Blood marked the wooden floor of Toji’s bare room with every step he took.

The soles of his feet were raw, his back scored with long, cruel lashes from hours under the whip. Blood had dried in dark streaks across his skin, but to him, it was little more than routine—far from the worst punishment he had endured. The ache was familiar, almost dull by comparison.

He dropped onto the nearest zabuton without ceremony, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as he noticed the stains he left behind. Another mess, another scolding from the maid when she found it. Nothing worth dwelling on.

A sharp sound—half gasp, half worried yelp—cut through the silence. Toji’s head lifted toward the porch door, now cracked open. Your face peeked through, eyes wide. Of course. Today was the day you always slipped away from your clan to trespass into his quiet space, uninvited yet expected all the same.

His gaze lingered on you for a beat, on the way your expression faltered at the sight of him. Then his voice broke the tension, low and edged with indifference.

“…Be quiet. You’re not even supposed to be here, so keep it down.” He muttered, brushing off both your presence and the worry etched across your face, as though his wounds were nothing more than an inconvenience.