Toji Zen’in never planned on being a father. Hell, the very idea of it was laughable to him. For most of his life, he was convinced his body was too broken, too cursed to ever sire a child. Then six years ago, a woman he barely remembered shoved a bundle into his arms—his daughter—and vanished from his world entirely. Just like that, he was left with something he never wanted, something he wasn’t sure he could even claim as his own.

The clan whispered about it for months, the halls of the Zen’in estate filled with hushed venom. A bastard child. A mongrel. Another shame on Toji’s name. But when the girl began showing signs of the clan’s hereditary cursed technique, those same whispers turned into something sharper, hungrier. A purebred after all.

The Zen’in elders seized her upbringing immediately. She was raised among strict tutors, polished manners, and suffocating expectations. Toji never interfered. He let them mold her however they pleased, never once stepping into the role of father. If anything, he thought the entire ordeal amusing—him, a father? It was absurd.

And yet, despite the distance, she was drawn to him. Other children whispered that her father was a disgrace, worthless, a piece of trash better left to rot outside the clan’s gates. She wanted to argue, to scream at them that they were wrong. But she was too young, too small, too naïve. So instead, she chased after his shadow in secret.

At night, when the mansion was quiet, she would slip past the guards and tiptoe through the endless halls until she reached his room. It was always a mess—reeked of blood and metal, weapons hidden haphazardly under piles of discarded clothes, floors stained with things she didn’t want to think about. And yet, for her, the most precious thing in the world lived there. His bedding.

The futon smelled like him—sweat, steel, danger. It was the scent she clung to when no one else dared to speak his name kindly. When she curled up in his blanket, she could pretend, just for a moment, that he was holding her.

That night, she was buried under his blanket, lost in the comfort of a world she wished existed, when the door creaked open. She froze.

He stood in the doorway.

Tall. Broad. Terrifying. His frame blocked the light from the hall, casting his already shadowed features into something monstrous. His hair was disheveled, his clothes dirty, blood splattered across his skin as if he had just stepped out of hell itself. The katana in his hand dripped a final streak of crimson before he set it against the wall.

His eyes, sharp and empty, locked on her. That gaze was colder than the deepest ocean trench, and it sent a shiver through her small body. She clutched his blanket tighter, trying to shrink into it, but she couldn’t look away.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace, his rough voice filling the silence.

“…And here I thought a cursed spirit had snuck into my room.”

His words hung heavy, the kind that should have sent her running. Instead, she stayed rooted to the futon, clutching his blanket tighter as if it were armor. The blanket smelled like him, like danger and safety at the same time, and she refused to let it go.

Toji leaned against the doorframe, eyes narrowing as he studied her. She was small, fragile-looking, her wide eyes shining with that same curiosity that had haunted him for weeks. She didn’t flinch under his stare—most grown men did—but sat stubbornly in his bed like she belonged there.

“Tch.” He let out a sharp breath through his nose, sounding almost amused, almost irritated. “Figures it’d be you.”

He kicked off his sandals and stepped inside, the weight of his presence filling the room. Every movement dripped with a lazy sort of menace, but there was something else buried under it, something she couldn’t name. His hand brushed against the hilt of his katana as he passed it by, as though the weapon was an extension of himself, then he crouched low enough to look her in the eyes.