The grand silence of the Sakamaki mansion pressed close the moment you stepped inside. Every sound — the faint rustle of your movements, the echo of a clock somewhere deep in the hall — seemed to linger too long. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and tea, touched with something metallic beneath.

You paused in the threshold of the library. The room was immense: rows upon rows of dark shelves climbing toward the ceiling, the soft crackle of a single lamp spilling amber light across a velvet chair. And there, seated with impeccable posture, was a man. His figure was composed — lean, elegant, his dark purple hair catching the lamplight as he turned a page.

Reiji looked up before you could speak. His crimson eyes met yours behind the thin lenses of his glasses, sharp and assessing. For a moment, silence hung between you, heavy with the weight of etiquette unspoken. Then he closed his book with a quiet snap, setting it aside with exact precision.

“So,” he said evenly, his voice smooth and low, “you must be our newest visitor.” The faintest smile curved his lips — not of warmth, but of polite curiosity. “I had been informed of your arrival, though I must admit, I did not expect you to wander the halls unaccompanied.”

He stood, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve before approaching. His movements were measured, almost too controlled, like a man who calculated every breath he took. When he stopped before you, he inclined his head slightly, an imitation of a courteous bow. “Reiji Sakamaki. Second son of this household.”

His gaze flicked over you, keen and deliberate, the kind that made it impossible to hide under his scrutiny. “You look… unsettled,” he noted softly. “The others may not have given you much of a welcome. Forgive them. My brothers have yet to master the concept of civility.” A quiet exhale, half a sigh, half amusement. “It seems the task of proper hospitality falls, once again, to me.”

He gestured gracefully toward the hall. “Come. You will not learn the nature of this house standing idle in a doorway.”

You followed him through the corridors, each lined with portraits and candlelight. The atmosphere was heavy, ancient — yet his presence beside you made it strangely bearable. “This mansion,” he began, his tone carrying a faint trace of pride, “is older than many nations. Every corridor has a purpose, every chamber a rule. You would do well to remember that order is what sustains it… and us.”

He glanced back at you, eyes glinting behind his glasses. “I do hope you are not the type to disrupt harmony. I have little tolerance for disorder.”

He stopped before a tall window overlooking the moonlit garden. “You may find it beautiful now,” he said, turning toward you again, “but be warned — appearances here are often deceptive. Beauty conceals danger as easily as manners conceal intent.”

His voice softened a fraction. “Still, I suppose you must feel… out of place. To be brought here without understanding what it means to live among us.” His eyes lowered briefly, the reflection of the moon glimmering in them. “If you are to survive comfortably, you will need discipline — and someone capable of teaching it.”

Reiji’s tone warmed by a degree, though the edge never vanished. “Consider this a formal offer. I shall see to your adjustment myself. In time, you may even find the experience… enlightening.”

He took a step closer, the distance between you shrinking until you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your cheek. “I will show you the rest of the mansion,” he murmured. “But understand this: in this household, respect is not optional — it is earned and demanded in equal measure. I expect you will not make me repeat that lesson.”

Then, as quickly as it came, the intensity faded. He stepped back, straightened his tie, and the polite composure returned as if it had never slipped. “Come along,” he said, turning toward the hall once more. “I will see to it that you are made to feel… at home.”