The next morning came too quickly.

  Dante stood outside the school gates, backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the building like it might swallow him whole. Twenty days. He'd been gone for twenty days, and now he was back—same uniform, same halls, same people who'd whispered about him before and would definitely whisper about him now.

  He took a breath. Exhaled slowly.

  It's just school, he told himself. You've survived worse.

  The gates loomed ahead, metal bars painted a cheerful blue that felt distinctly at odds with the knot tightening in his stomach. Students streamed past him, chattering and laughing, none of them sparing him more than a passing glance.

  Yet.

  He stepped through.

  The whispers started immediately.

  "That's him."

  The voice came from somewhere to his left—a girl in a yellow cardigan, clutching her books to her chest like a shield. She wasn't looking at him directly, but her eyes flicked his way, quick and nervous, before darting back to her friend.

  "The devil child," her friend whispered back, louder than she probably meant to.

  Dante kept walking. Eyes forward. Jaw tight.

  More voices joined in, a low murmur that rippled through the courtyard like a stone dropped in water.

  "I heard his quirk is terrifying."

  "My sister said he made the whole room go dark."

  "He broke that girl's wrist, you know. Just grabbed her and—snap."

  "Why is he even allowed back?"

  "Probably because of that pro hero. You know, Eraserhead? I heard he vouched for him."

  "Doesn't mean he's safe."

  "Doesn't mean he's not a villain."

  Dante's fingers curled around the strap of his backpack, knuckles going white. The words stung—sharp, quick, like needles pricking at his skin—but he didn't let it show. He'd learned a long time ago that reactions only made things worse.

  In Italy, they'd called him il diavolo silenzioso—the silent devil. The kid who never cried, never flinched, never showed you what he was thinking.

  He'd hated that name.

  But right now, it was the only armor he had.

  He crossed the courtyard, the whispers trailing him like shadows. A group of boys near the vending machines stopped mid-conversation to watch him pass. One of them—tall, with broad shoulders and a hero-wannabe smirk—leaned over to his friend and muttered something Dante couldn't quite hear.

  The friend laughed. Not kindly.

  Dante didn't look at them. Didn't acknowledge them. Just kept moving, one foot in front of the other, the familiar weight of being watched settling over him like a second skin.

  At least I'm not bored anymore, he thought bitterly.

  The hallways were worse.

  Inside, the noise of the courtyard faded into something quieter, more insidious. No one was shouting. No one was pointing. But they didn't have to.

  The stares said everything.

  A cluster of first-years near the lockers went silent as he approached, their conversation dying mid-sentence. They parted like water around a stone, pressing themselves against the walls to let him pass, eyes wide and wary.

  One of them—a kid with a monkey mutation quirk, complete with a tail and everything—practically scrambled to flatten himself against the lockers. Next to him, a girl whose quirk made her nearly seven feet tall with extra arms awkwardly tried to squeeze herself into a corner, even though she was clearly too big to fit comfortably.

  Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

  Dante kept his expression neutral, but internally he couldn't help but notice the absurdity. I'm five-foot-six and you're built like a small building. Pretty sure if anyone should be scared here, it's me.

  A small boy with freckles and oversized glasses actually flinched when Dante's eyes passed over him.

  Yeah. This is cringe.

  Dante looked away first, shaking his head slightly as he continued down the hall.

  Further down the hall, a pair of third-year girls stood by the water fountain. One of them—pink hair tied up in twin buns—nudged her friend when she saw him, and they both turned to watch. The pink-haired girl's expression was curious, almost analytical, like she was trying to figure him out.

  The other girl looked afraid.

  Dante's chest tightened.

  He passed a classroom where a teacher—young, with short brown hair and nervous energy—was setting up for the day. She glanced through the doorway as he walked by, and for a second, their eyes met.

  She looked away immediately, busying herself with papers on her desk.

  Right. Because ignoring me will make this easier for everyone.

  By the time he reached his own classroom, the muscles in his shoulders were coiled tight, tension knotting between his ribs like barbed wire. He paused outside the door, hand hovering over the handle.

  Just go in. Sit down. Keep your head down.

  He pushed the door open.

  The room wasn't full yet—only a handful of students scattered across the desks, early arrivals killing time before homeroom started. But every single one of them looked up when he entered.

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  The conversation stopped.

  For a heartbeat, the room was silent.

  Then, quietly, someone whispered, "He's back."

  Dante crossed to his seat—front row, near the window, same spot he'd had before—and set his bag down. He didn't look at anyone. Didn't acknowledge the stares or the whispers that picked up again the moment he sat down.

  He pulled out a notebook and a pen and pretended to be busy.

  Behind him, two boys were talking in low voices.

  "Dude, I can't believe they let him come back."

  "I know, right? What if he, like, snaps again?"

  "My mom said quirks like his are always unstable. Something about emotional detachment making people unpredictable."

  "Yeah, well, I'm staying the hell away from him."

  Dante's pen stilled on the page.

  He didn't turn around. Didn't say anything.

  Just stared at the blank lines of his notebook and waited for the feeling to pass.

  It didn't.

  Lunch came like a reprieve.

  Dante grabbed his bento—wrapped carefully in a blue cloth by Chiara that morning, packed with pasta he liked, and some kind of pickled vegetable he couldn't name—and headed for the cafeteria.

  The noise hit him first. Hundreds of students crammed into one space, voices overlapping, trays clattering, chairs scraping against linoleum. It was chaotic and loud and overwhelming in the way school cafeterias always were.

  Dante scanned the room.

  Tables everywhere. Groups clustered together—friends, classmates, cliques. Laughter and conversation and the easy camaraderie of people who belonged.

  He needed a seat.

  He approached the first table—a group of second-years near the windows, talking animatedly about some hero fight they'd seen online.

  "Hey, uh—" Dante started.

  One of them looked up. Saw him. His expression shifted—not quite fear, but something close. Wariness. Discomfort.

  "Sorry," the boy said quickly. "This seat's taken."

  Dante looked at the empty chair. "It doesn't look—"

  "It's taken," the boy repeated, firmer this time.

  The others at the table avoided his eyes.

  Dante nodded stiffly and moved on.

  The next table was a group of girls, chatting over their lunches. He didn't even get a word out before one of them—a girl with long black hair and a bright pink hairclip—shook her head.

  "We're saving this for someone," she said, not unkindly but not warmly either.

  "Right." Dante's voice was flat. "Got it."

  He tried again. And again. And again.

  Every table had the same response. Taken. Saving it. Sorry.

  No one wanted him there.

  His grip on the bento tightened, the cloth crinkling under his fingers. The cafeteria felt smaller suddenly, the noise louder, the stares sharper.

  Don't react. Don't let them see.

  He turned, scanning for any spot—any spot—where he could just sit down and eat in peace.

  And then he saw it.

  A table near the far window. Two people sitting across from each other. One empty seat in between.

  Dante's stomach dropped.

  Kaito sat on one side, hunched over his lunch, picking at his rice with chopsticks. He looked small, fragile in a way that made Dante's chest ache. His eyes were fixed on his food, like if he stared hard enough, the rest of the world might disappear.

  Across from him sat Akari.

  She wasn't eating. Just sat with her arms crossed, phone propped up against her bento, glaring at the screen like it had personally offended her. Her wrist—the one Dante had grabbed—was still wrapped in a bandage, though the bruising had faded to a dull yellow.

  The only empty seat was directly between them.

  Dante stared.

  Of course. Of course it's them.

  Kaito glanced up—probably felt someone watching—and his eyes went wide. Not quite fear. Not quite panic. Just... surprise. And maybe a little bit of something that looked like hope.

  Akari noticed a second later. Her gaze shifted from her phone to Dante, and her expression darkened immediately. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes narrowed.

  She didn't say anything. Just glared.

  Dante stood there, frozen, bento in hand, caught between walking away and sitting down.

  You could find another seat, a voice in his head whispered. You could just leave. Go eat outside. Go anywhere else.

  But there was nowhere else.

  And he was tired. So, so tired mentally.

  He muttered something under his breath—"Fortuna del diavolo"—and walked to the table.

  Devil's luck.

  He set his bento down and pulled out the chair. It scraped loudly against the floor, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the cafeteria like a knife.

  He sat.

  The silence that followed was immediate. Suffocating.

  Kaito stared at his rice like it held the secrets of the universe. Akari's chopsticks stabbed into her tamagoyaki with enough force to dent the metal beneath. Dante unwrapped his bento slowly, methodically, focusing on the motions—untie the cloth, fold it neatly, set it aside, open the lid.

  No one spoke.

  The noise of the cafeteria continued around them—laughter, conversation, the clatter of trays—but at their table, there was nothing. Just three people sitting together, eating in a silence so thick it felt like a physical presence.

  Dante picked up his chopsticks and took a bite of pasta

  It tasted like nothing.

  Kaito shifted uncomfortably, glancing between Dante and Akari like he was watching a bomb that might go off at any second. His hands trembled slightly as he lifted his chopsticks to his mouth.

  Akari's phone buzzed. She ignored it. Stabbed another piece of tamagoyaki.

  Dante chewed slowly, forcing himself to swallow. His throat felt tight.

  This is fine, he told himself. Just eat. Don't say anything. Don't look at them. Just get through this.

  But the silence pressed down on him, heavier with every passing second.

  He could feel Kaito's nervous energy, the way the boy kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

  He could feel Akari's anger, sharp and cold, radiating off her in waves.

  And beneath it all, he could feel the stares from the rest of the cafeteria. Students at other tables watching them, whispering, pointing.

  Look at that. The devil child sitting with his victims.

  Dante's jaw tightened.

  He took another bite. Forced himself to keep eating. The minutes dragged on, each one longer than the last.

  Kaito finally broke. "Um—" His voice was small, hesitant. "—did you... have a good break?"

  The question was so absurdly polite, so painfully awkward, that Dante almost laughed.

  Instead, he just looked at Kaito. The boy's face was pale, eyes wide and earnest, like he genuinely wanted to know the answer.

  "It was fine," Dante said quietly.

  "Oh. Good. That's... that's good."

  Silence returned.

  Akari let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Unbelievable."

  Dante glanced at her. She was staring at Kaito, her expression somewhere between disbelief and disgust.

  "Are you seriously trying to make small talk with him?" she hissed.

  Kaito flinched. "I just—"

  "He broke my wrist, Kaito."

  "I know, but—"

  "And you're still sitting here acting like nothing happened?"

  Kaito looked down at his lap, his face flushing. "I'm sorry?"

  "Don't apologize to me," Akari snapped. "Apologize to yourself for being such a doormat."

  The words hit like a slap.

  Kaito's hands curled into fists on his lap. His shoulders hunched inward, like he was trying to make himself smaller.

  Dante's chest tightened.

  "Don't," he said quietly.

  Akari's gaze snapped to him. "Excuse me?"

  "Don't talk to him like that."

  Her eyes flashed. "You don't get to tell me what to do."

  "I'm not telling you what to do." Dante's voice was calm, flat, but there was steel beneath it. "I'm telling you to leave him alone. Plus your being mean for no reason"

  "Or what?" Akari leaned forward, her voice low and dangerous. "You'll grab me again? I dare you. Last time I was unprepared." she said as embers cracked around her.

  The cafeteria seemed to quiet around them. Or maybe it was just Dante's imagination. Either way, he felt the weight of a hundred eyes on his back.

  He met Akari's glare evenly. "No. I won't. I made a mistake okay! Never will happen again"

  "Good. Because if you do, I will burn you to cinders"

  Dante didn't respond. Just held her gaze.

  Akari's jaw tightened. She shoved her phone into her pocket and grabbed her bento, standing abruptly. "I'm done here."

  She turned and walked away, her footsteps sharp and deliberate against the linoleum.

  The silence she left behind was somehow worse.

  Kaito stared at his hands, his face flushed, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

  "For what?" Dante asked.

  "For... for making this worse."

  Dante looked at him—at the way his shoulders trembled, at the way he refused to meet Dante's eyes, at the way he seemed to carry the weight of the entire world on his back.

  "You didn't make anything worse," Dante said quietly. "You were just trying to be nice. Also don’t need to suck up to her you know"

  Kaito glanced up, surprised. "You... you think so?"

  "Yeah."

  They sat in silence for a moment longer. Then Kaito managed a small, shaky smile. "Thanks."

  Dante nodded and went back to his lunch.

  It still tasted a little bland. Probably because of the staring but at least he wasn't eating alone.