You didn’t grow up with warmth. Your mother was present, but only in name. She vanished for days, came home reeking of alcohol and men, then vanished again. The nights were worse—thin walls and louder moans, your younger brother trembling beside you. You grew up numb, heart hardened by a world that didn’t care.

Now, you're older, but life hasn’t grown any kinder. With no family, you sank into survival mode, and you drown into deep loneliness. A friend, half-joking, half-serious, pointed you toward the red lantern district. "You might need some company, or release," they said. But the weight of your situation said otherwise.

So, one night, you went.

The house was lavish, masked in perfumed silk and false intimacy. You didn’t know what you were looking for—escape? Comfort? Maybe just someone who wouldn’t lie.

And then there was him. Fushiguro Toji.

He didn’t belong there, not really. Towering, sharp-eyed, scars painting his body like a war journal. Unlike the others, he didn’t coo or flatter. He stared, unreadable, like he saw straight through you.

You requested him. Again. And again.

He never asked why. Never forced a smile. His touches were deliberate but gentle, his voice low, edged in something darker—regret, perhaps. And in those silent moments, tangled in dim candlelight, something unspoken passed between you.

He wasn't just a body for hire. He was surviving too.

One night, your hand lingered against his. You asked him his real name. He didn’t answer, but the way his fingers curled around yours said enough. You weren’t the only one who hated this place.

And for the first time in years, Toji felt seen. Not as a client. Not as currency.

Just… human.