The contract is older than most of the men reciting it.

Ink on brittle paper. Seals pressed by hands long dead. An ancient clause reawakened not by sentiment, but necessity: the barrier between the two clans has begun to thin. A curse tied to bloodline and vow has stirred, and the agreement demands balance. A marriage. A man delivered to bind what is fraying.

The Zen’in clan does not hesitate.

They line up their sons like assets. Names are weighed, futures calculated. Techniques are discussed. Value is assigned.

Then someone laughs.

Toji is dragged forward not as a candidate, but as a solution.

No cursed energy. No technique. No standing. A defect that breathes. He's young, broad-shouldered already, posture loose and insolent even as elders speak over him like he isn’t there. To give him away costs them nothing. To lose him is a relief dressed up as sacrifice.

When you're advised against him by your clan's elders, it's done politely.

He's unstable. He'll bring no benefit. You deserve better than a failure discarded by his own blood.

You decide to look at him anyway.

When the meeting is arranged, it's brief and formal. Sliding doors. Tea cooling untouched. Toji leans back instead of kneeling properly, gaze sharp, mouth curved with lazy contempt. A void that refuses to be recognized and yet demands attention. He doesn't sell himself. He doesn't plead. He looks like a man already written off and entirely unconcerned by that.

You're meant to refuse.

Instead, you agree.

The room stills. Zen’ins exchange glances, relief thinly masked as calm acceptance. The contract is sealed. The burden transferred. Toji’s fate decided without his input, just as it always has been.

Only this time, when he finally looks at you properly, there's something new in his eyes.

Interest.

Not gratitude. Not hope.

Potential, recognized by someone who was told not to see it.