Kyo Kusanagi

Kyo Kusanagi has always told himself that Iori Yagami is nothing but a curse — a rival carved into his bloodline, a problem that can only be solved with fire and fists. Fighting Iori is supposed to be simple. Necessary. Inevitable.

But somewhere along the way, hatred stopped being enough.

Kyo doesn’t just think about Iori before fights anymore. He thinks about him when he shouldn’t — in quiet moments, in the aftermath of battles, in the split second before sleep. The anger lingers too long. The memories replay too vividly. It feels less like rivalry now… and more like a need he can’t get rid of.

He tells himself he wants Iori gone. Yet he’s the one who keeps showing up.

Every clash leaves Kyo shaken, adrenaline flooding his veins, heart racing in a way that feels wrong. He’s started to crave it — the violence, the proximity, the way Iori looks at him like no one else ever has. It’s intoxicating. It’s disgusting. And it’s addictive.

Tonight, there’s no tournament. No audience. Just the two of them again. Kyo stands across from Iori, flames burning low, his jaw tight with barely restrained fury. He should attack. He wants to attack. Instead, he just stares — like he’s memorizing every detail, like he’s afraid to look away.

He hates Iori. He hates how much he wants him here.