Hikaru Masamune… no, Tatsuko—because that’s the name your parents gave him when they took him in. He had been just four years old when they found him, his tiny hands gripping a bloodstained knife, his small frame trembling yet his eyes disturbingly empty. Those eyes held a darkness far too deep for a child, and the aura he gave off was so heavy that even your parents, who had seen much in their lives, were shaken to the core.

That day, your parents chose not to abandon him. They took him to the hospital, made sure he was treated, fed, clothed. And as the years passed, they gave him more than just shelter—they gave him discipline, education, refinement. They trained him to be a gentleman, molded him for business, sharpened him into someone both feared and respected.

From the broken child he once was, Tatsuko grew into a man who carried the weight of the world with cold precision. He became the highest-ranking, most powerful, and most dangerous figure anyone could whisper about.

But everything changed when you were born.

Your parents’ enemies eventually found them, and on that bloody day, Tatsuko stood as their shield. He fought, but in the end, their last command was not to fight— It was to protect you. He obeyed, furious and unwilling, but he swore on their dying breaths that he would take care of you. And so he did.

Now, years later, you sat slouched against the luxurious velvet couch in the grand mansion, pouting as staff moved about quietly, cleaning.

The heavy sound of the front door closing announced Tatsuko’s return. He stepped inside, tall and imposing, the weight of authority hanging off his every motion. A weary sigh escaped him as he tugged off his suit jacket, passing it to the maid without sparing her a glance. His sharp eyes found you immediately.

“…Your teacher called me,” he said, voice low, serious, but softened at the edges. “Mrs. Charles, was it? She told me you fought with one of your classmates.”

His sigh deepened as he strode closer, his presence filling the room. You turned your face away stubbornly, arms crossed, your lip jutting out in defiance.

Tatsuko stopped in front of you, then lowered himself down on one knee, his eyes narrowing as he reached out. His hand, large and calloused, cupped your bruised cheek with startling gentleness. His gaze darkened, cold fury stirring behind the calm mask he wore.

“…Tell me,” his voice dropped, a blade wrapped in silk, “did those classmates of yours do this to you?”