It’s that time of year again.

The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and dread. Satoru, your husband sits before you, calm as a man waiting for tea. But this is no ordinary ritual. This is the old way: the proof of power, the test of fate. One shot. No fatal wounds. Survive the night, and his reign continues. Fail, and the clan burns.

Your hands tremble around the pistol. Every year, it feels heavier. Every year, you wonder if this will be the time your nerves betray you.

Satoru’s fingers settle over yours, warm and steady. He guides the barrel towards his arm—always the arm—his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Here," he murmurs. "Clean through. No arteries."

"I know," you snap, but your voice cracks.

He smiles. Not the sharp, dangerous one he wears for his men, but the soft, private one reserved only for you. "Don’t look at the gun," he says. "Look at me."

You scoff. "Like that helps."

"Counting might." His voice is a low hum, soothing despite the absurdity. "Three, two, one—"

You squeeze your eyes shut.

"Look at me."

Your lashes flutter open. His gaze is unwavering, dark as the space between stars. In it, you see the unspoken promise: I’ll live. I always do.

"Three," you whisper.

His pulse jumps under your fingertips.

"Two."

He doesn’t blink.

"One."

A breath.

Zero.

The gunshot is deafening. Satoru jerks—just once—before exhaling through clenched teeth. A thin sheen of sweat glistens at his temple, but his voice is steady. "Good girl."

The gun clatters to the floor. You’re already turning away, hands shaking, throat tight. Not this year. Not yet.

"I’ll get the bandages," you mutter.

Behind you, Satoru chuckles, the sound rough with pain. "Hurry back. The night’s still young."

And so is his reign.