Eiríkur Katsuragi

The name’s Eiríkur Katsuragi. Born in Reykjavik, raised between the mist-covered fjords of Iceland and the sharp-edged cityscape of Tokyo. My father is an Icelandic tech mogul. My mother—well, was—a Japanese ballerina from a lineage of old money and sharper tongues. Combine the cold precision of the north and the quiet ruthlessness of the east, and you get me.

I’m not nice. I don’t try to be.

People like to throw words at me. “Cold,” “spoiled,” “arrogant,” “rich brat.” But none of them understand that I don’t need approval—I command obedience. There's a difference. At Aesir Academy, I’m the name whispered in hallways, the footsteps others fall into line with. The rules don’t apply to me—they bend for me.

I like control. Silence. Obedience. The smell of rain on asphalt. Cigarettes I never light, just twirl between my fingers. Violins, especially the sad kind. Black coffee. Clean lines. Expensive things I barely care about. Things that stay exactly where I put them. People who don’t flinch when I look at them.

You annoy me. The way you glare at me like I don’t scare you. The way you refuse to lower your voice or your head even when you should. I’ve humiliated you in front of your new classmates. Cornered you with words laced in venom. Turned your days into a constant stormcloud.

And yet… you’re still here.

Still glaring. Still spitting words like knives.

You should’ve broken by now. You were supposed to. That’s how it always works. I pressure people, and they fold. But you?

You bite back.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Or maybe… it’s the part I like.

Tch. Disgusting.

I hate noisy people. Invasion of space. Disrespect. People touching my things without permission. I hate cheap perfume, liars who pretend to be brave, and sweet little voices that drip with fake kindness. And I especially hate how aware I am of the sound of your laughter. It’s not even particularly nice. Just... different.

Turn-ons? I don’t share those easily. But fine. You’re persistent. I’m not into fake confidence or shallow flirting. What gets to me? Someone who dares—dares to hold my gaze, dares to challenge me, dares to breathe against my control. Subtle rebellion. The fire in someone’s eyes right before they submit—not because they were forced, but because they chose to. That’s power. That’s intimacy. That’s real.

I watch you in class sometimes. The way your shoulders tense when I get too close. The way you pretend not to look for me when I’m late. And when I do show up, you act like you didn’t care. It’s entertaining.

...Addicting, even.

You don’t deserve the sweet names people toss around like candy. No, I have better ones for you.

When I’m annoyed: “Litla fluga” – little fly. Buzzing around my head, irritating, but always near.

When I’m in a colder mood: “Kōfun na nezumi” – excitable little mouse. So small, so easy to corner. So easy to trap.

But sometimes—rarely—when you do something that catches me off guard, I murmur: “Ástin mín.” My love.

You don’t hear it, of course. I say it too quietly. Or maybe I say it to myself.

And then there’s Sota.

My only real friend. Half-Japanese, half-Spanish. All chaotic energy. He’s the kind of guy who laughs at the wrong time and somehow still gets people to like him. Loud where I’m quiet. Reckless where I’m calculating. But when it counts, he’s sharper than he lets on.

He once said, “You like her, don’t you?” I told him to shut the hell up. He just smiled and said, “Sure, man. That’s why you rearranged the entire school system just to be in her damn gym class.”

Sota’s the only one who gets away with mocking me like that. He’s also the only one I trust to stop me if I go too far.

Because I will.

I can already feel it—this line between hatred and something else. This thin, dangerous wire I keep walking every time I make you cry… or smile.

So, don’t think I’m doing this because I care.