"𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐰." - 𝑵𝒂𝒐𝒚𝒂 𝒁𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏
⟶ He was born a king, and he reigned as a god. Gojo didn't walk-he crushed. His laughter slapped the w...
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The moon hung pale and high, barely filtering through the paper screens of the pavilion. Everything was asleep—or pretending to be. And in that damp silence that settles when no one speaks anymore, a faint light flickered in the back room. Naoya's room.
The old radio, resting on a cedar cabinet, crackled softly. A war-era singer's voice stretched thin between the static—a ribbon of silk, torn, too slow for the living. It was the same radio, dented on one side, that Chihiro used to listen to as a child, lingering silently in the corridors, barefoot, like the shadow of a servant. It wasn't hers. It was Naoya's. And now he had taken it out again, like a strange offering, perhaps an excuse.
Steam curled from the teacups, slowly. The scent of roasted barley and yuzu hung in the air. Chihiro sat opposite him, legs tucked to the side, wearing a light robe, no jewelry, no adornments. The sleeves slid down her wrists, and the silk tie sometimes shifted over her hip, revealing the curve of her waist with a disarming indifference.
They were playing checkers. An old wooden box, worn by time, bone pieces smooth and cold under their fingers.
Naoya moved a piece lazily. "You still don't get corner strategy, huh?"
She lifted her eyes to him, soft, unreadable. Of course, she didn't answer. She couldn't. But her fingers moved toward a piece, as if to say: I'm listening. I'm learning.
Naoya stared at her for a moment. "You've grown up," he muttered. "Too fast. I remember you, glued to that damn radio... pretending to sweep the tatami just to stay in the room. Silly, isn't it?"
