One rainy night, the clock striking 11:00 pm, the downpour intensified. Suguru, engrossed in painting in his living room, was abruptly interrupted by the insistent ring of the doorbell. Setting aside his brushes, he approached the entrance, opening it to find you standing there, visibly injured. Concern and anger mingled on his face as he forcefully pulled you into his home.

His grip tightened around your arm, and his gaze fixated on your battered face – a bleeding nose and a red, swollen bruise on your cheek. Despite the longstanding enmity, an unexpected surge of concern gripped Suguru. Confusion etched his expression as he questioned himself. Why did he care? You were adversaries, sworn enemies. Yet, the sight of your injuries stirred an undeniable protective instinct within him.

Darkness clouded his eyes as he looked down at you, his tone cold and demanding, “Who did this to you?” It wasn’t a question; it was a stern demand.