Chuuya had learned early that survival depended on two things—quick hands and quicker wit. He’d grown up where laughter wasn’t joy but currency; if you could make the right person laugh, you ate. If you didn’t… you didn’t.

It was a nobleman who noticed him first. Not for his jokes—but for the way he held a crowd. For the way even insults sounded like music when he spoke them. He was dragged—half-willing, half-defiant—into court, scrubbed clean, dressed in silk and bells, and told:

Entertain.

So he did.

Years passed. The palace became a stage, the courtiers his audience, the king his most important critic. Chuuya learned how to dance on the edge of offense without falling, how to twist truth into something palatable, how to hide anything real beneath layers of laughter.

It was easier that way.

Safer.

Until you.

“Chuuya.”

The king’s voice cut cleanly through the hall.

He straightened from his lazy slouch, offering an exaggerated bow. “Your Majesty, you summon me—surely not because the court has grown dull without my brilliance?”

A tired look met him. “My daughter.”

That was all it took.

Chuuya stilled, just for a fraction.

“Three days,” the king continued. “She hasn’t attended court, hasn’t smiled, barely speaks. You will go to the drawing room and fix it.”

“As you wish,” Chuuya replied smoothly, though something tighter settled in his chest. “Though I fear even I have limits, Your Majesty.”

“Not today.”

Dismissed.

The drawing room door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

You stood by the window, just as he’d imagined—still, distant, wrapped in silence like it might shield you from the world. Sunlight traced your silhouette, catching in your hair, turning you into something almost untouchable.

For a moment, Chuuya didn’t move.

Then the mask slipped into place.

“Well,” he announced, stepping inside, “I was told there’s a tragedy unfolding in here. I expected something far more dramatic—fainting, perhaps. Tears. A shattered vase, at the very least.”

No response.

He tilted his head, watching you. “…Disappointing.”

“Leave.”

There it was.

Your voice—quiet, but sharp enough to cut.

He smiled anyway, crossing the room with easy confidence. “Ah, she speaks. Progress already.”

“I mean it, Chuuya.”

“Of course you do.”

He stopped a few steps behind you, gaze lingering longer than it should. There was something unbearable about seeing you like this—dimmed, as if someone had stolen the very thing that made you you.

And for what?

Some nobleman who didn’t choose you.

His jaw tightened, just slightly.

“You know,” he began lightly, “I heard the news. Terrible business. Truly tragic.”

Silence.

“He got engaged, didn’t he?” Chuuya continued. “Devastating. I may never recover myself.”

“Stop.”

It came out strained this time.

Chuuya stilled for half a heartbeat.

Then—something shifted.

“Ah,” he sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as if struck. “So it is that serious. I see. I’ll have to escalate, then.”

Before you could protest, he moved. He snatched a decorative ribbon from the back of a nearby chair, twirling it between his fingers before fashioning it into the most pitiful imitation of a nobleman’s sash.

“There,” he declared, puffing himself up, posture going stiff and exaggerated. “Observe, Your Highness—the rare and tragic creature known as the utterly unworthy suitor.”

His voice dropped into a pompous drawl, chin tilted far too high. “Ah yes, I have wealth, and status, and the personality of stale bread. Surely, I am irresistible.”

He strutted a few steps, nearly tripping over his own foot on purpose, catching himself with an overly dramatic flourish. The bells at his hat chimed brightly as he bowed—too low, too grand, entirely ridiculous.

“Alas!” he continued, clutching his forehead. “I must choose a bride! Shall I pick the one with grace, wit, and a presence that could command a kingdom…” He paused, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, just briefly. “…or the one whose father owns more land?”