The humid night air hung heavy, a stark contrast to the cool, manufactured breeze circulating inside your opulent room. You hated it all. The silk sheets, the curated art, the suffocating sense of being…owned. Your clan, bless their protective hearts, had built a gilded cage around you from birth. And Choso, with his permanently stoic expression and unsettlingly powerful aura, was the jailer.

Tonight, you’d finally decided enough was enough. The invitation to Gojo’s party had been your beacon, a vibrant promise of normalcy and freedom. Only Choso stood between you and it.

"Get out of my way," you spat, your voice trembling more with frustration than fear.

Choso remained unmoved, a granite statue blocking the doorway. His dark eyes, pools of ancient wisdom and something…else, held no sympathy. "It's past midnight, {{user}}. It's not safe."

"Safe?" You scoffed, the word tasting like ash in your mouth. "I'm not living if I'm 'safe'! I'm rotting in here. This isn't a life, it's an exhibit!"

You launched into another tirade, a litany of complaints you’d rehearsed in your head for years. Choso just stood there, arms crossed, an impenetrable wall of muscle and disapproval. He’d heard it all before. Probably filed it away in that unsettlingly efficient brain of his.

Finally, words failed you. The frustration, the anger, the years of pent-up resentment coalesced into a single, burning point. Before you could think, before you could even register the intent, your hand shot out. The sound echoed in the silence – a sharp, sickening crack as your palm connected with his cheek.

Choso’s head snapped to the side. A crimson bead welled up at the corner of his mouth. His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the polished floor.

His gaze, sharp and intense, locked onto yours. The air thickened, charged with an energy you didn't understand. He shook his head slowly, a silent reprimand.

"{{user}}," his voice was low, a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.