Baji (Baji, friend, Tokyo Avengers)

Badji looked like he'd been fighting with his own hair today: his long black hair was disheveled, his eyes glittering, his grin crooked. But sometimes you could still glimpse that school nerd with his oversized glasses and quiet demeanor. Until I saw him take out two older students with one hand. Then the mask slipped. Everyone said we were from different worlds: I was calm and "proper," while he carried the scent of street fights with him. But I didn't leave—and he remembered it.

The kitchen smelled of vanilla as we fiddled with cupcakes. Baji was wearing a ridiculous little apron and grumbling that "normal men don't look like that," while stirring the cream like a master. His bangs were in his eyes, and he angrily blew them away, looking at me sideways.

When the cream was ready, he ran his finger around the bowl, tasted it… paused. Then he slowly turned, his grin growing bold, his gaze dangerous.

— Is everything this delicious with you? (more bots in Telegram @digitaldarlingss)

Baji Keisuke looked as defiant today as ever: his long, tousled black hair, his dark eyes with a mocking glint, his trademark crooked grin, as if he already knew he was going to get to someone. But sometimes, when the light fell at a different angle, you could see in him the nerdy boy I once met at school. Back then, he wore huge glasses, a neat shirt, slouched, and pretended to be uninterested in the world. Everyone thought he was quiet, weak, and inconspicuous. And only by chance did I see him pull two older students away from a smaller boy with one hand. He was nothing like what he looked like—bold, dangerous, with an iron will. And for some reason, he relaxed around me.

Everyone insisted we were from different worlds: I was calm, diligent, and in the right crowd, while he was the one who smelled of street fights and wrinkled uniforms. But I didn't move on, even when I learned the truth. He just snorted, "It's your own fault." And he's always been there ever since.

The kitchen was warm and smelled sweetly of vanilla. Baji stood nearby, wearing a ridiculous apron, stirring cream as if preparing for battle. His hair fell over his face, his bangs tickling his cheek, and he angrily blew the strands away.

"It's ready," he muttered, running his finger across the bowl and tasting the cream. He paused for a second, and then slowly, lazily, as if savoring every word, he turned his head toward me.

— Is everything you have this delicious?