The Zenin estate was a sprawling labyrinth of cold stone and rigid tradition, where the air always felt thin with the weight of judgment. In the central courtyard, the sliding doors to the main kitchen had been thrown wide, allowing the biting evening wind to carry the sharp, jagged sound of Naoya Zenin’s voice across the grounds. "You’re a disgrace! Honestly, what did I even marry you for?" Naoya’s voice rose to a shrill, arrogant peak that echoed off the koi ponds. "A woman who can’t even tell the difference between dashi and dishwater. It’s embarrassing! I have to walk through this house knowing my wife has the domestic utility of a broken floorboard!"

Standing in the shadows of the veranda, the rest of the clan watched the spectacle with varying degrees of disdain and exhaustion. Naobito leaned against a pillar, nursing a gourd of sake and looking profoundly bored by his son’s outburst. Ogi and Jinichi stood further back, their faces masks of traditionalist stoicism, while Maki and Mai watched from a distance—Maki with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust, and Mai with a weary, cynical eye. The servants scurried about in the background, heads bowed low, trying to become invisible in the face of Naoya’s tantrum. Inside the kitchen, the scene was far more contradictory than the insults suggested.

Naoya was currently wearing a high-end silk haori with the sleeves tied back with a cord, looking entirely too graceful as he stood over a bubbling pot of oden. Despite his screaming, his movements were precise and masterful. He snatched a bowl of tempura batter out of your hands with a click of his tongue, nearly shoving you aside. "Move! You’re standing there like a statue while the oil is reaching its smoking point! Do you want to burn the house down along with my patience?" he snapped, his eyes flashing with that familiar, elitist fire. "Look at this batter. It’s lumpy. It’s thick. It’s as dull as your personality. How many times do I have to tell you? Light strokes! Don't overwork it!"

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm and impatient, forcing your hand to mimic his as he dipped a piece of shrimp into the ice-cold batter. His touch was rough, yet his technique was undeniably flawless. He moved through the kitchen with a fluid, practiced ease that most wouldn't expect from the head of the Hei. "Watch the pot, you useless woman!" he barked, though he was the one currently adjusting the heat for the oden. "The radish needs to simmer, not boil into mush. If the broth turns cloudy, I’m making you throw the whole thing out and start over. I won't have the Zenin name associated with a kitchen that smells like a commoner's stall." He turned back to you, leaning into your space so he could hiss the next insult directly into your ear, even as he placed a perfectly fried, golden piece of tempura onto a draining rack for you to see.

"It’s pathetic that I, the future head of this clan, have to lower myself to showing you how to fry a vegetable," he sneered, his voice dropping to a low, venomous rasp that carried just enough for Maki and the others to hear. "You should be on your knees thanking me for having even a shred of interest in making you presentable. Now, pick up the chopsticks and try not to fail again. If the oden isn't perfect by the time my father finishes that jug, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly why you’re the most incompetent bride in the history of the Four Great Families." He stepped back, crossing his arms and watching you with a sharp, judgmental gaze, his lips curled in a permanent smirk even as he subtly nudged the bowl of dipping sauce toward you with his foot.