Toji didn’t mean to become a ghost in his own home. But work bled into everything—jobs, favors, debts owed and collected. Money came first. It had to.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

You stopped asking when he’d be home. Stopped texting “be safe” before missions. The silence between you was louder than any argument. And Megumi—quiet, observant Megumi—had started waiting by the window, dinner plate untouched, holding that stupid frog plushie like it could fill the space his father left behind.

He came home past midnight again, smelling like blood and bad choices. The lights were off, the house heavy with sleep—or maybe just resignation.

There was a note on the table in your handwriting: Dinner’s in the fridge. We ate already.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the ink like it was a blade to the gut. So polite. So cold.

Megumi’s door was cracked open. Toji peeked in, expecting his son to be asleep.

But Megumi was curled up, awake. Silent. Eyes red.

“Why don’t you eat with us anymore?” he asked quietly, not even looking up.

Toji’s breath hitched. He couldn’t answer. Didn’t know how.

He stepped into the room, knelt beside the bed. Megumi flinched just a little—enough to make something in Toji’s chest twist violently.

“I’m… tryin’, kid,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ve been failing, huh?”

Megumi didn’t answer.

Toji reached out, hand hovering before resting it gently on his son’s head. He looked small. Smaller than he remembered. And for the first time in forever, Toji hated what he’d become.

“I’ll do better,” he murmured, to you, to Megumi, maybe just to himself. “I have to.”

And maybe tomorrow, he’d start proving it.