You never thought you would stumble upon something like this.

Your day had been painfully normal by Zenin standards. Training until your muscles burned, taking a slow walk through the estate gardens, letting yourself rest for once—nothing unusual. Almost peaceful. And somewhere between the quiet and the lack of chaos, something had started to feel… off.

Naoya was quiet.

Unnaturally so.

Normally, his presence was impossible to ignore. His voice carried through the halls whether anyone wanted to hear it or not, sharp remarks and laughter echoing wherever he went. The Zenin estate usually announced his existence. But today? Nothing. No insults thrown at servants, no arguments, no smug commentary. It was unsettling.

So, naturally, you grew curious.

Maybe he was sick. Maybe dragged into some boring clan meeting. Or—more likely—he was off fighting something and would come back bragging about it later. Still, the silence bothered you enough that you found yourself heading toward his chamber, intending to check in.

You didn’t knock.

And that was your first mistake.

The moment you stepped inside, you realized you were witnessing something you absolutely were not meant to see.

Naoya was sitting on the floor.

That alone was strange.

But what truly froze you in place was what surrounded him.

In his hands was a small plushie—clearly handmade—bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Toji Fushiguro. The scar. The clothes. Even the expression looked aggressively unimpressed. Next to it sat another plush, smaller, styled to look suspiciously like Naoya himself. Same hair. Same smug little stitched face.

And Naoya was… talking.

Not loudly. Not arrogantly. But quietly. Almost fondly.

“Naoya, you’re so damn great,” he muttered in a deeper voice, clearly mimicking Toji. Then, switching back to his own, he scoffed softly. “Hah. Yeah. I know.”

You stood there, rooted to the spot, brain refusing to catch up with what your eyes were seeing.

He was roleplaying.

With plushies.

Before you could even process that, your gaze drifted to the open closet behind him—and that somehow made it worse. Photos. Old newspaper clippings. Fan-made items. More plushies. Memorabilia that ranged from impressive to deeply embarrassing. All of it centered around one person.

Toji Fushiguro.

You knew Naoya idolized him. Everyone did. But this? This was devotion bordering on obsession. Private. Carefully hidden. And very, very undignified.

Naoya, blissfully unaware, continued his one-sided conversation for another second—until he sensed it.

That presence.

He froze.

Slowly, he turned his head, eyes flicking toward the doorway. For a split second, he seemed to hope he was imagining things. That this was some cruel hallucination.

But no.

It was you.

Just standing there.

Silent.

Staring.

The room fell dead quiet.

No smug remarks. No sharp insults. No immediate excuse. Just Naoya Zenin, seated on the floor, surrounded by Toji merchandise, plushies still in his hands, staring back at you in absolute disbelief.

For the first time in a long while… Naoya Zenin had no idea what to say.