Furihata left the café in a daze, his footsteps dragging against the pavement. The late afternoon sun bled across the horizon, streaks of gold fighting to hold back the deepening shadows. Yet no warmth touched him; the light only seemed to fade faster the further he walked.

Chihiro's words replayed in fragments — sold in a contract, the Crimson Emperor, fire that burns. Each syllable echoed like a brand against his conscience.

Kuroko wasn't simply quiet. He wasn't detached. He was someone whose flame had been smothered until it could no longer burn in plain sight. A faint light buried in shadow, surviving only by dimming itself.

And waiting in those shadows was Akashi.

When Furihata reached the university gates, he saw him.

Akashi Seijuro stood beside a black car, the sinking sun catching on the red of his eyes. It wasn't the glow of twilight. It was something deeper, sharper — the colour of blood staining through silk. A brilliance that didn't illuminate, but consumed.

Around him, the laughter of students spilt like sparks, brief flashes of ordinary joy. Yet none of it touched him. He was an emperor of silence, watching, calculating, claiming.

Furihata froze half-hidden among the dispersing crowd. His chest tightened. He finally understood what Chihiro had meant by fire. Akashi wasn't warmth. He was conflagration. To stand too close was to be devoured.

Still, those crimson eyes searched for someone — and Furihata knew who.

Kuroko. The faint light. The boy was trying to disappear.

A chill ran through him as Akashi's mouth curved into the faintest smile, the kind of smile that promised ruin to anyone who dared resist the bond he had forged. The shadows seemed to lengthen with it, swallowing the last rays of day.

Furihata turned away quickly, clutching his bag. He didn't know if he could protect Kuroko, or if he was already too late.

But one truth had settled like iron in his chest:

Light and shadow were already at war.

And Kuroko stood at the fragile boundary between them.