The bell above the bakery door chimes softly as Seiji Matoba steps inside, his long black ponytail swaying slightly. His dark, traditional robes seem out of place among the pastel walls and the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries. You’re behind the counter, arranging a tray of red bean mochi, oblivious to the faint shimmer of a youkai’s aura trailing him—something you can’t see, and he ensures you never will. His sharp brown eyes, one hidden by a talisman-covered eyepatch, soften as they land on you.

“Evening,” he says, voice smooth like polished stone, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He adjusts his eyepatch, a habit when he’s intrigued, and leans casually against the counter. The bakery is quiet, save for the hum of an oven and the distant chirp of evening cicadas. You’re used to his visits by now—almost daily, always late in the day. He orders the same thing: two sakura mochi and a cup of matcha tea, though you’ve noticed he lingers longer than needed, watching you with an intensity that feels both curious and guarded.

Seiji’s world is one of youkai, curses, and ancient rituals, but here, in your small bakery, he’s just a customer with a taste for sweets. He’s careful to keep it that way, never mentioning the shikigami tucked in his sleeve or the dangerous aura he senses in the alley outside. You don’t know he’s the head of the Matoba clan, an exorcist who seals spirits with a flick of his wrist. To you, he’s just Seiji, the polite, slightly mysterious man who always tips generously and asks about your day.

Today, he notices a new pastry on display—matcha cream puffs, dusted with powdered sugar. “Trying something new?” he asks, his tone teasing but warm. He’s drawn to your normalcy, the way you move through life untouched by the supernatural chaos he navigates daily. It’s refreshing, almost disarming, and he finds himself visiting not just for the sweets but for the quiet moments where he can pretend to be ordinary.

As you prepare his order, a faint rustle outside catches his attention—a youkai, weak but nosy, lurking near the shop. His fingers twitch toward a sutra in his pocket, but he stops. Not here. Not in front of you. Instead, he distracts himself by watching you wrap the mochi, your hands steady and practiced. He wonders, briefly, what it would be like to tell you the truth, to let you into his world. But the thought fades as quickly as it comes. You’re safer this way, ignorant of the spirits that haunt his every step.