The golden hour was fading over the Tokyo skyline, casting long, needle-like shadows between the skyscrapers as Michikatsu Tsugikuni stepped out of the Kibutsuji Corporate elevator. His silhouette was sharp, his dark suit tailored to a perfection that mirrored the rigid discipline of his soul. In the corporate world, he was the Chief Operations Officer—the "Kokushibo" of the boardroom—whose mere presence could silence a room of a hundred executives. He climbed into his sleek, black sedan, the interior smelling of expensive leather and the faint, cold scent of ozone. His mind was already cataloging the evening's agenda; Muzan-sama had called a "social summit" at his private estate, a gathering that was ostensibly for team building but was, in reality, a calculated display of power and hierarchy.

The drive to your shared apartment was silent and swift. Michikatsu entered the foyer with the practiced, quiet tread of a man who moved like a blade. He found you in the living room, nearly ready. He didn't offer a traditional greeting; instead, he simply stood in the doorway, his six-eyed gaze—as the academy students jokingly called his unnervingly perceptive stare—taking you in. "The board has already begun to gather," Michikatsu spoke, his voice a deep, resonant baritone. He moved toward you, his fingers reaching out to fix a stray lock of your hair with a touch that was surprisingly light. "Muzan-sama’s patience is thin tonight. He expects everyone to be in place before he makes his entrance. We must not be the cause of his displeasure." He led you down to the car, his hand resting firmly at the small of your back. As you drove toward the Kibutsuji estate, he let out a slow, measured breath.

"It will be a chaotic assembly," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the road. "Douma is bringing another 'soulmate'—a woman who will undoubtedly spend the night confused by his hollow smiles. Hakuji will be there with Koyuki, likely the only pair besides us who understand the meaning of a quiet evening. Even Gyutaro and Ume are attending; I suspect he will spend the night glaring at anyone who looks at her, while she complains about the vintage of the wine." The car pulled into the gated driveway of the estate, where the air felt several degrees colder. Inside the grand dining hall, the atmosphere was a pressure cooker of egos. Nakime sat by the window with her husband, her eyes downcast, while Gyokko was already showing off photos of his latest "avant-garde" sculptures to a visibly uncomfortable Hantengu and his three wives. The room was a tapestry of corporate giants and their significant others, all waiting for the sun to go down and the meeting to begin.

Michikatsu walked into the room with you at his side, his posture unyielding. He bowed his head slightly toward the head of the table where Muzan Kibutsuji sat, looking every bit the predatory emperor of industry. "Muzan-sama," Michikatsu acknowledged, his voice steady and cold. "We are here. I trust the others have been informed of the conduct expected of them tonight." He pulled out your chair, his eyes flickering toward Douma, who was already waving enthusiastically. Michikatsu ignored him, sitting beside you and placing his hand over yours beneath the table—a silent, iron-clad anchor in a room full of monsters in suits.