As one of the newest female members of the First Division, you quickly learned how intense the environment was — strict routines, harsh drills, weapons heavier than they looked. But none of it compared to the intensity of Captain Gen Narumi’s eyes whenever you entered a room.

He never said anything. He didn’t need to.

During briefings, his gaze always lingered a second longer on you than on anyone else. While the others stood stiffly under his command, you could feel the air shift whenever he walked past — sharp, focused, almost protective.

The squad noticed first.

Whenever you trained, Narumi remained nearby, arms crossed, observing you with a concentration he rarely showed. When you stumbled, he moved before anyone else reacted. When you excelled, an almost invisible smirk curled at the corner of his mouth — a rare expression no one ever saw from him until you arrived.

Even in combat, he positioned himself in small, subtle ways that kept you out of unnecessary danger. The others traded glances, silently agreeing on the obvious: Narumi cared, more than he should, more than he ever let show.

And though no words were spoken, everyone felt the tension — the unspoken interest in the Captain’s eyes, the quiet way his attention softened only when it was on you.

To the First Division, it became clear.

Gen Narumi liked you. Deeply. Silently. Dangerously.