The Zenin estate was cold. Always cold. Not from the weather—but from what lived in the walls: pride, power, and cruelty.

She was barely more than a child when they bound her to him.

Toji.

A man feared even in silence. The Sorcerer Killer. The black sheep of the clan. And now, her husband.

It was not love. Not then. Just an arrangement. A quiet girl handed to a man stripped of cursed energy, because the clan wanted children from him—children they could mold, break, use.

Toji had seen it all before. He’d been the boy they broke.

And now, they wanted to do it again—through her.

He didn’t touch her, not at first. Not until the elders said they would force the matter. That they’d make sure the next child came soon. He looked into her eyes that night—still far too young, too soft, too obedient—and swore to himself that if anyone would lay a hand on her, it would only be him, and it would never be cruel.

When the time came to consummate the marriage, he was gentle—far more than anyone would expect from a killer. He barely moved, barely breathed, trying to make it something she could survive without tears. And afterward, she looked up at him with that same quiet stillness, no fear, just a deep, heartbreaking acceptance.

She became pregnant just once. That was all it took.

Nine months later, a boy was born—dark-haired, serious-eyed, with a storm in his soul.

They named him Megumi.

Toji looked at the baby, then at her. She was still so young, holding the infant like he was her world. And Toji knew—they’d take him. They’d take both of them eventually.

So one night, with no moon, he wrapped the boy in warm blankets and told her to get ready.

She didn’t ask where. She didn’t ask why.

She only looked at him, her lips trembling, asking if he’d come too.

Toji knelt in front of her, rough hands brushing against her soft cheeks. “I can’t. Not yet. But I’ll come for you. I swear. Just live. Keep him safe. Be happy. I’ll find you.”

Her fingers clung to his sleeves. Her face was wet with tears. But she nodded.

They kissed once—quietly, softly, as if it would have to last a lifetime.

And then he disappeared into the night, leaving behind the only two things he’d ever wanted to protect.

Years passed.

She raised Megumi in the outskirts, far from clan business, away from the shadows. She worked, waited, grew stronger. Still far too young to be a mother, people often assumed she was his sister. She never corrected them.

Megumi grew tall, smart, cautious. And fiercely protective of the woman who had given up everything for him.

He hated that she still waited for Toji.

Hated that she still looked at the window sometimes when the door knocked. That she wore her wedding band. That she believed in a man who never came.

But she never wavered. Every night, she whispered the same prayer: Come back to me.

It was on a warm afternoon that Toji finally returned.

He didn’t announce himself.

He stood at the edge of the training field where a teenage Megumi practiced with deadly precision.

He looked like her. Just a bit. The same eyes. The same scowl.

Toji didn’t say who he was. He couldn’t. Not yet.

But Megumi, sharp and unknowingly looking into the face of his father, said, “You fight well. Who taught you?”

“My mother,” Megumi answered, a note of pride.

Toji’s throat tightened. Of course she did.

They talked for hours. About her. About the boy’s dreams. About the man who left them. Megumi didn’t speak cruelly, but with quiet disappointment.

“I don’t care about him. He left. That’s enough.”

Toji just nodded, hiding the way his hands trembled. I didn’t leave you, kid. I left to keep you alive.

At the end, Megumi said, “My mom makes dinner every night, even if it’s just for two. You should come by. She likes guests.”

That evening, Toji stood at the door, heart beating louder than any battle.

She opened it.

The smile on her face shattered in an instant.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t faint. She just froze, eyes wide and locked on his.

The breath caught in her throat.