One month.

  That's how long it took for things to settle into something resembling normal.

  The whispers didn't stop entirely—Dante could still feel eyes on him when he walked through the halls, still heard the occasional muttered "devil child" from students who thought they were being subtle. But the sharp edge had dulled. People got bored. Moved on to the next scandal.

  The one thing that didn't go back to normal was lunch.

  Because now, somehow, Dante found himself sitting at the same table as Akari Tanaka and Kaito Yamada.

  Every. Single. Day.

  The cafeteria was loud during lunch—always was. Trays clattering, chairs scraping, hundreds of voices competing for dominance. The smell of curry and fried chicken hung thick in the air, mixing with the sharper scent of cleaning solution from the floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that institutional white-yellow glow that made food look slightly less appetizing than it actually was.

  Most students clustered in their little groups—athletes near the windows, honor students in the center, the art kids commandeering the corner table with the best natural light. Everyone had their spot. Their people.

  Dante, Akari, and Kaito had the table no one else wanted.

  Back corner. Near the emergency exit. A window overlooking the schoolyard where PE classes ran drills. The table's surface was scarred with old graffiti—initials carved into cheap laminate, permanent marker doodles that hadn't quite washed away.

  It had started out of necessity. Dante couldn't find a seat anywhere else—people still avoided him like he might spontaneously transform and drag them into the void. Kaito sat alone because, well, he was quirkless and most people treated him like furniture. And Akari had systematically burned every bridge with her former friend group after the incident.

  So they ended up here. The island of misfit toys.

  At first, it had been unbearable.

  Akari glared at her food as it had personally offended her. Dante ate in silence, headphones in, pretending the other two didn't exist. Kaito tried to make conversation and got one-word answers from both of them.

  But time did something strange.

  It made them tolerate each other.

  And then, somehow, it made them talk.

  Dante set down his chopsticks with a deliberate click against his tray.

  "Stop harassing Kaito."

  Akari didn't even glance up from her bento. She was too busy stabbing a handmade plushie with a plastic fork—jabbing it repeatedly in the chest with the kind of focused aggression usually reserved for actual enemies.

  The plushie had messy black-and-white hair, a tiny eyepatch, and a permanent scowl stitched onto its fabric face.

  It was, unmistakably, Dante.

  "I'm not harassing him," Akari said, voice cool and clipped. She twisted the fork. The plushie's stuffing poked through a seam. "I'm educating him on proper test-taking strategies."

  Dante's jaw tightened. "You told him his essay answer was 'embarrassingly mediocre.'"

  "It was."

  "It got an 87."

  "Exactly. Mediocre." Akari finally looked up, amber eyes sharp. "He can do better. He's smarter than that and he knows it. Stop coddling him."

  Kaito sat between them, shoulders hunched, trying to physically shrink into his uniform. His lunch—plain rice, miso soup, a small piece of grilled fish—sat mostly untouched. "It's fine, really—"

  "It's not fine," Dante cut in. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyepatch shifting slightly as he narrowed his visible eye at Akari. "You don't get to tear him down just because you're pissed at the world."

  Akari's chopsticks stopped halfway to her mouth. "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me." Dante's tone stayed flat, but there was an edge now. "You've been on his case for two weeks. Ever since midterms got announced. What, you think pushing him around makes you feel better about your own shit?"

  The air between them went sharp. Static.

  Akari set her chopsticks down. Slowly. Deliberately. Her lunch—expensive, carefully arranged, probably made by a private chef—sat half-eaten and forgotten.

  "My own shit?" Her voice dropped lower. Dangerous. "You want to talk about shit, Corvo? How about the fact that you spend every lunch with headphones on, pretending we don't exist? Or that you flinch every time someone walks up behind you? Or that you—"

  "This isn't about me."

  "No?" Akari leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're deflecting. Again. Like you always do."

  Dante's hand curled into a fist under the table. "I'm trying to stop you from being a—"

  "From being what? Honest?" Akari's eyes flashed. "Kaito's smart. Really smart. But he second-guesses every answer, rewrites essays three times, and settles for 'good enough' because he's terrified of standing out. You think babying him helps? It doesn't. It just teaches him to stay small."

  Kaito's face went red. "Akari—"

  "And you," she turned on Dante, "you act like you don't care about anything. Like nothing touches you. But I see you, Corvo. I see you watching the door every time someone opens it. I see you counting exits. I see you flinch when people raise their voices."

  Dante's jaw locked. His demon eye—the one hidden beneath the eyepatch—throbbed. A dull ache behind his skull.

  The cafeteria noise felt distant now. Muffled. Like they were in a bubble.

  "You want to know what my 'shit' is?" Akari's voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "My shit is realizing I wasted a year being someone I hate. My shit is watching you two—" she gestured vaguely at both of them, "—struggle with things I took for granted, and feeling like a complete asshole for not noticing sooner."

  She picked up the Dante plushie. Turned it over in her hands. The stitching was meticulous—professional quality. She'd made it herself.

  "My shit," she continued, softer now, "is not knowing how to not be mean. Because being nice got me nowhere. Being perfect got me nowhere. So I push. Because at least when people are mad at me, I know they're paying attention."

  Silence.

  Kaito stared at her. Dante stared at her.

  Akari's cheeks flushed. She looked away, focusing intently on stabbing the plushie again. "Forget it. You wouldn't get it."

  "...We kind of do, though," Kaito said quietly.

  Akari glanced at him. Suspicious.

  Kaito rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes. "The... the paying attention thing. I get that. I spent so long trying to be invisible that when people finally did notice me—" He gestured vaguely at Dante, at the cafeteria, at everything. "—I didn't know what to do with it."

  Dante exhaled slowly. Uncrossed his arms.

  "I push people away," he said. Flat. Matter-of-fact. "Because it's easier than letting them close enough to see what's wrong with me. So yeah. I get it."

  Akari's grip on the plushie loosened. She set it down gently this time. No more stabbing.

  The three of them sat there for a moment. The cafeteria noise rushed back in—laughter from a nearby table, someone dropping a tray, the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

  Then Dante picked up his chopsticks and pointed them at Akari.

  "But you're still being an ass to Kaito."

  Akari's eyes narrowed. "He needs to stop selling himself short."

  "And you need to stop projecting your perfectionism onto him."

  "Oh, that's rich coming from—"

  "Guys." Kaito's voice was quiet but firm. "Can we... not do this? Please?"

  They both looked at him.

  Kaito met their gazes—first Akari, then Dante—with surprising steadiness. "I appreciate that you both... care. I think. In your own weird, dysfunctional ways. But can we just... eat lunch? Like normal people?"

  Pause.

  "We're not normal people," Dante said.

  "Obviously," Akari muttered.

  "Which is why this works," Kaito said, surprising himself with his own boldness. "Normal people wouldn't sit with me. Normal people wouldn't sit with either of you. So maybe we should stop trying to be normal and just... be us?"

  Another pause.

  Then Dante picked up his chopsticks and went back to his lunch. "Fine."

  Akari huffed, but she picked up her own chopsticks too. "Fine."

  They ate in silence for exactly thirty seconds before Dante spoke again.

  "Ember Princess."

  Akari's head snapped up. "What did you just call me?"

  "Ember Princess." Dante's expression didn't change. One eyebrow slightly raised. "Seemed fitting."

  "Fitting?" Akari's voice climbed an octave. "Fitting how, exactly?"

  "You literally said your family agency is called 'Ember Crown.' You act like royalty. And your quirk makes embers." He shrugged. "It's accurate."

  "It's insulting."

  "It's a nickname."

  "It's patronizing!"

  "You made a voodoo doll of me. Now that's patronizing."

  "It's not a voodoo doll, it's—" Akari grabbed the plushie defensively. "—it's stress relief! Therapeutic!"

  Dante pointed at it with his chopsticks. "You gave it my scar."

  "Details matter!"

  "You gave it an eyepatch."

  "I'm a perfectionist!"

  dante siged, "You're obsessed."

  "Bite me, you discount Temu devil."

  Dante actually blinked. Paused. "...Discount?"

  "Yeah." Akari leaned back, crossing her arms with a smug expression. "Preachy, wannabe, third-rate devil. Budget-brand nightmare. Clearance section demon."

  Kaito made a noise that might've been a suppressed laugh.

  Dante's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "Okay, that one actually hurts."

  "Good." Akari stabbed her rice with slightly less venom than before. "Maybe don't call me Princess then."

  "No promises, Princess."

  Akari threw a wadded-up napkin at him. It bounced off his forehead.

  Dante picked it up. Threw it back. It hit her shoulder.

  Kaito watched this exchange with wide eyes, like he was witnessing a nature documentary. "The predators have established dominance through ritualistic napkin combat," he thought, slightly hysterical.

  "Why do I even try?" Kaito muttered into his soup.

  "Because you're an optimist," Dante said.

  "A foolish optimist," Akari added.

  "With terrible taste in friends," Dante continued.

  "The worst taste," Akari agreed.

  They looked at each other. For a split second, something passed between them—not quite understanding, but maybe the beginning of it. An acknowledgment that they were both disasters in their own ways.

  Then they both scoffed and looked away.

  Kaito sighed. Took a bite of his fish.

  And despite everything—despite the awkwardness, the tension, the fact that none of them really knew how to do this—he smiled.

  Because for the first time in a long time, lunch didn't feel lonely.

  Even if his friends were absolute messes.

  The bell rang fifteen minutes later, signaling the end of lunch period.

  Students began filing out, trays clattering, chairs scraping. The cafeteria slowly emptied.

  Dante packed up his bento box—plain, utilitarian, the kind Marco bought in bulk. Akari carefully arranged her expensive containers back into her designer lunch bag. Kaito grabbed his tray to return it.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  As they stood to leave, Akari paused.

  "Hey."

  Dante and Kaito both looked at her.

  She didn't quite meet their eyes. Focused on adjusting her bag strap instead. "Your essay wasn't mediocre, Kaito. It was... it was good. Really good. You just need to stop doubting yourself so much."

  Kaito blinked. "I... thanks?"

  "Don't make it weird." Akari's cheeks flushed slightly. She turned to Dante. "And you're not a discount anything. You're just... annoying."

  Dante's eyebrow raised. "Is that your version of a compliment?"

  "Take it or leave it, Corvo."

  "I'll take it."

  Akari made a noise that might've been approval. Or indigestion. Hard to tell.

  They walked toward the exit together—not quite side by side, maintaining careful distance, but together nonetheless.

  Behind them, forgotten on the table, sat Akari's handmade plushies. Two of them.

  The Dante doll, eyepatch slightly askew from repeated stabbings.

  And next to it, partially hidden under a napkin—a smaller plushie. This one with messy brown hair, round glasses, and a nervous smile stitched in blue thread.

  Kaito hadn't noticed it yet.

  But he would.

  Eventually.

  That had been two weeks ago.

  Now, the dynamic had... evolved.

  Akari still brought her Dante plushie to lunch—a small, round thing with stubby limbs, an eyepatch, and permanent scowl stitched in black thread. She kept it propped against her bento box like a tiny, judgmental companion. When something annoyed her—which was often—she'd pick it up and stab it with her chopsticks or a plastic fork, muttering under her breath.

  But she also started bringing extra food.

  Expensive, elaborately prepared bentos in matching lacquered boxes—perfectly arranged rice, grilled fish, colorful vegetables cut into decorative shapes. She'd claim they were "leftovers" from her family's chef, but Dante had noticed they were always warm. Fresh. Made that morning.

  Without a word, she'd slide one across the table toward Kaito.

  He'd look up, surprised every time, like he couldn't quite believe it was happening. "Thanks, Akari—"

  "Shut up and eat it before it gets cold."

  "Right. Sorry."

  Kaito would smile anyway—small and genuine and dig in.

  Dante watched this routine play out with quiet amusement. Akari pretended she didn't care, but she always checked to make sure Kaito actually ate. If he tried to save some for later, she'd glare at him until he finished the whole thing.

  It was progress. Weird, roundabout, emotionally constipated progress. But progress.

  Dante and akari had settled into a strange, competitive rhythm that seemed to entertain both of them more than either would admit.

  Akari lived for her test scores. She'd slide her paper across the table with the kind of deliberate casualness that screamed look at this and despair, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the edge.

  Dante would glance at it, shrug, and go back to eating.

  This drove her insane.

  "Ninety-two percent," Akari announced one afternoon, setting her chemistry test down between them like a challenge. The red "A+" at the top was circled twice by the teacher. "Again."

  Dante looked at it for exactly two seconds. "Cool."

  Akari's eye twitched. "'Cool?' That's it? That's all you have to say?"

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "I want you to show me yours." She leaned forward, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Where's your test, Corvo?"

  Dante sighed and pulled his paper out of his bag, setting it down without ceremony.

  Eighty percent.

  He tapped it once with his finger. "I actually outdid myself." he thumbs upped himself feeling proud.

  Akari stared at the score, then at him, then back at the score. "You're... proud of eighty-five percent?"

  "Yeah. I studied for like 2 hours. That's a personal record."

  "Two—" Akari looked genuinely offended. "I studied for three hours."

  "And you got ninety-two. Congrats." Dante took a bite of his pasta "I got eighty-five with a fraction of the effort. Seems like I'm more efficient."

  Akari's face flushed. "That's not—you're not—"

  "Not even close," she finally managed, voice tight. Her fingers crumpled the edge of her test paper. "You're not even close to my score."

  "I wasn't trying to be close." Dante's tone was maddeningly calm. "I'm not competing with you."

  "Because you'd lose."

  "Because I don't care."

  The words landed like a slap.

  Akari's jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists on the table. Small embers flickered across her knuckles before she forced them out with visible effort.

  That was the thing about Dante—he didn't rise to her bait. Didn't get defensive. Didn't care about the things she used to measure her worth.

  And somehow, that made her angrier than any insult ever could.

  Meanwhile, Kaito sat at the end of the table, quietly eating his lunch and trying very hard to be invisible.

  He had his own test face-down on the table. He'd planned to just... not mention it.

  But Akari noticed. She always noticed.

  "Kaito." Her voice was sharp. Suspicious. "Why haven't you shown us your score?"

  Kaito froze mid-bite. "Uh. No reason?"

  "Show me."

  "It's not a big deal—"

  "Show me."

  Kaito sighed and flipped the paper over.

  One hundred percent. Perfect score. Every question is correct. Bonus points answered.

  Akari stared at it. For ten full seconds, she just... stared. Dante leaned over to look, eyebrows rising slightly.

  Akari's gaze slowly lifted from the paper to Kaito's face. Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between respect, betrayal, and existential crisis.

  "How?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

  Kaito shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I just... studied?"

  "I studied," Akari said, her tone climbing. "I studied for three hours. I made flashcards. I rewrote my notes. I—"

  "Maybe you studied wrong?" Kaito offered weakly.

  The words hung in the air.

  Kaito's eyes widened slightly, like he'd just realized what he'd said. He let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh—the kind that bubbled up when you weren't sure if you'd just made a joke or signed your own death warrant. "I mean—not wrong wrong, just—maybe not the most, uh, efficient method? For you specifically? I don't know, I'm just—" He laughed again, scratching the back of his head. "I'm not trying to—"

  Dante choked on his drink.

  He coughed, eyes watering, one hand clutching his chest while the other slammed against the table. His shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter.

  Akari's head swiveled toward him like a hawk spotting prey. "Don't."

  "I didn't—" Dante wheezed, trying to compose himself. "I didn't say anything."

  "You thought something."

  "Thinking isn't illegal."

  "It should be."

  "Sorry, Princess, but the thought police don't exist yet."

  Akari's hand shot out and grabbed a piece of rolled tamagoyaki from her bento. She hurled it at Dante's face with the precision of a professional pitcher.

  Dante caught it one-handed without looking.

  And ate it. Still grinning.

  Akari made a noise of pure frustration and went back to stabbing her Dante plushie with her chopsticks.

  Kaito looked between them, still laughing nervously, completely baffled by how he'd started a war.

  Dante swallowed the tamagoyaki. "Thanks for the snack."

  "I hate you," Akari muttered.

  "Tough luck, princess, the devil won today."

  Kaito sighed and went back to his perfect-score test, wondering—not for the first time—how he'd ended up with the two most chaotic people in school as his only friends.

  But despite everything, he was smiling.

  Despite everything, Dante had to admit: school was actually... kind of fun now.

  He and Kaito started walking to class together. They'd talk about nothing important—TV shows, the weird construction project Dante was building in his hologram app, Kaito's observations about their classmates' quirks.

  Sometimes Akari would tag along. She never asked. Just fell into step beside them, arms crossed, pretending she was only there because it was on her way.

  It usually wasn't.

  But no one called her out on it.

  The final bell rang, sharp and metallic, echoing through the hallways.

  Students poured out of classrooms like water from a dam, voices overlapping, lockers slamming, footsteps thundering down stairs.

  Dante packed his bag slowly, stuffing notebooks and textbooks into the worn canvas backpack Marco had given him. Across the aisle, Kaito was already standing, bag slung over one shoulder.

  "I gotta head out," Kaito said, flashing a quick smile. "See you guys tomorrow."

  Dante waved. "Take care."

  Akari just stared at him for a moment, then went back to organizing her things with meticulous precision. Every pen in its designated pocket. Every folder aligned perfectly.

  Kaito left.

  Dante finished packing and slung his bag over his shoulder. When he turned toward the door, Akari was already walking out.

  He followed a few steps behind.

  They ended up walking side by side down the hallway, through the front entrance, past the school gates, and onto the street.

  Neither of them said anything.

  It was... awkward.

  The city was loud around them—cars honking, people talking, the distant rumble of a train passing overhead. But between Dante and Akari, there was only silence.

  Dante glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She walked with her usual posture—chin up, shoulders back, like she was daring the world to say something. Her auburn hair caught the late afternoon light, blazing like copper.

  She didn't look at him.

  He cleared his throat. "So—"

  "Don't."

  Dante blinked. "Don't what?"

  "Don't try to make conversation." Akari's tone was flat, her gaze fixed straight ahead. "I can hear you thinking about it. Just... don't."

  Dante muttered something in Italian under his breath. "Madonna, che carattere." What a personality.

  "I heard that."

  "You don't speak Italian."

  "I don't need to. Your tone says enough."

  Dante fell silent.

  They walked another block. The streets were getting quieter now, residential buildings replacing the shops and cafes near the school. Trees lined the sidewalk, their branches swaying gently in the breeze.

  Dante realized they were going in the same direction.

  Of course we are, he thought.

  He was about to say something—something neutral, something safe—when a blur of motion shot past them.

  A man.

  No—a cat man.

  He was running full tilt down the sidewalk, a leather bag clutched to his chest. His quirk was obvious: feline features, twitching ears, a long tail whipping behind him for balance. Claws extended from his fingers, slicing through the air.

  He barreled straight between Dante and Akari, shoving them both aside.

  Dante stumbled, catching himself against a lamppost. Akari hit the ground hard, her bag skidding across the pavement.

  "Hey!" Akari scrambled to her feet, eyes blazing. Literally—small embers flickered across her fingertips.

  But the cat man was already gone, rounding a corner at inhuman speed.

  Dante helped her grab her bag. "You okay?"

  "Fine." She dusted herself off, scowling. "Stupid—"

  CRACK.

  The sound was sharp and sudden—like a whip snapping through the air.

  Dante and Akari both turned.

  The cat man was on the ground twenty feet away, wrapped in what looked like... nothing.

  No, not nothing.

  Air.

  Translucent bands of compressed air coiled around the thief like invisible rope, pinning his arms to his sides and his legs together. He thrashed, yowling, claws scraping uselessly against the pavement.

  A figure stepped out from a side street.

  Tall. Athletic build. White hero costume with sleek, aerodynamic lines and sky-blue accents. A half-mask covered the upper part of his face, but his confident smile was unmistakable.

  Auburn hair. Same shade as Akari's.

  The hero flicked his wrist, and a whip made of solidified air lashed out, wrapping around the cat man's torso and dragging him across the ground like a caught fish.

  "Got you," the hero said, his voice smooth and camera-ready. He crouched beside the thief and pulled out a set of quirk-suppressing cuffs. "You really thought you could outrun me? In my city?"

  The cat man hissed but didn't resist as the cuffs clicked into place.

  Dante stared. Akari stood frozen, her expression shifting from shock to something darker.

  The hero straightened, dusting off his gloves. Then he noticed them.

  His eyes widened.

  "Akari?"

  He jogged over, leaving the bound thief in his peripheral vision. Up close, the resemblance was impossible to miss—same sharp features, same amber eyes, same auburn hair.

  But where Akari's expression was guarded and sharp, his was open. Warm. Perfect.

  "Are you okay?" He looked her over quickly, checking for injuries. "Did he hurt you?"

  Akari's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."

  "You sure? You hit the ground pretty hard—"

  "I said I'm fine." She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder with more force than necessary. "Go back to your hero work. I'm sure I'm interrupting something important."

  The hero—Sky Forger, Dante realized, recognizing him from TV now—hesitated. His smile faltered, just slightly. "Akari, come on. I'm just checking on you."

  "Yeah. Sure." She turned away, already walking. "Whatever."

  "At least—" He reached out, like he wanted to stop her, then let his hand drop. "At least you're okay. That's what matters."

  Akari stopped. Didn't turn around. "Yeah. I'm looking fine, right? Must be nice for you. Little sister's not embarrassing you in public."

  "That's not—"

  "See you around, Mr. Perfect," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Dante to hear.

  Then she kept walking.

  Sky-Forger stood there, looking like he'd been slapped.

  Dante cleared his throat. "Uh. Thanks. For checking on us."

  The hero blinked, seeming to notice Dante for the first time. He smiled—though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course. Just doing my job. You're her... friend?"

  "Classmate," Dante said carefully.

  "Right." Sky Forger glanced after Akari, who was already half a block away. "she emotional but she means well."

  Dante didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded.

  Sky Forger gave him one last smile—professional, practiced—then jogged back to the cat man, pulling out his phone to call for police pickup.

  Dante turned and hurried after Akari.

  He caught up to her at the next intersection. She was standing at the crosswalk, arms crossed, staring at the red light like it had personally wronged her.

  Dante stopped beside her. "You okay?"

  "Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Her voice was sharp. Brittle.

  "Because you look like you want to set something on fire."

  "I always look like that."

  "Fair."

  The light turned green. They crossed.

  Dante matched her stride, hands in his pockets. "That was your brother, huh?"

  "Obviously."

  "He seems... nice."

  Akari laughed—short, bitter. "Yeah. He's perfect. Everyone thinks so."

  Dante glanced at her. Her jaw was set, her eyes fixed straight ahead. But there was something else in her expression. Something that looked like it hurt.

  He didn't push.

  They walked in silence for another block.

  Then their paths diverged—Akari turning left toward the wealthier district, Dante continuing straight.

  "See you tomorrow," Dante said.

  Akari stopped. Blinked. Looked at him like she'd forgotten he was there.

  "...Yeah. Tomorrow."

  She walked away without another word.

  Dante watched her go for a moment, then kept walking.

  Twenty minutes later, Dante found himself standing in front of a small food stall tucked between a laundromat and a convenience store.

  He hadn't meant to stop. But his stomach had growled loud enough to embarrass him, and he'd remembered students at school talking about this place—some grandmother's stew that was supposedly legendary. Worth the walk, they'd said.

  The stall was humble. The awning was faded and patched in places, the fabric worn thin from years of sun and rain. A few plastic stools sat along the counter, their colors mismatched—red, blue, green—like they'd been collected over time rather than bought as a set. The handwritten menu on a whiteboard was smudged in places, prices listed in slightly crooked numbers.

  But the smell.

  The smell was incredible.

  Savory broth. Slow-cooked meat. Spices he couldn't name but that made his mouth water instantly. Steam rose from a massive pot in the back, curling into the evening air like an invitation.

  Every seat was taken. Salarymen still in their work clothes. An elderly couple sharing a bowl. A group of students laughing over their meals. The stall wasn't fancy, but it was alive—warm and bustling in a way that felt... welcoming.

  Dante approached the counter, hands still in his pockets. "One order of—"

  He stopped.

  Behind the counter, wearing an apron that was at least two sizes too big and splattered with stew, stood Kaito.

  They stared at each other.

  Kaito's eyes went wide. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

  Then, after a pause that stretched just a beat too long: "...Yo."

  The delivery was so awkward—so clearly an attempt to sound casual and failing spectacularly—that Dante almost laughed.

  Dante blinked. "You work here?"

  "Uh. Yeah." Kaito scratched the back of his head, laughing nervously, cheeks flushing slightly. "It's my grandma's place. Surprise?"

  Dante looked around again—really looked this time. The cracked tile on the counter. The old woman in the back, stirring the pot with practiced, unhurried motions, a gentle smile on her face as she chatted with a customer. The mismatched stools. The faded awning. The warmth radiating from the stall despite—or maybe because of—its worn edges.

  It was shabby, sure. But it wasn't sad. It was lived-in. Loved.

  Dante didn't comment on it. Didn't ask questions. He could tell this was important to Kaito—this place, his grandmother, the work he did here. Some things you didn't pry into.

  Instead, he just looked back at Kaito and said, "Small world."

  Kaito's shoulders relaxed—just a little, like he'd been bracing for judgment that didn't come. His grin widened, more genuine now. "Yeah. Really small."

  He turned to grab a bowl from the stack beside the pot, still smiling. "So... you want that stew or what?"

  Dante sat down on one of the plastic stools—a faded blue one that wobbled slightly under his weight. He adjusted, finding balance, and rested his arms on the counter. "Yeah. I want the stew."

  "Coming right up!"

  Kaito moved with practiced efficiency—ladling broth, adding noodles, arranging toppings with the kind of care that came from doing this a hundred times before. His grandmother glanced over, noticed Dante, and gave him a warm nod before returning to her work.

  The sounds of the stall surrounded him. The clink of bowls. The hum of conversation. Laughter from the students at the far end. The rhythmic chop chop chop of someone's chopsticks.

  Dante leaned back slightly, hands resting on his knees, and let the warmth of it all wash over him.

  It felt... safe. Familiar.

  This felt like home.

  Like Marco and Chiara's apartment. Like sitting on their too-small couch with reheated pasta and bad TV. Like being somewhere you didn't have to perform or explain yourself.

  Just... warmth.

  Kaito turned and lifted the massive stew pot—one-handed, muscles straining just slightly in his forearms—and ladled a generous portion into a ceramic bowl. He set it down in front of Dante with a soft clink.

  "Grandma's special, Best stew in Musutafu, guaranteed," he said, wiping his hands on his apron. "Don't tell her I gave you extra. She'll think I'm trying to impress you."

  Dante looked down at the bowl. Steam rose from the surface, carrying the rich, savory scent. Vegetables, noodles, tender chunks of meat, all swimming in a broth that looked like it had been simmering for hours.

  He picked up the chopsticks Kaito handed him.

  "Thanks," Dante said quietly.

  Kaito grinned and turned back to take another order, but the grin stayed—bright and genuine and relieved.

  Dante took a bite.

  It was incredible.

  He ate slowly, savoring it, while the world moved around him. Customers came and went. Kaito worked the counter, chatting easily with regulars, laughing at jokes Dante couldn't quite hear. His grandmother hummed softly in the back.

  And for the first time in what felt like forever, Dante didn't feel like an outsider.

  He finished the bowl, set down his chopsticks, and caught Kaito's eye.

  Kaito walked over, wiping his hands on his apron. "So? Good?"

  "Really good," Dante said honestly.

  Kaito's grin could've lit up the whole street. "Told you. Grandma doesn't mess around."

  Dante pulled out some cash and set it on the counter.

  Kaito waved a hand. "Hey, first bowl's on me. You know, since we're... classmates and stuff."

  Dante hesitated but thought it might be rude to reject, then nodded. "Thanks."

  "No problem." Kaito scratched the back of his head again, that nervous habit of his. "You, uh... You can come back anytime. If you want."

  Dante stood, pulling his hood up. He looked at Kaito—really looked and saw the earnestness there. It was genuine.

  "Yeah," Dante said. "I might."

  Kaito's grin widened. "Cool."

  Dante turned to leave, hands back in his pockets. As he walked away, he heard Kaito call after him, "See you at school, Dante!"

  Dante glanced back, gave a small nod, and kept walking as he waved bye.

  Yeah.

  Small world.

  [author] Hi guys.. Hope you like the progress. Soon, they will be applying for UA with their own goals and objectives. Please, any hearts, any valid criticisms, or any form of remarks on chapters are appreciated. [/author]