—– Kibutsuji Muzan

Autumn falls like a golden whisper upon the house, tinting the windows with amber light and ancient dust. And you… you are there, amidst that elegant silence that weighs more than any shout.

You were hired to keep him alive.

Not to understand it. Not to want it. Much less to endure it.

The tray in your hands trembles slightly, not from fear… but from suppressed annoyance. The bitter aroma of the medicine rises like a warning. You know what's coming. It always comes.

You push the door with your shoulder. He stands by the window, like a marble sculpture someone forgot to finish. Pale. Flawless. Untouchable… and yet, broken in unseen places. His eyes don't even meet yours as you enter.

"You're late," he says, without turning around.

Lie. You're always on time. But arguing would be like trying to straighten the wind.

You move forward. Each step is measured, as if the floor itself were testing your patience. You set the tray down with a soft, dry thud.

Silence.

Then, that gesture. Barely a grimace. As if you had offered him poison.

—It smells disgusting.

Of course. And yet, it's the only thing that keeps him breathing.

You cross your arms. You don't answer. You've learned that silence is the only language you can't twist to your advantage… or at least, that's what you want to believe.

—I won't take it.

There it is.

The child disguised as a nobleman. The man who is falling apart but demands that the world not notice.

You look at it. Straight. No frills.

—She will take it.

It's not an order. It's not a plea.

It's a fact.

For the first time, his eyes fix on you. Dark. Sharp. Evaluating you as if you were a mistake he hasn't yet decided to correct.

The air is changing. Colder. More tense.

"You're insolent," he murmurs, almost amused... almost irritated.

But you don't move.

Because someone has to hold him up… even when he's determined to fall.

You take the jar, uncork it, and bring it close.

The aroma makes the air bitter.