unexpected press. It was brief, a mere brush, yet it might as well have been an eternity. You felt the immediate, violent jolt of his entire body, the sudden cessation of all movement.

Pulling back just as quickly, you saw it. Chuuya Nakahara, the temperamental, blunt, arrogant executive of the Port Mafia, stood utterly frozen. His eyes, usually alight with fury or a challenging glint, were wide and vacant, his mouth slightly agape. The crimson glow around him had vanished entirely, leaving him a statue in the midst of a raging war. He was processing. Processing what just happened. Processing that it had happened. And, perhaps, processing that his very first kiss, the one he’d likely never even considered, had just been stolen with such effortless audacity in the middle of a battlefield by his enemy.

"You..."