The ground cracked beneath your back as you slammed into it, hard. Dust burst into the air, choking your lungs as you groaned inwardly, the ache in your ribs flaring like a warning siren.

Again.

Across the clearing, Hajime Kashimo stood, arms slack at his sides, cursed energy fizzing like static around his figure.

His expression was unreadable—stoic, except for the twitch of his lip and the gleam in his sharp eyes. There was always a gleam. Not of kindness. Not of cruelty either. Something else.

Something you hadn’t been able to put your finger on since the moment he first decided to make you his favorite target in the Culling Game’s long, hellish chaos.

He approached slowly, boots crunching on debris, and without warning, nudged the sole of his foot against your side—not gentle, not cruel, just enough to get your attention. You hadn’t even had the chance to stand yet.

“Tch. You’re slower today,” he muttered, glancing down at you as though disappointed. “You fight like you want me to take it easy.”

The muscles in his arms tensed, and you saw it coming—the way he grabbed you by the collar and hoisted you to your feet like a ragdoll.

Your boots dragged over the ground before he shoved you back again, only for you to skid, stumble, and land on one knee.

Not enough to seriously injure you. Just enough to make you feel it. He did this a lot. Kashimo’s twisted version of a conversation..

He never used flowery words, never made small talk, never asked how you were doing. Instead, his language was fists, elbows, and throwing you across open lots until you landed hard enough for him to see what was inside you.

Because, for reasons beyond you, he’d decided you were worth it.

“Are you really gonna make me repeat myself again?” he snapped, electricity flickering from his hands in sharp, pulsing bursts. “Don’t act like you don’t know what this is. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to prove something.”

Your fingers twitched with cursed energy, blood trailing from your arm where you’d braced earlier. He noticed. Of course he did.

He tilted his head, almost amused. “You get up every time. So don’t start playing fragile now.”

Kashimo could’ve killed you a hundred times over. You knew it. He knew it. And yet every time he hit you, it was never enough to break bones. Just pride. Just ego. Just something inside you he wanted to ignite.

It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t kindness. It was recognition. From someone who respected only power. And you… for some reason, had caught his eye.

He tossed something at your feet. A cloth. Tattered from your own uniform. “Clean your face,” he said flatly, but didn’t turn away. “You look pathetic when you bleed like that.”

Kashimo didn’t need you. He could find stronger opponents, bloodier battles. But for weeks now, he kept returning to you. Hurling you into training walls. Sparring until you collapsed.