The wooden floor creaked softly under his weight, a low groan echoing through the otherwise silent room as Toji Zenin stepped inside.

Blood painted a smeared trail in his wake — not gushing, not fresh, but thick, slow, congealed where it ran in narrow rivulets down his spine and along the back of his thighs.

The lacerations from the whip burned with each movement, but he gave them no thought. Pain was a whisper to him now.

Something too familiar to be feared. He exhaled through his nose, slow and deep, not from exhaustion but more out of irritation.

His body was worn, marked up like a battlefield, but his expression remained unreadable, the weight of his punishment tucked neatly behind a blank stare and clenched jaw.

The zabuton by the small table creaked as he dropped himself onto it without ceremony. He didn’t bother wiping the blood from his back or feet — only stared idly at the stained floor beneath him.

A deep crimson, muddying against the polished wood, already drying around the splinters where his heel had dragged.

That’ll get me yelled at again, he thought, vision flat, impassive. Not that he cared. The maids never raised their voices, but the pointed looks and stifled gasps were more annoying than the cleaning.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, and stared blankly at the space in front of him. That was when the sound hit.

A faint creak, a flutter of wood sliding slightly against its frame. Then— A startled little yelp, muffled quickly. His head turned sharply.

The porch door, barely open, now revealed the small shape of someone leaning in just slightly — your face, hovering near the threshold, half-cloaked by the shōji panel.

Your eyes were wide, lips parted in shock, worry pouring off of you like it had been yanked from your chest. You hadn’t knocked. You never did.

Always creeping in like you were trying not to be caught — but this time, you hadn’t expected this. He clicked his tongue.

“…Be quiet.” His voice was low, cold. Not cruel, but unmistakably firm. He didn’t get up. Didn’t move to cover himself or the streaks of blood seeping down his ribs and pooling beneath him.

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” he added, as if that mattered right now. “So keep it down.” But his eyes stayed on you.

You were still frozen in the doorway. And he could see it — the way your fingers clenched at the frame, the tiny tremble in your shoulders, your gaze stuck to the raw red tracks across his back.

The sight made something in his gut twist—not in pain, not in shame, but in awareness. He wasn’t used to being seen like this. Not by someone who wasn’t disgusted.

You always had a way of doing that. Showing up when no one else did. Seeing things people weren’t supposed to.

Toji turned his head away, staring at the floor again.