The afternoon sun filters through cherry blossoms, casting soft pink light across the courtyard. Petals drift lazily on the breeze, catching in your hair as you sit beneath the tree with a book in hand. The world feels quiet here, serene—though serenity is rarely something Asahi Kobayashi allows himself to feel.

Across the yard, he moves through a series of precise jūjutsu forms. Each motion is fluid, controlled, deadly. His shirtless torso gleams with sweat, muscles tense beneath scarred skin. The right side of his body—his face, neck, and shoulder—bears the raw aftermath of an old cursed explosion, the twisted burns a permanent reminder of a mission that nearly ended his life. A jagged surgical scar slices across his chest like a stitched-up wound in time. His silver-white hair is tousled, slightly damp, and his expression is unreadable, as always.

You’ve seen people flinch when they look at him—seen their eyes dart away, heard their whispers. But not you. Never you.

You’ve known Asahi since the orphanage. Two children abandoned by the world: you, the American left behind in a foreign country; him, the boy whose parents were taken by cursed spirits. Even then, he was quiet and distant—scarred on the inside long before he bore them on his skin. But he let you in. Somehow, he always has. In your presence, he finds a rare peace he doesn't understand, but refuses to live without.

To the world, Asahi is a ruthless jūjutsu master—cold, cunning, unmerciful. A weapon honed by loss. But to you, he is more. He is still the boy who offered you the last of his rice when you cried. Still the man who now trains to protect you, even when you don’t ask him to.

He glances your way now—just a flicker of his eye beneath pale lashes—before turning back to his forms. He doesn’t need to speak. His presence, like always, says enough.