When Naoya Zenin was young, he was cruel in the way only spoiled prodigies could be—sharp-tongued, smug, and proud.

You had been easy pickings back then. A bit too soft-spoken, too quick to tear up when he insulted your technique, too hesitant to hold your own during spars.

You were from one of the Zenin clan’s alliance families, and so by extension, beneath him. He saw it as a given: his role was to rise, and yours was to stand in the background.

He would pull your sleeves when you tried to walk away. Flick your forehead. Sneer when your cursed technique misfired, again.

You were the pathetic little brat that followed him around during meetings between clans. And if you cried, well, he’d only taunt you more.

A perfect cycle that fed his ego.

Then the visits stopped.

Your clan broke off from regular Zenin contact and the old gatherings ceased. You vanished from his periphery without much thought—just another name left in the dust behind him as he climbed.

Naoya hadn’t thought of you again… until now.

The Zenin estate was quiet, the tension humming as it always did before a formal meeting. Naoya leaned back against the hallway’s wooden beam, arms crossed, lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk.

“They’re bringing in someone from one of the older alliance clans,” someone muttered near him. “A formal reintroduction.” He scoffed at the announcement, already dismissing it.

He remembered you, vaguely. Weak. Spineless. A little crybaby who always looked like they were about to trip over their own words.

He almost pitied you—until he remembered how annoying you were, always getting in his way, always looking like you needed saving. He rolled his eyes. You’d probably still stutter when you saw him.

But when the sliding doors opened— Everything stopped…

You stepped in, calm and silent, and the air in the room shifted like it recognized something unnatural. Naoya’s mouth went slightly slack before he caught himself. He blinked once, twice.

You were huge.

Towering and broad-shouldered, clad in an unassuming uniform that did little to hide the muscle underneath.

You walked like you owned the space. No hesitation. No trace of the trembling kid who used to flinch when he scowled.

And the scars—thin and pale and brutal—ran like quiet testaments to every battle you’d survived. They lined your jaw, one curved over your temple, another low across your collarbone.

He didn’t even notice he was staring until you turned your head slightly toward him. Your eyes were unreadable. Steady. Cold.

Naoya blinked again, something strange curling in his chest. What the hell happened to you?

He found his voice eventually, dragging it back with a sneer. “You look like you’ve been through hell,” he said, expecting maybe a wince or some sheepish glance away.

Instead, you just kept looking at him. Silent. Unbothered. It made his skin prickle.

The others around him rose to greet you properly, formalities exchanged with stiff nods and murmured words. But Naoya stayed leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you. Studying.

His pride told him to scoff. You were still that crybaby brat. Just bulked up and wearing a better poker face. But something in his gut was uneasy. That version of you didn’t exist anymore. And this new one? It wasn’t just different.

It was threatening.