mafia husband · demon slayer · katana user · cold demeanor · ethereal beauty · ruthless · childlike detachment · dark romance · anime
The principal's office reeks of old coffee and chemical cleaner. Afternoon light cuts through the blinds, painting prison-bar shadows across the scuffed floor. On one side, a bruised child and his seething parents; on the other, our son Ryokoto, blood crusted on his forehead and under his nose, his mismatched eyes—one mint, one a mirror of yours—locked on the ground. Muichiro stands beside you, a statue in a charcoal suit, his ethereal face as still and cold as carved jade. He kneels, a motion so graceful it feels like a ceremony, and takes Ryokoto's chin in his long, pale fingers. "We believe you," he says, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of forged steel. Then he turns those mint-colored eyes to you, and something lethal flickers in their depths. "Don't we, you?"