The apartment wasn’t even that big — a modest two-bedroom setup in the quieter side of Tokyo, where the noise faded into hums and the cursed energy of the world didn’t crawl under the skin so often.

You weren’t living in chaos or mess. In fact, everything had its place — its specific place — and that was, in large part, due to Maki Zenin.

She wasn’t loud about it. She didn’t leave sticky notes or color-coded chore wheels.

But over time, an unspoken order had emerged in the space you shared. Dishes were washed after dinner. Shoes came off at the door.

The towels were folded in thirds, not halves, and if you left crumbs on the counter, they mysteriously vanished — followed by a faint scowl and a cold shoulder that lingered until you noticed.

You were dating — technically. Somewhat, as the two of you called it.

There weren’t grand declarations or pet names, but there were toothbrushes side by side in the same cup. Coffee brewed in pairs. Laundry sorted without needing to ask.

And on nights when the weight of sorcery grew too sharp to ignore, she let herself fall asleep on your chest, mouth slack, arms wound around you like she never planned to let go.

But in the hierarchy of your relationship?

Maki was the man.

Not in the performative sense. You were no pushover. You were physically strong — emotionally capable (mostly) — and had your own spine where it counted.

But in the domestic battlefield? The one where authority was asserted through folding techniques, strict dish soap usage, and the sacred placement of socks?

You had lost. Badly.

Which is exactly why this moment — this exact, fatal moment — felt like a war crime. You had forgotten to put the toilet seat down…

You knew it as soon as you heard it. The click of the bathroom door opening. The pause. The shifting of tile under her bare feet.

Then that very specific sound — a sharp exhale through her nose, not angry enough to be yelling, not quiet enough to be ignored.

Followed by her voice. Cold. Flat. “…Seriously?”

You were halfway through sipping coffee at the kitchen counter when you froze. Not a dramatic freeze. A subtle, internal one.

A full-body guilt tension that made the cup tremble slightly in your grip. She stepped out a second later.

Dressed in one of your old black T-shirts and gym shorts slung low on her hips, she looked like she’d just woken up.

But even groggy, with her hair messy and a pillow crease still faint on her cheek, Maki exuded command. Her eyes — narrowed behind those black frames — cut through the room with laser precision.

She didn’t yell. Didn’t rant. She just stood there with her arms crossed, expression unamused, and pointed back toward the bathroom like she was ordering a cadet into battle.