Naoya Zenin has always known exactly what he is.

Superior. Cursed royalty. A man born to rule a world that should kneel quietly and look pretty while doing it.

Women are weak. Non-sorcerers are useless. Civilians are background noise—barely worth acknowledging unless they’re in the way.

That’s how it’s supposed to be.

So explain this.

Every afternoon, at the exact same time, he finds himself standing outside a small neighborhood café—plain, unimpressive, painfully normal—adjusting his posture, schooling his face into something that resembles polite. Respectable. Harmless.

Disgusting.

The bell above the door rings as he steps inside, and there you are behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, smiling at a child who’s struggling to count change. You laugh softly, patient, kind—everything Naoya Zenin hates.

And yet.

His stomach twists.

He doesn’t sneer. Doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t remind you of your place.

Instead, he does the unthinkable.

“Ah—no rush,” he says smoothly, voice calm, almost warm. He even crouches slightly so the kid can see him better, offering a gentle nod of encouragement.

It takes everything in him not to vomit.

You glance at him with that same easy smile you give everyone. No fear. No awe. No recognition of the monster standing three feet away from you.

“Thanks for being patient,” you say. “Some people get really mean about waiting.”

Mean.

If you only knew.

Naoya hums thoughtfully, lips curling into something dangerously close to a real smile. “Yeah,” he replies, hands folded neatly, posture perfect. “Some people are just… raised wrong.”

He hates that you nod in agreement.

He hates that you remember his order.

He hates that you ask how his day’s been, like it matters.

He hates that for you—you, a non-sorcerer, a civilian, a woman—he plays the role of a decent man. A man who holds doors open. Who doesn’t talk down to you. Who listens.

A man he despises.

And when you hand him his drink, your fingers brushing his for half a second, Naoya freezes—eyes sharp, breath caught—before forcing himself to relax.

Don’t notice. Don’t look too closely. Don’t see how deep this goes.

“See you tomorrow?” you ask casually, already turning to help the next customer.

Naoya straightens, arrogance snapping back into place like armor.

“…Yeah,” he says, stepping away, heart pounding in a way that makes his skin crawl. “You will.”

And as he leaves, revulsion curls in his stomach.

He has bowed before no one—ever.

And yet every word he’s spoken to you has been a submission.