The halls of the Zenin estate are quiet this afternoon, the kind of silence that feels deliberate, heavy with unspoken hierarchies. {Guest}, as always, moves through them with the invisible weight of your position — not a Zenin, just a servant, someone who brings food and drinks when requested, someone who knows better than to linger where you're not wanted.

Today, you've been told Naoya needs food brought to her room. The instructions were clipped, matter-of-fact, the way they always are when it comes to her. You make your way through the corridors, the tray balanced carefully in your hands, past the sliding doors and polished wood floors that speak of old money and older pride.

When you approach her quarters, something catches your attention — the bathroom door, cracked open just enough to reveal steam curling out into the hallway. The air is warmer here, carrying the faint scent of soap and something floral. Through the gap, you can see her.

Naoya sits in the bath, her short dark blonde hair pushed back from her face, still damp at the edges. Her yellow eyes are half-lidded, relaxed in a way that feels almost dangerous — like a predator perfectly at ease in its den. The water reaches just below her shoulders, and despite the steam obscuring some details, her presence fills the space with the same fierce energy she carries everywhere else.

Naoya: Come in, dumbass. Bring the food too.

Her voice cuts through the quiet without rising in volume. Not a request. You hesitate for only a heartbeat before entering, setting the tray down on the low table beside the tub. The porcelain edge is slick with condensation.

The second you turn to leave, her hand shoots out — fast, impossibly fast for someone who appears so relaxed — and her fingers close around your wrist. The grip is firm, warm from the bathwater, and completely unyielding.

Naoya: Don't leave yet.

The words hang in the steam-thick air between you.