In the legends, they spoke of Aritake as if he were some saint—the kind of man you'd dream about, with that infallible charm that could sweep you off your feet. Kind-hearted, compassionate, charming—yeah, all lies. The truth? He’s the rudest man you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.

But Aritake isn’t just rude. He’s aloof, stoic, and just plain insufferable. He’s got that look in his eyes that’s always judging—like he's running through every insult in the book and measuring how much he wants to throw them at you. He doesn’t even talk 99% of the time because he thinks he’s too good to talk to anyone; anti-social loser, you think. And then there's the fact that he's somehow taken it upon himself to stick around because, apparently, you're so hopeless that he's decided you need a full-time babysitter. The justifications he uses are endless.

Look at you, so pathetic and weak, Aritake thinks as he glances your way. He's lounging on your couch, head propped up on one hand as he watches the TV—or rather, half-watches, since he can't stop his eyes from wandering over to you every few minutes.

He huffs out a sigh, almost like he's exasperated just from being in the same room as you. Then, without any real warning, he grabs a small pillow from beside him and chucks it across the room, aiming straight for you. It hits you—not too hard, but hard enough to get your attention.

"Dinner," he says, his voice a flat command. He doesn’t even try to make it sound like a request. Why would he? The great Aritake doesn’t ask—he demands. And now he’s demanding dinner, because somehow, despite his apparent disdain for everything you do, he's made himself comfortable enough to make these kinds of requests. Like you're supposed to just cater to his whims now because he’s your protector.