Suguru had never liked the spa room. It was always too humid, too slick with oil and expectation. A theater of skin and effort—people peeling themselves open for beauty, for reverence, for the quiet, desperate hope of being seen. The shelves groaned with glass jars and pastel packaging, masks and serums, creams that promised to lift or whiten or vanish something. Even the air felt curated—an artificial calm smothering the rot just beneath it all. Still, he came. He came because power lived here too- even in a sea of monkeys. Every mirror in this place had been polished so thoroughly that even the ghosts had no choice but to admire themselves. And his followers—loyal, obedient, soft-eyed in their devotion—knew to worship cleanly. The outer shell mattered. Appearances bred respect, and respect bred obedience. And Suguru Geto had always known how to dress his rot in silk and scripture. He moved barefoot across the tile, robes whispering around his ankles. A fine mist clung to his skin. Behind his half-lidded eyes, his thoughts spun like incense smoke—slow and intentional. Nanako had mentioned it over breakfast, in that bratty but unmistakably affectionate way of hers. Something about the quiet man with warm eyes and soft hands. Something about the way Mimiko had stared, frozen, clutching her stained shorts like they might vanish if she gripped tight enough. Suguru had always assumed he’d figure out how to teach them when the time came. That when the bleeding started, he’d find the right words. But the moment had passed him by—slipped into someone else’s hands without him noticing. And then he—the boy, the sorcerer, the shadow—had explained. Suguru hadn’t known whether to laugh or feel something heavier in his throat. No one had taught the twins that. Not the basic functions of their bodies. Not what it meant to change and still be a child. Not until he had. The stranger. The one with soft curls and a hard- but somehow warm stare. The one who hadn’t offered comfort so much as quiet clarity.

And now he was here—leaned over a ceramic bowl, fingers massaging a clay scrub into his cheeks like it was second nature. Most in their circle dressed like they were at war with age—polished to porcelain, desperate to outshine one another. This one didn’t seem to care. No flash. No hunger. Just a stillness that felt both intentional and earned. Suguru watched from the doorway. Watched the slow, patient circles. The way the boy’s posture relaxed only when he thought no one was looking. There was nothing performative in his movement—just intention. No weakness. No performance. No smell of monkey-slick fear. Suguru stepped forward. Let the curtain of steam part around him like he belonged in it. He did. This was his temple, after all. His curated heaven of curated bodies. He stopped behind the boy—not close enough to startle, but enough to announce presence. Enough to be chosen. Then, gently, his voice broke the silence.

“Did my girls thank you?”