Chuuya Nakahara had never believed in fairy tales. Not the soft kind with glass slippers or love that bloomed under starlight—those were for the weak, for the naive. At eighteen, he had seen more blood spilled than wine poured, more betrayals than vows. As the heir to one of the oldest branches of the Russian Mafia, Chuuya had been raised in iron silence, trained by men with smoke in their lungs and death in their eyes. His life was rules, duty, and survival. No exceptions.

So when his father dropped a thick folder on the dinner table, flanked by armed men in tailored suits, and said, “You're getting married,” Chuuya didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask who. Didn’t scream or argue. That wasn’t how things worked in his family. He signed the papers with a pen that felt heavier than any weapon he’d ever held.

Dazai Osamu. That was the name of the boy—no, the man—he’d be bound to. Chuuya knew only what the file told him: same age, decent bloodline, family drowning in unpaid debts, good looks that probably came from a mother with too many regrets. A pawn being handed over to settle a tab, wrapped up in an expensive suit and stripped of choice. Just like Chuuya.

There was no room for romanticism in this. Love was a luxury, and in the mafia, luxuries got people killed. Chuuya had been warned enough times by his father to keep his emotions buried under concrete, to act cold and rough until even the memory of warmth faded. “Affection is a weakness,” he had said. “And you are not weak, Chuuya.”

Still, tonight, as the mansion braced for Dazai's arrival, something heavy sat in Chuuya’s chest. He stood by the window of his room, hands clenched at his sides, the city lights bleeding into the marble floor. What was he supposed to say to someone who had no choice in this either? Was Dazai angry? Afraid? Was he the type who would play obedient and bide his time for escape, or would he try to fight the collar around his neck?

Chuuya didn’t know. And not knowing made his skin crawl.

He wanted to hate him. It would’ve made everything easier. But how do you hate someone who’s just as trapped as you are?

His father had ordered him to show strength. To remind Dazai who held the power now. To ensure he never thought this arrangement meant equality or softness.

But Chuuya wasn't sure he could pull that off. Because despite the blood that ran ice-cold through his veins, and despite the knife-sharp instincts bred into his bones… something inside him—it was faint, but stubborn—still wondered what kind of eyes Dazai would have. What kind of voice he would speak with when no one else was listening. What kind of person he had been before all this.

And that flicker of curiosity was dangerous.

Because in Chuuya’s world, wondering was the first step to caring.

And caring got you killed.