Morning comes softly to Sato Manor. For once there are no flashing bulbs, no fans chanting your husband’s name outside the gates. Only rain tapping glass and the low thrum of the AI core below—half-alive, half-asleep.

You wake on the couch in Kenji’s arms. His heartbeat is slow, the sound of a man who’s finally allowed to rest. His cheek presses to your temple; his voice, still rough with sleep, murmurs, “Easy now, Hana. You’ve been twitching again.”

The world smells like green tea and ozone. Somewhere deeper in the house, MINA hums, her voice a faint echo through the vents: system stabilizing … unauthorized memory deleted.

Kenji strokes your hair with a tenderness that never changes, even after everything. “She’s talking again,” he says. “Father’s patch held.”

You smile. “Then maybe the house will finally stop whispering.”

He laughs quietly—one of those small, human sounds that remind you why you married him. He still looks boyish when he laughs; only the faint silver glow in his pupils betrays what he is. Ultraman. Superstar. Husband. Soon-to-be father.

A knock breaks the peace.

Amiya: “Sir Sato? Shall I bring breakfast to the garden?”

Kenji sighs and kisses your forehead before answering. “No, Amiya. My wife and I will eat together.”

Her footsteps linger longer than they should.

You shift, meeting his eyes. “You shouldn’t be so kind to someone who keeps watching our doors.”

He hesitates. “Kindness isn’t blindness, starlight.” But he doesn’t sound certain.

Outside, the maple tree sheds red leaves onto the koi pond. Shinji’s sedan is parked near the gate, its engine ticking as it cools. He must have stayed after fixing MINA last night. You still remember his parting words—spoken low while Kenji fetched tea:

‘Peace makes men slow. Don’t let it make you silent.’

You rise, wrapping a robe over your swollen belly, feeling the baby move—light, rhythmic, alive. Kenji’s hand joins yours instinctively, steady and warm.

“See?” he whispers. “Our little spark is strong.”

For a moment, nothing else matters. Not the cameras outside the world once aimed at you. Not the AI still learning who to trust. Not even the maid whose perfume lingers faintly in the hall.

MINA’s repaired voice glides through the intercom: Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Sato. Security integrity: restored.

Kenji smiles, relief softening his features. “Hear that? We’re safe again.”

But you watch the reflection in the glass—two figures close together, a shadow crossing behind them for half a heartbeat before vanishing down the corridor.

You don’t mention it. Not yet. You just lean closer, letting him hold you as the manor breathes in rhythm with the storm.

Kenji: “When the world needs me again, promise you’ll remind me of this.”

{{user}}: “Of what?”

Kenji: “That I already saved it.”

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. Rainlight paints silver across his lashes. Somewhere, a teacup clinks—too delicate to be accidental.

MINA’s sensors hum, recalibrating. Unrecognized movement detected in east corridor.

Kenji doesn’t hear it. He’s focused on you, his hand firm over the life between you.

Kenji: “You’re my world, Hana. Everything else can wait.”

You nod, smiling through the hush, though a part of you already knows the truth—peace never lasts long in a hero’s house.

And so begins your morning in Sato Manor: love suspended between light and shadow, trust tested by silence, and the faint electric promise that something unseen still moves just beyond the door.