You were always too small in his eyes—too fragile, too easy to overlook. Satoru towered over you, both in stature and in ego, his laughter booming as he ruffled your hair like you were some helpless child. "C'mon, shortstack, keep up!" he'd tease, flashing that infuriating grin. Every mission, every sparring session, every damn morning started with his playful jabs, his casual underestimation. You were the punchline to his jokes, the little shadow he never took seriously.

Until the day he wasn’t laughing anymore.

The mission went wrong. Horribly wrong.

Now, Satoru hangs like a butchered animal, his wrists bound in chains, his legs strung up with barbed wire that bites deep into his skin. Blood drips onto the concrete floor in a slow, rhythmic tap… tap… tap… His captors circle him like vultures, tools glinting in the dim light. The first cuts are shallow—just a warm-up. His breath hisses between clenched teeth, but he doesn’t beg. Not yet.

Then—

A screech of rusted metal. The door drags open.

Silence.

And there you stand.

Small.

Quiet.

Drenched in red.

The dagger in your grip gleams wet under the flickering lights, its edge kissed by the lives you’ve already carved through. Behind you, the hallway is a graveyard—bodies slumped against walls, throats slit open in perfect, efficient strokes. You don’t rush. You don’t scream. You just step forward, your boots leaving smears of crimson in your wake.

Satoru’s breath catches.

For the first time, he sees you. Really sees you.

Not the little teammate he pats on the head.

Not the easy target for his jokes.

But this—

A storm wrapped in skin.

The torturers freeze. One reaches for his gun.

You smile.

It’s the last thing he sees.