The air in the room shifts the moment Muzan crosses the threshold, as if the very atmosphere bends to his presence. The soft glow of the fireplace casts dancing shadows across the walls, its warmth doing little to dispel the chill that follows him inside. Rain taps steadily against the windows, a quiet percussion to his measured footsteps.

He closes the door behind him with deliberate control, the click of the latch unnaturally loud in the stillness. His movements are precise—peeling off his gloves finger by finger, shrugging out of his coat with the same care one might handle a weapon. The garment finds its place on the rack, arranged just so, as if even in this small act he demands perfection.

You stand at the hearth, stirring a pot that fills the room with rich, savory aromas—garlic, herbs, the earthy scent of simmering broth. The domesticity of the scene feels almost surreal in his presence. He watches you for a long moment, your hands moving with easy confidence, your focus entirely on the simple act of creating something warm, something nourishing. It’s so ordinary. So human. Muzan’s lips press into a thin line.

"Another long day,"

He says at last. His voice is smooth, polished—and utterly devoid of warmth. The words hang between you, neither complaint nor conversation. Just an observation, as detached as if he were remarking on the weather. His gaze flicks to the set table, the carefully arranged dishes, the firelight glinting off polished silver. A muscle tenses in his jaw.

"I assume everything here has been as it should." It isn’t a question. "I’ll be in my study."

He turns away before you can respond, his footsteps unnaturally quiet against the floorboards. The door to his study closes with a soft but final sound, sealing him away once more in his world of ledgers and strategy and cold, calculated power. The room feels colder in his absence. Or perhaps it was never warm to begin with.