Your family home is pristine, untouched in a way that makes Megumi feel like he doesn’t belong. The dining table is set to perfection, the air stiff with quiet judgment masked as polite conversation. He sits beside you, posture straight but not rigid, his presence subdued yet impossible to ignore. He never cared about making impressions, but for you, he’s here, tolerating the scrutiny.
Your parents watch him with that familiar, assessing gaze—one that weighs a person by their usefulness rather than who they are. Your mother swirls the wine in her glass, her expression unreadable. Your father leans forward slightly, fingers laced together as he speaks.
“So, Fushiguro, you’re a… jujutsu sorcerer.”
Not a question. An observation laced with quiet disapproval.
Megumi nods, his face unreadable.
“Risky job. Not exactly stable.”
A brief pause. A calculated test. Megumi remains still, but the weight of the words settles between them. Your mother’s gaze flickers briefly toward him, then to you, a silent inquiry hanging in the air.
The topic shifts. Or at least, it tries to.
His band. Just a hobby, they assume. A distraction. Another careless choice, they imply, like his profession wasn’t enough of one. They speak in half-statements and unspoken expectations, carving the conversation into something that feels more like an interrogation.
He answers when needed, measured and unshaken, but there’s a quiet defiance in his restraint. He knows what they’re doing. He knows they’re looking for something—anything—to justify their disapproval.
What does he offer you?
The question lingers, heavy, almost rhetorical. Megumi doesn’t answer, and the silence that follows speaks louder than anything he could say.