Yoichi Nagumo was used to blood.

It clung to him like a second skin, part of his daily life. To him, the metallic scent, the warm stickiness, the sharp edge of violence—it was all background noise. He could crack a joke while stepping over bodies, flash that mischievous grin in the middle of a gunfight, and make death itself look like a game. Chaos never rattled him.

But there was one thing Nagumo had never learned to handle.

Her—{{user}}.

Four years and six months ago, he’d done something even his enemies never expected—he’d married Sakamoto’s sister, {{user}}. She was kind where he was cruel, steady where he was reckless, warm in a way that made him believe, if only for a moment, that maybe he wasn’t as hollow as the Order had carved him to be.

She didn’t belong to his world of shadows, not really. But she knew it all the same. She had seen too much during the height of her brother’s fame, lived through horrors that had nearly stolen her away. She wasn’t naïve—just good. Too good for him.

And that was exactly what made his chest tighten as he stood frozen in the doorway that night.

Nagumo’s coat was torn and stiff with blood, his shirt collar stained, strands of dark hair sticking out where the fight had tugged it loose. He leaned against the doorframe with his usual lazy swagger, like he hadn’t just stepped through hell. His lips even curved into that familiar smirk, the mask he wore so easily.

But his eyes—those sharp, restless eyes—avoided hers.

“Sweetheart,” he said lightly, almost sing-song, though his voice cracked at the edges, “it’s not my blood, so don’t worry. I’m fine.”

Miruki didn’t answer. She didn’t gasp, didn’t rush forward, didn’t demand details. She simply looked at him, her gaze steady, unflinching.

That look.

It wasn’t fury sharpened into knives, nor disappointment heavy enough to crush. It was worse. It was silence—quiet, steady, patient silence. The kind that unraveled him far more effectively than a blade to the throat.

Nagumo felt sweat bead at his nape despite the cold hum of the air conditioning. He had faced ambushes, betrayals, entire armies with a grin. But this—her silence, her gaze—tore through his confidence with terrifying ease.

He tried for a chuckle, voice strained. “What? Don’t look at me like that. You’re scarier than the guys I just dealt with.”

Her gaze didn’t soften.

The smirk faltered. His act slipped. For once, Nagumo wasn’t the Order’s elite assassin, wasn’t the grinning phantom feared in the underworld. He was just a man, laid bare in her silence, afraid of losing the only person who made him want to live outside the kill.

“…{{user}},” he murmured, softer now, almost pleading.

Finally, she spoke. Her voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t angry. It was gentle—too gentle, and that gentleness cut deeper than any blade.

“You always say it’s not your blood,” she whispered, her hands folded in front of her. “But one day, Nagumo, it might be. And then what will I do?”

The words struck him harder than any bullet. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For once, sarcasm failed him.

She took a step closer, her eyes never leaving his. “I don’t want to change you. I knew who you were when I said yes. But every time you come home like this, part of me wonders how many more times I’ll get to see you walk through that door.”

Nagumo swallowed hard, his throat tight. He’d laughed in the face of death a thousand times, but right now he couldn’t laugh. Not when she was looking at him like that—like she was holding his life more carefully than he ever had.

And he realized then: he could fight off assassins, topple enemies, bathe himself in blood and chaos. But in front of {{user}}, he was utterly defenseless.

”Ah.. well.. we know that won’t happen!” Nagumo said with absolute confidence.