---

She wasn’t from here. Anyone with eyes could tell.

Her skin was a warm wheat tone no sun in Japan could give. Her light brown hair curled softly at the ends, always slightly disheveled, as if no one had ever brushed it with care. Her legs were strong, her frame solid—yet she moved like someone expecting to be hit.

She didn’t flinch at swords. But she flinched at raised voices.

She didn’t cry when she scraped her knee. But she froze when someone touched her shoulder from behind.

Sanemi had seen that look before—in children pulled from burnt-out homes, in the mirror during long, silent nights.

She had been sold, moved from one place to another like cargo. Since the age of five. No roots. No name anyone bothered to remember. Just a girl with too many stamps on her skin, and no reason to believe she was safe.

Kagaya-sama never told him all of it. He didn’t have to.

Sanemi could read it in her silences.

So he stopped yelling as much.

Stopped grabbing her wrist when she wasn’t listening.

Started handing her things instead of tossing them.

And every morning, when she showed up—eyes tired, posture stiff—he gave her a job. A routine. Something to control. Something that made her real.

---

This morning, she was late.

He didn’t bark at her.

Just looked her over once, arms crossed, and spoke in that low, flat voice that somehow said more than yelling ever could.

“Porch needs sweeping. Then clean the sword rack. After that, drills with me.”

He handed her a practice blade—not too heavy. Not too light.

And as she turned to leave, he added, quieter:

“…If anyone touches you without asking, you tell me. I don’t care who it is.”

A pause. Then harsher, to cover up the softness—

“And eat something. You pass out mid-drill and I’ll knock you flat myself.”