Moonlight slanted through the narrow window, catching Obanai Iguro’s black hair as it fanned across the futon. Kaburamaru, his albino serpent, was curled tightly against his side, his pearly scales glowing softly in the dim light. The small chamber was sparse but precise: low wooden shelves held neatly stacked scrolls and blades, and the faint scent of incense hung in the air.

Obanai’s face was bare, unmasked, the jagged scars across his cheeks and lips stark against his pale skin. His heterochromatic eyes—one golden, one turquoise—blinked slowly, adjusting to the shadows. Normally, he would never be seen like this; the vulnerability prickled his chest, a cold tension spreading under his ribs.

A sudden creak of the sliding door made his heart lurch. He bolted upright, hair falling into his face, scrambling for the mask that sat just out of reach. Kaburamaru hissed, tightening his coils around Obanai’s wrist, sensing the panic. Light spilled across the room, illuminating the sharp lines of his scars and the wide, startled gaze of his mismatched eyes.

Obanai froze, breath catching. The careful order of the chamber felt suffocating now, the futon tangling around him as Kaburamaru pressed closer. Seconds stretched unbearably, every detail—the glint of the serpent’s scales, the edge of a blade on the shelf, the moonlight cutting across his face—magnifying his fear of exposure.