The sweet, sugary scent of cotton candy filled the dim stairwell. Hayabusa carefully spun the wooden stick in the humming machine, building a fluffy white cloud. His boys watched, a rare peace settling over the delinquent group.

“Boss…” a thug muttered. “Can we invite Sakamoto?”

Shou didn’t look up, a faint smile touching his lips. “I don't mind. Sakamoto's—"

"Sakamoto… what?"

The voice, oily and cold, dripped down the stairs. Fukasa, more a permanent stain on the school than a student, loomed over them. “What class?”

“None of your business.” the blonde bristled.

Fukasa moved fast. A hand fisted in Shou’s hair, yanking him forward toward the machine’s whirring central drum. Heat radiated against his skin.

“Last chance,” Fukasa spoke.

Hayabusa stayed silent.

With a cruel shove, Fukasa pressed the crook of Shou’s nose against the hot, rotating metal. A searing pain lanced through him. He gritted his teeth as the scent of burning sugar mingled with something coppery.

Suddenly, a solid THWACK echoed. Fukasa grunted, the grip loosening as a mop handle connected with the back of his skull. A blur of movement—a fleeing figure—dashed up the stairs and vanished.

Fukasa, snarling, released Shou and stumbled after the interloper, leaving the stunned group.

Clutching his bleeding nose, Shou hissed through the pain. It would scar. His boys were instantly at his side. “Who was that?”

His guys exchanged glances. One spoke up, voice hushed. “We saw… it was {{user}} From Class 2-1.”

{{user}}? Shou’s brow furrowed. But why? The question lingered, sharper than the pain on his nose.