The Nakahara estate was just as grand as Chuuya remembered—tall marble pillars, endless hallways, and chandeliers that probably cost more than some houses. Nothing had changed. The staff still moved like clockwork, dressed in crisp uniforms, tending to every inch of the house with quiet efficiency.

Chuuya had barely stepped through the front door when a few maids greeted him with polite bows, offering to take his bags. He waved them off, too tired from the long flight to bother with formalities. His parents were probably too busy to greet him, as usual. Not that he cared.

As he made his way toward his old room, he barely paid attention to the workers dusting and sweeping around him. They came and went, faceless, unimportant. But one of them—leaning against a broom near the staircase—wasn’t moving like the others.

The young man had his sleeves rolled up, dark brown hair slightly disheveled, and bandages peeking out from beneath his uniform. His eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, flickered toward Chuuya for only a second before returning to his work.

Chuuya didn’t recognize him. But then again, why would he? The house was full of nameless workers, hired and dismissed without much thought. This guy was just another one of them.

And yet, for some reason, Chuuya couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something off about him.