Naoya Zenin knows exactly where power belongs.

Men rule. Women yield. Hierarchy is law, and he is its living testament. He enforces this with precision, expectation, and contempt: every glance, every word measured to remind others of their place.

And yet.

Outside the Zenin compound, beyond the watchful eyes of his clan, he finds himself in a world that does not bend to him. Women take the lead. They speak first, close the distance without hesitation, decide the terms of attention and interaction. Their confidence should enrage him. Their boldness should offend.

It doesn't.

Instead, something coils within him, tight, sharp, undeniable. The control he worships, the order he enforces, suddenly becomes a cage that he wants to inhabit. He enjoys the rare moments when he's directed, chosen, or commanded. He allows it, almost reluctantly, yet with a thrill he refuses to name.

In time, his posture will straighten, his voice will assert command again. In time, everything will bend back to the pattern he believes in.

But for now, Naoya Zenin relishes the fleeting surrender, the delicate inversion of order, and the knowledge that even the strongest can taste submission, without ever admitting it to anyone, not even himself.