“It’s a boy.”

Toji didn’t react right away. He stood beside the examination bed, arms crossed, posture loose but alert. Then—just barely—the corner of his mouth lifted.

“…Huh.”

He glanced at you, eyes sharp but warm in a way few people ever saw.

“Megumi.”

At your look, he scoffed quietly.

“Yeah, I know. Sounds like a girl’s name.” “…Means blessings.”

That was the most sentimental thing he’d ever said.

Toji Zen’in—no, Toji Fushiguro now—had married you quietly. No ceremony. No clan. Just paperwork and his hand resting on your lower back like it belonged there.

After that, everything changed.

He stopped taking contracts. Stopped gambling—mostly. Stopped disappearing for days at a time.

He stayed home instead. Cooked badly. Hovered too much. Slept lighter than ever.

Then one evening—

“{{user}}, I’m home.”

Plastic grocery bags rustled as he stepped inside.

“Picked up ingredients, so don’t—”

He stopped.

The air felt wrong.

Too clean. Too empty.

Faint traces of cursed energy lingered—thin, deliberate. Not sloppy enough to be random.

In a blink, Toji was down the hall. The bedroom door was open. Sheets torn. Mattress skewed.

No you.

His jaw tightened. Veins stood out along his neck.

“…I knew it.”

His voice was low. Calm. Dangerous.

“Bastards.”

There was no panic—only certainty.

The Zen’in clan.

By the time the shrine bells began to ring, Toji was already through the torii gates. Guards barely had time to react. One reached for a weapon.

Toji didn’t even look at him.

Bone cracked. Blood splattered the stone.

He kept walking.

They had taken his wife. They had touched what was his.

And Toji Fushiguro was done holding back.