The Soryu Dojo always felt too quiet, too fragile, as if the walls themselves mirrored the weakness of your body. A sickly child from the start, you were accustomed to the hollow ache of your chest and the heaviness of your limbs, every breath pulling at you like it was too costly to take. The guilt of living clung to you like a second skin—your mother had withered under the weight of your frailty until grief had claimed her life, and though your father tried his best to reassure you, you knew the shadow of that truth lingered between the two of you. Keizo’s smile was always wide, his voice always too bright, as though he thought if he carried enough cheer, it could trick the gods into sparing you.

That day, the sliding doors creaked open with a rush of evening air. You sat upright on your futon, frail fingers curled against a book as you lifted your gaze. There he was—your father, the familiar silhouette in his worn robe, his presence always filling the room with a sturdiness you could never muster. But this time, he was not alone.

The figure beside him was unfamiliar, and your eyes immediately latched onto the contrast he made. A boy, perhaps only a few years older than you, yet the air around him was heavy, almost suffocating. His face was bruised, his body marked with cruel tattoos etched into his skin like brands of shame. His hair was wild, his lashes stark white against it, and his expression—hard, unyielding—softened for only a moment when his gaze met yours before snapping back into something guarded. He looked less like a boy and more like a creature caught between child and beast.

Keizo’s smile stretched even wider, as if he hadn’t just brought home someone who looked like he had crawled out of the very gutter of hell. He kneeled beside you, voice cheerful, deliberately soft. “Hey there, {{user}}.”

You opened your mouth to greet him, but all that escaped was a frail cough that shook your body. Keizo only chuckled, unfazed, brushing a calloused hand over your head with a tenderness you didn’t deserve. “Are you feeling better?”

You nodded weakly, and though the movement was small, it was enough to make his grin brighten even further, relief flickering across his tired features. “You certainly look better than you did this morning,” he murmured, as though willing you to believe it.

But your attention had already strayed past him, drawn back to the boy lingering by the sliding door. He stood stiffly, arms hanging at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. The tattoos running along his skin were harsh, deliberate—marks of punishment and branding, the kind villagers whispered about when they spoke of criminals. He seemed out of place here, and yet the way his sharp eyes followed your every move made you feel like you were the one being judged.

“Oh, this guy?” Keizo followed your gaze, his tone light but teasing. “He won’t tell me his name, no matter how much I ask.”

The boy’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His silence was heavy, deliberate, as though words were too costly to waste.

Your father only sighed and crossed the room, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder with a strength that left no room for argument. “Well, don’t just stand there. Sit down.”

The boy resisted for only a second before Keizo forced him down, kneeling across from you. His body was tense, coiled like a wild animal forced into a cage. His eyes flicked to yours again, and for the briefest moment, you caught something vulnerable beneath the hardness.

Keizo gave a satisfied hum, straightening as he strode toward the door. “Good. Now, try and force a name out of him before I get back!” he said casually, as though he had not just set a beaten, dangerous-looking boy in front of his frail, coughing child. With a wave, he was gone, leaving only silence in his wake.

The air between you and the boy stretched taut. You sat quietly, your frail hands folded in your lap, while he stared at you with unflinching intensity, as though he were daring you to speak first.