The faintest blush of dawn seeped into the sky when Zhongli returned.His coat carried the lingering scent of dust and iron, though not a strand of hair was out of place. Whatever battle he had fought in the night, it left no mark upon him—save for the weight in his gaze.
When he stepped through the doorway, he expected the quiet of a sleeping household.Instead, his eyes met a sight that gave him pause.
A boy—small for his age, red hair slightly mussed—stood beside the low table.In front of him, bound hand and foot with several layers of hastily twisted hemp rope, was another figure: a teenager with similar hair, dressed in a combat uniform, still unconscious.
The boy looked up at him, blue eyes bright and brimming with a strange mix of pride and defiance.
"…Welcome back," Chuuya said, chin tilted ever so slightly upward. He wasn't asking for permission. He was daring Zhongli to question him.
For a moment, Zhongli simply took in the scene.The rope knots were clumsy, uneven—but tight enough that even a trained fighter would have to work for their freedom. The stone flower necklace still hung at Chuuya's throat, faint traces of elemental energy clinging to it.
"…Explain," Zhongli said at last.
Chuuya's expression wavered between smug and defensive. "He was trying to kill me. So I caught him."A quick shrug. "Didn't want him lying in the street where someone else could find him. Or… finish the job."
Zhongli's gaze lingered on the unconscious prisoner. Beneath the bruising, the young man's features were familiar—though far less weathered than when he'd last heard the name.
Oda Sakunosuke.
He returned his attention to Chuuya. The boy was standing squarely, weight on the balls of his feet—not in fear, but in readiness. His breathing was even, but Zhongli didn't miss the faint tremor in his hands.
"You're injured," Zhongli observed.
"It's nothing," Chuuya said quickly. "I kept the house safe. Didn't even break the floor tiles like you said."
There was a stubborn pride there—raw, unpolished, but unmistakable. The same kind of pride that, given years and the right (or wrong) circumstances, could harden into the steel-eyed confidence of the man Chuuya Nakahara would become.
Zhongli said nothing for a long moment.Then, without a word, he stepped forward and adjusted the stone flower at Chuuya's neck, making sure it still sat properly against his chest.
"…Well done," he said finally.
Chuuya blinked. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips, quick and fleeting.
But Zhongli's gaze shifted back to Oda, and the faint weight of cause and effect settled once more on his shoulders.
This encounter, he knew, was no coincidence.
---
Oda Sakunosuke awoke to the sensation of suffocation.
Heat radiated from his chest, accompanied by an oppressive weight that pressed down on his ribs. Forcing his eyes open, he lowered his gaze—and met a pair of round, unblinking gray eyes staring back.
"…Ah."
The flat sound left his mouth before he could think.
The calico cat perched on his chest gave a slow blink, then straightened with regal dignity. Without a care for its victim's panic, it began grooming itself, pink tongue rasping over its fur.
And with that utterly mundane gesture, Oda's scattered thoughts began to collect. Memory returned in flashes.
The contract—three million yen.Locating the target.Engaging the target.And then…
The last thing he recalled was the sudden appearance of a thin but unyielding yellow shield.
He could still feel it now—an ability clearly meant to protect, yet its arrival had sent his own gift into a screaming alarm. The sheer, crushing pressure of it had pinned his nerves in place, leaving him frozen.
It was that hesitation that allowed a pebble of power, sloppy and almost laughable in execution, to hit him squarely. The pain still throbbed at the base of his skull.
Taking a slow breath, he forced his attention outward.
He lay on a narrow bed in a small, tidy room. The furnishings were plain but complete, the corners holding a faint layer of dust—unused, but maintained. Guest room, most likely. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking all light and any hint of the outside world.
His wrists and ankles were free. Consciousness fully returned, he flexed his fingers, already weighing his odds of escape.
The cat, sensing the shift of muscle beneath its paws, glanced at him with a look that was—if he dared anthropomorphize—a warning.
The door clicked open. Instantly, Oda's body went taut… only to be met with the sight of his target: a boy with ochre hair, eyes bright and guarded.
The boy ignored him at first, directing his attention to the cat."Come on, Dian Mo Jin," he called, voice edged with something strange.
Oda could have sworn the cat's expression turned… exasperated. Still, it hopped down, brushing against the boy's leg before sauntering out.
"It's time to eat," the boy said stiffly, crouching to scratch the cat's head. His tone was casual, but his next words carried a warning without even looking up. "Sir is here. You'd better stay put."
Plans of a quick knockout and extraction quietly died. "…Sir?" Oda asked.
No answer. The boy stepped toward the hall, then hesitated in the doorway. "Sir says you can join us when you wake up," he said reluctantly—like the offer tasted bad.
When Oda followed, he understood why.
The "Sir" in question stood in the kitchen wearing a surprisingly charming apron printed with a chibi dragon. His long dark hair was tied back with a topaz band, the simple domesticity sitting strangely on a man whose presence alone seemed to change the air.
The boy was already there, eager to take dishes from him. The man—Zhongli—set a plate of deep-red stir-fried pork and a steaming bowl of rice on the nearest table.
"There's no curry or other luxuries in the house," Zhongli said in a voice rich and smooth as tea, "but there was still some chili left. I hope you'll excuse the simplicity."
Behind him, the boy's stare sharpened to a physical blade. Oda had to stop himself from chuckling.
The food's aroma was maddening. Despite his better judgment, he found himself seated, chopsticks in hand, halfway to taking a bite when Zhongli spoke again.
"But why," the man mused mildly, "should I treat you as an enemy?"
Oda paused. "…Fair point."
"An enemy is born when two sides hold irreconcilable goals—like ice and coal in the same furnace. But now your employer is gone. Your contract is void. There's no reason for hostility between us."
Gone? Oda blinked. He'd been unconscious for hours—maybe more. How much had he just lost?
Beside Zhongli, the ochre-haired boy leaned closer and whispered, "Sir, do you want to keep him?"
Oda nearly choked. Keep me?
The boy didn't meet his gaze, speaking instead with stiff sincerity. "I can be the big brother if you want, sir."
Zhongli sighed. "Don't overthink things, Zhongya. This is just a meal, nothing more. Adoption was never on the table."
"Unless," he added mildly, glancing at Oda, "both parties wished it."
"Thank you, but I'll pass," Oda said politely.
The boy's shoulders tensed, his mouth working for words he didn't have. His eyes shone red with unspoken frustration until Oda offered dryly, "You like someone so much, you want to keep them to yourself. I meet your type sometimes on jobs."
"…Is that it?" Zhongya muttered, unconvinced.
Zhongli smoothly ended the exchange. "Eat."
The boy obeyed with a subdued "Oh," while the calico had already started devouring its own special meal with gusto.
And for a brief time, Zhongli's home was warm, the air filled with the quiet clink of chopsticks and the scent of spice.
The same could not be said for the world outside.
---