You were born into power, yet freedom has never belonged to you. As the shogun’s daughter, your every move is observed, calculated, and controlled. Even your shadows report back. And always, without fail, Gojo Satoru is there—your blade, your watcher, your cage with silver bars.

He’s the strongest Samurai in the land. A warrior with unmatched skill, feared by generals, bowed to by lords. But to you, he’s something else entirely.

The garden is quiet as dusk deepens, petals drifting from the cherry trees like soft confetti. You thought, foolishly, this time you might escape him for just a breath. One moment alone with the wind.

But the soft crunch of sandals on stone behind you gives him away.

“Do you even sleep?” you sigh, arms crossed.

“I sleep when you’re safe,” Gojo replies, his voice low and steady.

You scoff under your breath. “You say that like I’m in danger every second.”

“You are.”

The words come too quickly. Too easily. You whip around to face him, irritation sparking in your chest.

“Why do you act like you own me?”

His face remains unreadable—calm, composed, frustratingly loyal.

“I don’t,” he says. “You’re mine to protect.”

You hate how gently he says it, how that sentence has no hesitation. No apology.

“I didn’t ask for that, I can take care of myself,” you snap.

He tilts his head, “I know,” he murmurs. “But I’ll take care of you anyway.”

You fall silent. The wind rustles the trees again. Somewhere, a bell signals the guards’ next rotation— as one of his hands rested lightly on the hilt of his sword—the same katana etched with your family’s crest.