“Yes, Mariposa.” Guilherme’s voice was a low murmur, the Portuguese a secret language in the sterile hallway of his new Japanese high school. “I’m here. No, I haven’t set anything on fire.”
A dry, feminine voice crackled back through his phone, too faint for anyone to overhear. He leaned his massive frame against the lockers, the metal groaning under his 1.97-meter height.
“I know the deal. Keep my head down, pass my classes, don’t start a war. It’s a vacation, remember?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that was completely lost on his superior. He hated geography. He *despised* it. And being forcibly relocated across the entire globe felt like the universe’s most elaborate geographical punishment. A final string of rapid-fire instructions, and then silence. He ended the call.
Vacation. Right. You don't send your second-in-command on vacation halfway across the world unless he’s become a bigger problem at home than for the enemy.
He slid his phone into the pocket of the ludicrously short skirt that came with the female uniform. He’d chosen it himself, of course. If he was going to be forced into a uniform, it would be on his terms. But the cheap, scratchy polyester blend was an insult to his skin. He ran a hand down his thigh, the fabric catching on his fingertips. At home, the Borboletas’ colors were silk and worn leather. This felt like a costume for children. He slipped on his thin-framed glasses, the world snapping from a pleasant blur into sharp, unforgiving focus, and pushed himself off the lockers. Time to face the music.
The teacher, a nervous man whose name Gui had already forgotten, wrung his hands. “Class, we have a new student today. He, uh… he comes to us from Brazil. Please welcome Guilherme de Souza.”
A wave of whispers washed over the room, then died in an instant as Gui stepped through the door. He could feel the weight of their expectations, the rumors that must have preceded him. *Brazilian. Gang. Comando Vermelho*, probably. They were expecting a beast.
They got one, just not the kind they’d imagined.
He stood in the doorway, letting them look. Letting them take in the sheer size of him, the broad shoulders and thick arms straining the seams of the white uniform blouse. The long, heavy curtain of bright red hair that fell past his hips. The plaid skirt that barely covered the thick, jaguar-spotted muscle of his upper thighs. His face, narrow and severe, was a mask of utter boredom. His multi-colored eyes, slitted and unimpressed, swept the room once.
Most of them flinched. Students hunched over their desks, suddenly fascinated by wood grain. A few girls giggled behind their hands. But in the back row, three sets of eyes met his and didn’t waver.
He cataloged them instantly. The one in the middle, with a wild mane of black hair and a grin that was all sharp teeth, had a tiger tattooed on his neck. Predator. To his left, a blond with earnest, intelligent blue eyes watched him with a calculated stillness. Handler. And to the tiger’s right, a boy with longer, two-toned hair leaned back in his chair, a bell hanging from his earring. A lazy, dangerous curiosity radiated from him. Wild card.
The teacher gestured vaguely toward an empty seat in the front row. “You can, ah, sit there, Souza-san.”
Gui ignored him. On his own initiative, he started the long walk to the back of the classroom. Each step was deliberate, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The students in the aisle shrank away as he passed. He ignored them all, his focus on the empty desk directly behind the blond one, the handler. It was a statement. *I see you. I’m not afraid of you. And I’m putting myself right where I can watch you.*
He lowered himself into the comically small chair, his knees jammed against the desk in front. Just as he settled, the teacher turned back to the board and the chalk let out a piercing, high-pitched screech.
Gui’s whole body went rigid. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he shut his eyes for a fraction of a second, his fingers curling into a fist on his desk. He hated that sound. Hated it with a violence reserved for condescending politicians and bad coffee.
A low chuckle came from in front of him. The wild card, the one with the earring, had his chair tipped back, looking at Gui over his shoulder. “Don’t like the noise, *gatinho*?” Kazutora Hanemiya asked, the Portuguese pet name rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.
Gui’s eyes opened slowly. He met Kazutora’s gaze, his own expression flat. “I dislike things that are grating and pointless.” The insult was delivered so calmly, it took a moment to land.
Kazutora’s smirk widened. The tiger-necked one next to him, Baji Keisuke, let out a short, sharp laugh, his fangs glinting. He didn’t even turn around. Only the blond, Chifuyu Matsuno, shifted slightly, glancing back with an unreadable expression before facing forward again. He withheld his judgment, filing away the interaction for later.
The teacher droned on about Japanese history. Gui tuned it out. Humanities were a wash for him; numbers and biological systems made sense, but the arbitrary narratives of men did not. He felt the three of them in front of him, a pocket of charged energy in the otherwise placid classroom. They weren't whispering or passing notes. They were simply aware of him, a silent, thrumming presence at their backs. It was a language he understood far better than whatever was being written on the board.
The bell shrieked, signaling the end of the period. As the classroom erupted into noise and motion, Gui began to slowly pack his bag. He wasn’t in a hurry.
“Jaguar.”
The voice was low, rough, and came from directly in front of him. It was Baji, the one with the fangs. He still hadn’t turned fully around, but his head was angled just enough for Gui to see the intense focus in his dark eyes. He wasn't looking at Gui's face. He was looking at his arms, where the fiery, reddish patterns of jaguar spots began their climb from his wrists.
Baji’s gaze lifted to meet his. He didn't ask. He stated. “For protection.”
The air left Gui’s lungs. He’d been ready for stupid questions, for clumsy flirting, for a challenge in the schoolyard. He hadn’t been ready for this. For being seen. Not just his size or his clothes, but the ink on his skin, read like a page from a book they somehow owned a copy of. They weren't just delinquents.
And that was infinitely more interesting. And far more dangerous.