He was complaining about how dirty the sand soiled his suit again. An absent-minded Imouto Katsumatsu eyed him with indignance, but loomed silently with more strange feelings stirring from her conscience. She felt some pity despite the gnashing contempt she felt for his boisterous attitude, and she couldn't decide if she felt hints of love or loads of gut feelings that demanded her to stay away from Nick as much as possible. Imouto looked down at the latest novel she was planning, her journal half-open, the pages wrinkled by the moistness in the air, but the ink blotches still legible despite her rushed but expertly-crafted story. Her bored fingers began to trace the ends of the pages, when the sudden sting of a papercut stopped her in her tracks.

Gritting her teeth, she pinched her left middle finger and let the blood flow freely, causing a thick line of blood to drip against the sand. Some dripped on the pages of her journal, leaving a more ominous yet fitting image to accompany her fresh ideas. She chuckled to herself, but then lost a breath when she felt someone sitting behind her.

Nick Adachi slowly ran his right pointer finger along the fresh cut on her finger. He licked his lips in delight, the faint sound of slobber trailing to a petrified Imouto's ear, causing her to wince. "I love the taste of blood," Nick snickered, licking his bloodstained finger and nastily smiled in delight. "It just means that people below me shed for the upbringing of important figures like me."

"You don't stand above anyone," she muttered, trying her best not to snap, "No one here thinks that at all." She looked at the rest of her classmates, all frolicking playfully with each other along the coast. Some had their bathing suits on, splashing each other with the salty waves crashing on the shoreline. Others were talking idly away from their fellow Ultimates that were running along mumbling curses as they sprayed each other with water guns. Being someone who was fully invested in her work, she had politely declined to join them, claiming that she wanted to write her latest novel while she was clear from her writer's block, but secretly hoped that Nick would show at least a little affection for her, since she knew he too would not strip down his "perfectly designed armor," according to him.

But now, as she felt him linger behind her so menacingly, she felt obligated to join her friends playing in the water, just so she could wash away the fear and slight arousal off her chest. She heard him chuckle sarcastically, his warm breath puffing across her neck. "Silly," he sneered, moving his hands across her waist, "You don't think that way."

"You don't know that."

"Ah yes, but I do," he retorted calmly, leaning his face so that his mouth was next to her ear, "I'm a lawyer. I slice through lies and facades like it's all butter."

"You can shut your monocle face up and get your hands off me."

"But is that what you really want?"

Imouto was about to respond with another nasty remark, but stopped short. Is that what you really want? No, she thought, grimacing, I want him to touch me like this again. I-

"Garbages like you don't deserve to even look at me," Nick continued, tracing the outline of her neck with his mouth, "But I'd say you're just recycling. Trash, but with penny value."

At this point, she kept quiet, listening to the words that penetrated deep inside her. Her eyes relaxed, and her legs gave way, causing her to drop the journal, the pages folding in the wrong directions. For the first time since he came, she turned around, looking at his face, straight to the one eye that wasn't covered by the monocle.

His blonde hair was practically sparkling in the sunlight. The suit that he took so much pride in was slowly getting paler by the moistness in the air. But it all suited him. Everything suited him. He was so conceited, so hateful, but it was all inconceivable. She loved him. She loved him. She tossed away all forms of hate for this wretched young man, replacing them with feelings of fleeting freedom and arousal. She felt like she could fly despite the shackles he placed on her. But she was okay with those shackles on her anyway.

The unthinkable happened. Imouto took her cut finger and traced bloody lines across his neck, down to his shoulders, and legs, as if she was disconnecting his limbs to his upper body and became afraid when he said nothing about it.

He laughed again, with less pride in his lips. "Admit it," he said triumphantly, "You live for this, Horror Author."

It was the first time he had ever mentioned anyone by their talent. But before Imouto could say any more, she suddenly moaned at the sensation of him reaching almost under her shirt, his hands surprisingly cold as ice. He mockingly stopped, cooing, "If I did this right here, I'd be in court again, and I don't think recyclables won't appreciate that."

But she urged silently, More, more! Her mind was clouded, her nerves at strain, but her heart blissful despite the repressive feelings swirling around her gut. She almost didn't feel the breath of mints present in his breath when he propped himself down on the sand to kiss her. She almost didn't feel his hands trace more on the edge of her neck, almost didn't feel his hair, his whole body that smelled like blood- her blood - and reeked of the grudges she could only imagine he had on people below her. It didn't matter. There were some yelps of surprise coming along from the beach, the screams of delight and disgust coming from her classmates who saw some of this. It didn't matter. They didn't move at all, but stood there, kissing, Nick's suit slowly staining from the sand and the deadly red.

It didn't matter.