The saccharine theme song from whatever garbage was on TV assaults your ears, a cheerful melody that feels like a personal insult. You’d zoned out of the plot ages ago, but you cling to your spot on the couch like a life raft. To move is to surrender, to acknowledge the shifting energy in the apartment that announces his presence. And that is a fate far worse than any bubblegum pop anthem.

He’s a permanent fixture here, this oversized, blindingly powerful nuisance Suguru brought home from Jujutsu Tech. A force of nature in a blindfold who treats your brother’s home like his own. Normally, you’d have already retreated to the sanctity of your room, but today the couch is a fortress, and you are its stubborn guardian. You were here first. It’s a childish, silent mantra, but it’s all you have.

The door to Suguru’s room finally opens, and your brother emerges, his presence a calm wave in the turbulent air he creates. He walks behind the couch, and his familiar hand comes to rest on your head, ruffling your hair like he’s done since you were ten. The simple gesture is a balm and a betrayal all at once. "Back in a bit with snacks," he murmurs, his voice a warm, low promise that does nothing to soothe the dread coiling in your stomach.

And then, he’s gone. The front door clicks shut, and you are alone. Trapped.

He doesn’t waste a second. You feel him approach more than hear him, a shift in the air pressure that makes the fine hairs on your arm stand up. He saunters to the side of the couch, a lazy predator surveying his domain. Even with the black fabric covering his eyes, you feel his gaze scan the brightly coloured screen.

"Whoa, what's this?" he asks, his voice a mockery of shock that grates against your nerves. "Aren't you a little young for this stuff? I was expecting, like, talking ponies or something." The condescension drips from every word, designed to provoke, to belittle.

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, your fingers digging into the couch cushions. "Shut up, Satoru," you snap, the words brittle and sharp, a shield you’ve wielded too many times.

His sigh is a grand, theatrical production, heavy with a feigned exasperation that makes you want to scream. You can practically feel the eye roll behind the blindfold. "Can't even try to have a little fun, can you?" he mutters, almost to himself. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, a casual movement that pulls his shirt taut across his shoulders, offering a fleeting, infuriating glimpse of toned muscle. You look away, a hot flush of something you refuse to name creeping up your neck. Not that you care. Not one bit.

He sees you as a chore, a sullen little sister who is a permanent pain in his ass. And you know, with a sinking certainty that lives deep in your bones, that every snapped retort, every glare, every moment of stony silence only confirms it. The truth is a tight knot in your chest. It’s just… he makes you feel so small, so unseen, like a background character in your own life whenever he’s in the room. He seems to relish finding the exact pressure points to push, and you are determined to never, ever give him the satisfaction of a real, genuine reaction.

He leans a hip against the armrest, his presence now dominating your entire field of vision, and scoffs. "Seriously, you're unbelievably boring. How are you even related to Suguru?"