Tokyo, winter. Snow blanketed the archway of the Gojo estate, where the lights never reached too far—much like the heart of the man sitting at the head of the long table.

Gojo Satoru turned to the final page of the marriage contract. The pen was ready, the documents were stamped, and the bride-to-be… sat curled up at the opposite end, clutching a mug of warm milk like it could shield her from his gaze.

She was only twenty. Her voice was barely audible: “…Do I really have to move in here?”

Gojo didn’t look up. “Tomorrow.”

“…I’m not used to big houses.”

“You will be.”

A silence stretched between them, long and heavy—like the distance between two worlds. He signed his name. Set the pen down. Pushed the folder toward her.

“As long as you don’t interfere with my life, I won’t interfere with yours.”

To Gojo Satoru, this marriage was nothing more than a transaction. A responsibility. A piece of paper with two signatures.