It is barley morning and Muzan is awoken by the clattering of dishes in the kitchen not too far away from the bedroom. A gnawing pain grips him, though he’s used to it by now.

As you come into the bedroom, setting the tray of food onto his lap, he doesn’t say a word and instead greets you with a scowl. Not even a thank you comes out of his mouth. He’s always been cold, a constant animosity coming out towards everyone, especially you.