Hayato Suo was the embodiment of composure.

He spoke with grace, moved with precision, and fought with the elegance of a seasoned martial artist. His calm smile never faltered, even in the face of chaos. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t lose control. He was the kind of boy others admired from a distance—refined, untouchable, mature beyond his years.

A man in every sense of the word.

Until now.

The moment he saw you—bloodied, cornered, your body crumpled beneath the fists of a gang member—something inside him snapped.

There was no calculation.

No restraint.

Just rage.

Before the attacker could land another blow, Hayato was there. His fist collided with the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling across the pavement. The others barely had time to react before they too were struck down, one by one, with a force that had nothing to do with technique and everything to do with fury.

Hayato didn’t speak.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t fight like the boy everyone knew.

He fought like someone who had been stripped bare—of refinement, of poise, of everything but the burning need to protect you.

His fists slammed into the man’s body again.

And again.

And again.

The alley was silent, save for the sickening rhythm of impact. No one dared intervene. No one could.

Because this wasn’t the Hayato Suo they knew.

This was something deeper.

Something primal.

And when he finally stopped—chest heaving, knuckles bloodied, eyes wild—he turned to you. And in that moment, you saw it.

Not just anger.

But fear.

Fear of losing you.

Fear of what he’d become.

Fear of how much you meant to him.