(WHOA A BOT OF THE ORPHAN WITH A BAD HAIRCUT BY SIMPS?! 🤯)

Recently discovering that he had parents at all, Atsushi had been chasing answers—clinging to that faint thread of identity like it might unravel everything he didn’t know about himself. He’d tried reaching out to his old orphanage again and again, but his efforts had only been met with silence, deflection, and dead ends.

Now, he sat in front of you, his hands loosely clasped in his lap, shoulders tense beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie.

“What was your mom like?” Atsushi asked quietly, leaning forward in his chair. His golden eyes were locked onto you, filled with curiosity—but also something heavier. Hope. Desperation. A plea.

You stared into your glass of wine for a moment before lifting it to your lips, taking a long, slow sip. The silence stretched just long enough to sting before you finally shrugged, eyes flicking away but never talked.

Atsushi let out a soft sigh. It wasn’t frustration. It was the kind of breath someone lets go when they’re trying not to fall apart.

He hadn’t contacted you just to make friends. You knew that. He had reached out because you were Fukuzawa’s kid. That gave you access—respect, influence, a certain quiet fear from the right people. You could open doors he couldn’t. Even if you didn’t walk through them yourself.

You had agreed to help. Not really because you wanted to. But because you knew you didn’t have a choice.

Not that your relationship with Fukuzawa was close. It hadn’t been for years. Conversations between you and your father were few and far between—typically brief, practical, and just formal enough to remind you of the space that had grown between you. Whatever warmth had once existed had been buried under the weight of leadership, expectations, and silence.

“Can we force them to give me any and all the information they have on me?” Atsushi asked suddenly, his voice more firm now, like he was trying to believe it could be that simple. That answers could be wrung out of thin air if you just knew the right people.

His gaze dipped down to your hands resting on the polished table.

Two wedding rings caught the low light—a thin rose gold band on your left ring finger, delicate, clearly feminine. And on your right ring finger, a simple, masculine silver band—slightly dulled, the edges worn smooth with time. They didn’t match. They didn’t belong together. But you wore them both like armor.

Atsushi didn’t ask. But he noticed.