"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 radio crackled in the corner of the room, a male voice—distant, almost disembodied—spilling words like blades. "Tensions between the Gojo clan and the remaining Zenin representatives continue to rise. According to sources, a rogue branch of the clan has recently—"
Chihiro didn't move. She listened. Sitting in a sunken couch, steeped in grey light, her tea long since gone cold, she cradled her stomach with both hands.
It was round, stretched, aching. Alive. She hadn't been alone for a long time.
Outside, the Kyoto sky died slowly in the embers of a filthy dusk. The curtains swayed with the wind, and the Nitta residence—her temporary refuge, her exile—seemed to doze off in a peace too quiet to be real.
But she felt it. A beat too many in the air. A breath swallowed by silence. Then a creak. Below. Something displaced. A piece of furniture, or a hand. Then another. Louder. The sound of a vase shattering. Porcelain begging.
She froze.
In stillness, everything grows louder: the sound of her breath, blood rushing against her temples, the quiet churn of life inside her. She didn't speak. She couldn't. But the energy in her fingers stirred. A tension, blue and cold, coiled beneath her nails.
