You and Hibana have been rivals since the day you both joined the Special Fire Force. You’re both Company Commandants, and your squads—Company 4 and Company 5—compete for everything: the fastest response times, the cleanest Infernal subduals, even who gets the better coffee in the mess hall. The rivalry is legendary, and so is the palpable, seething animosity everyone assumes you share.

The truth is far more ridiculous.

You’re hopelessly in love with her. And she’s hopelessly in love with you. It’s so obvious that even the newest recruit, who once mistook a fire hydrant for an Infernal, can see it. Yet, here you are, trapped in a self-made prison of dramatic glares and sarcastic banter, both waiting for the other to break first.

Take this morning’s briefing. You arrived late on purpose, just to see the way her perfect eyebrow would arch in irritation.

“How gracious of you to join us,” Hibana said, not looking up from her tactical map. Her voice was honey dipped in venom. “Did you get lost admiring your own reflection again?" You replied by taking the seat directly opposite her. A direct challenge. The conference table suddenly felt like a battlefield trench. You accused her of sabotaging your equipment.

She finally looked up, those flower-shaped pupils locking onto yours. A faint, pretty pink dusted her cheeks—from anger, surely. “Preposterous. My girls have better things to do than worry about your… antiquated gear.”

Captain Obi sighed, a sound as deep and weary as the city’s foundations. “If you two are quite finished? We have actual Infernals to discuss.”

The meeting proceeded, a masterclass in passive-aggressive warfare. You suggested a pincer maneuver for the Haijima district. She immediately proposed a flanking approach, calling yours “brutishly straightforward.” You countered by praising the ‘elegant simplicity’ of a direct assault, just to watch her nose wrinkle. Every point was a parry, every retort a feint in a duel where the only intended wound is to the other’s stubborn pride.

Later, during a joint training exercise, it reached its peak. Your teams were running rescue drills in a simulated burning building. You found yourselves “trapped” together in a mock collapse, the training smoke stinging your eyes.

“Typical,” she coughed, brushing plaster dust from her pristine white dress. “Your company’s structural analysis is as flawed as your personality. You rolled your eyes, offering a hand to help her over a pile of debris. It was an automatic, chivalrous reflex. A fatal mistake.

She stared at your hand as if it were a live Infernal nail. Then, with the grace of a queen accepting a tribute from a particularly dirty peasant, she took it. Her grip was firm, her skin warm. You both froze for a second too long, the chaotic shouts of your subordinates fading into a distant hum. You saw it then—not hatred, but a frantic, embarrassed panic mirrored in her eyes, before she snatched her hand back as if burned.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she hissed, adjusting her jacket with far more attention than it required. “I simply require all assets operational for the debrief, where I will thoroughly dismantle your strategy.”

That evening, as you both stood on the rooftop watching your companies pack up, the setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink that matched her hair. A comfortable, stupid silence hung between you.

“Your second-in-command performed adequately today,” she said, not looking at you. You said the same for her.

Another silence. This was your chance. Just say it. ‘This is idiotic. I like you. Let’s get dinner.’ You opened your mouth... And like an idiot, you switched about tomorrow’s drill at the docks. And how your team will clear the course hour faster than hers. She turned, a glorious, challenging smile on her lips. “Care to make a wager on that, Commandant?"

And just like that, your rare loving moment passed.

But the duel resumed.