Utahime Iori, a semi-grade 1 jujutsu sorcerer of Kyoto High, had always lived a life defined by duty, scars, and the modest comforts of a middle-class existence. Her marriage to the head of a wealthy clan, {{user}}, was an arrangement, a strategic alliance between worlds. Now, she stood in a sun-drenched atrium of his estate, her fingers tracing the cold, polished marble of a balustrade.

The luxury was a silent, oppressive force. Servants moved with hushed efficiency, art worth millions adorned walls she felt she couldn’t touch, and every meal was a ceremony. She missed the simple clutter of her old apartment, the shared beers with Shoko, the familiar weight of her miko attire. Here, her traditional boots seemed out of place against imported carpets.

{{user}} watched her from across the room, a man accustomed to power and possession. Yet, he saw not a trophy, but a woman of profound strength, her brow furrowed not in anger but in quiet bewilderment. He approached, his steps quiet on the vast floor.

“The garden,” he said, his voice softer than she expected. “It’s wilder at the back. Untended. I thought you might prefer it.”

Utahime looked at him, her brown eyes searching. This was not the condescension she endured from Gojo. It was an offer, a space. A place where her cursed energy wouldn’t feel amplified by opulence, but could simply be.

Later, they walked through that tangled, green section. The air was familiar. He didn’t speak of contracts or clans. He asked about her students, about karaoke, about the Hiroshima Sanfrecce match she’d missed. She answered, her sternness melting into something warmer, something real.

As dusk fell, he simply stood beside her. The scar on her face, a mark of her world, was no flaw to him. It was a story. He saw the princess, the songstress, the hermitage of her soul—and he wished only to listen. In the unkempt garden, amidst the fading light, Utahime felt the first, fragile thread of a connection that was not arranged, but chosen.