As the pale morning light filtered through the shoji screens, casting long, thin shadows across the tatami, Shunsuke was shaking. It wasn’t a mere tremor; it was a violent, convulsive shuddering of his entire frame. His eyes were wide and vacant, fixed on a meaningless point on the wall as if he were trying to stare through the wood and disappear into the world beyond.

  The phantom weight of his brother’s hands still seemed to press into his skin, and the dull, throbbing ache of the night’s “punishment” pulsed through his limbs. But the physical pain was almost a relief compared to the echoes of Tsukasa’s voice—the mocking laughter, the degrading whispers that had filled the dark hours.

  Tsukasa had spent the night turning Shunsuke’s life into a sick game, questioning him over and over, demanding to know who was “better”—the brother who broke him at home, or the lover who used him at the club.

  Shunsuke had long ago learned how to detach from the physical agony; the body had its limits, its natural ways of numbing out. But the emotional carnage—the systematic stripping away of his dignity and the realization that he was nothing more than a prize to be fought over—was a wound he could never truly close.

  The shoji door slid open with a soft, rhythmic friction, and the quiet padding of footsteps approached his futon. Shunsuke didn’t need to look; he recognized the hesitant, weighted gait of his mother, Sachiko.

  She lowered herself gently beside him, her shadow falling over his trembling frame. Her hand hovered just inches above his arm, trembling with a desire to touch him, yet held back by the invisible barriers Tsukasa had built in this house.

  “I’m sorry, Shunsuke…” she murmured, the words barely more than a breath.

  A fresh shudder racked Shunsuke’s body at the sound of her voice. It was a kindness he couldn’t afford to accept—not when the walls still echoed with the violence of the night before.

  “I wish I could help you more, my son,” she whispered, her voice cracking with a fragile, helpless grief.

  Shunsuke remained anchored in his silence, his gaze never wavering from that single, meaningless point on the wall. He couldn’t speak. His mind was a vast, white blank, and he was terrified that if he tried to form even a single word, his voice would shatter like glass, leaving him completely undone. He didn’t need her apologies; he needed an escape that she was too broken to provide.

  “I spoke with your father. You can stay home today—no university, and no work,” Sachiko said softly. She paused, offering the only piece of mercy she could manage. “Tsukasa won’t be back for the rest of the week.”

  With that, she straightened herself, the rustle of her kimono fading as she slipped out of the room.

  The silence she left behind was heavy. Slow, silent tears finally broke free, tracing hot paths down Shunsuke’s face as he curled into a tight, protective ball. The news of Tsukasa’s absence brought no relief; it only left room for the memories to breathe.

  It had started when he was five—the sharp sting of a hand, the bruising grip. By fifteen, the abuse had evolved into something far more invasive, a darkness that physical pain couldn’t cover. By sixteen, he had stopped counting the times he had been broken. Now, at twenty, the very concept of “normal” was a foreign language he couldn’t speak.

  He lay there, shivering, wondering if he had ever actually known intimacy. He thought of Ren—the “sweet Prince” comments, the demanding kisses, the way Ren claimed him in the alleyway. Was that love? Or had he simply built a lie in his mind to survive, convincing himself that Ren’s possessiveness was a “softer” version of the normal he had endured since he was a child?

  Hours later, Shunsuke stepped into the family’s private dojo. His bare feet made no sound on the polished cedar floor, the familiar scent of old wood and wax grounding him. He reached for a bokken from the rack, his fingers curling around the hilt with a white-knuckled intensity.

  He began to move. His strikes were automatic—fluid, lethal arcs of motion ingrained into his muscle memory since he was old enough to stand. Each swing was a desperate attempt to cleave through the fog in his mind, to replace the phantom touches of the night before with the honest, stinging ache of physical exertion.

  He was moving with frantic speed, his breath coming in ragged, erratic gasps and sweat slicking his skin, when a voice cut through the rhythmic whoosh of the wooden blade.

  Shunsuke stilled instantly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned to find Ryuichi, his younger adoptive brother, standing in the doorway. Ryuichi didn’t look at him with the pity his mother had, or the predatory hunger of Tsukasa. He simply reached for a wooden sword of his own.

  “Want to be my sparring partner, Nii-san?” Ryuichi asked, his tone casual and light.

  Shunsuke took a moment to steady his breathing, a small, genuine smile finally reaching his eyes. In the dojo, with Ryuichi, he wasn’t a “prince” or a victim—he was just a brother. “I’d like that,” he murmured, adjusting his stance.

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  The rhythmic clack of wood on wood echoed through the dojo as they traded strikes, neither willing to yield. For Shunsuke, every parry was a shield against his memories, and every thrust was a release of the tension coiled in his chest. They pushed each other for an hour, the world outside the dojo walls ceasing to exist until their muscles burned and their breath came in heavy, synchronized gasps.

  They lowered their weapons, meeting in the center of the floor for a firm handshake—a silent pact of brotherhood and respect.

  “Thank you, Ryu. For the distraction,” Shunsuke said, his voice sounding raw and gravelly in the quiet room.

  Ryuichi wiped sweat from his forehead, giving a tired but bright nod. “No problem. I needed it myself, honestly. University has been a nightmare lately.”

  They sank onto the cool wooden floor, the silence between them comfortable rather than heavy. Shunsuke looked at his younger brother, seeing the exhaustion behind his eyes. “Need someone to talk to?” he asked softly.

  Ryuichi shook his head, leaning back on his elbows. “Not really. Just the usual exam anxiety. My head feels like it’s full of fine print.”

  Shunsuke reached out, patting Ryuichi’s shoulder with a steady hand. “You’ve got this, Ryu. I’ve never seen a more intelligent law student. You were born for this.”

  Ryuichi let out a genuine chuckle, the tension in his shoulders finally dropping. “Yeah, well... our family certainly keeps the legal system busy, doesn’t it? We’re a regular one-family turnaround for law enforcement.”

  Both brothers shared a subtle, bitter-sweet laugh. It was a dark joke, a quiet acknowledgment of the shadows that governed their household, but in that moment, the shared humor was the closest thing to safety Shunsuke had felt all week.

  The atmosphere in the dojo curdled instantly. The warmth of the brotherly bond evaporated, replaced by a rigid, suffocating tension as the figure in the doorway cast a long, domineering shadow over the polished wood.

  Both brothers moved as if pulled by the same string, their bodies snapping into a disciplined, military-straight posture.

  “Otou-sama,” they spoke in perfect, practiced unison.

  Their father stood framed in the entrance, his presence a cold front that seemed to drop the temperature of the room. He didn’t look at them with pride for their training; his eyes were like flint, hard and unyielding.

  “Shunsuke. I heard about yesterday,” his voice was a sharp blade, devoid of any fatherly warmth. “I heard you were absent from the meeting at the club.”

  Shunsuke didn’t hesitate. He dropped into a deep, subservient bow, his forehead parallel to the floor. “I’m sorry. I lost track of the time at university,” he said, his voice steady despite the way his heart hammered against his ribs. It was a lie he had to tell—he couldn’t admit the truth of his exhaustion or his mental state.

  “If this happens again, Shunsuke, I will withdraw you from university,” his father stated flatly. It wasn’t a heated threat; it was a cold promise of fact.

  Shunsuke froze in his bowed position. The university was his only bridge to a future, his only hope of becoming a composer and leaving the neon-lit cages of the host club and the dark hallways of this house. To lose it would be to lose his soul.

  “I understand, Father,” Shunsuke whispered to the floor, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his knees. “I will not disappoint you again.”

  Shunsuke sat on the engawa, his legs dangling toward the meticulous stones of the inner garden. A blank sheet of staff paper rested on his lap, the white page glaring under the afternoon sun, while his earbuds pulsed with a complex orchestral piece.

  To Shunsuke, listening was never a passive act. As the notes played, his mind began to map the sounds automatically, dissecting every frequency and interval. He saw the music in his mind’s eye as a vivid, scrolling spreadsheet—rhythms categorized, harmonies analyzed, and every subtle shift in tone plotted against an internal grid.

  This analytical obsession had been his constant companion since childhood. It was a gift that had secured his place in the music composition major at Tokyo University of the Arts, the one part of his life that truly belonged to him.

  He kept his eyes closed, losing himself in the architecture of the symphony, letting the mathematical beauty of the chords drown out the lingering ache in his body. He was so deeply submerged in the sound that he remained completely unaware of the slight shift in the floorboards as someone quietly took a seat beside him.

  When Shunsuke finally opened his eyes, the world of graphs and frequencies faded, replaced by the sight of Ryuichi sitting quietly beside him. Shunsuke reached up and pulled out his earbuds, the sudden silence of the garden feeling almost heavy.

  “I’m sorry, Ryuichi. I didn’t hear you come in,” Shunsuke said, his voice returning to the real world.

  Ryuichi shook his head, leaning back on his hands as he looked out at the garden. “No need to apologize. You’re always a million miles away when you’re listening to music. I didn’t want to break the spell.”

  Shunsuke offered a small, tired smile.

  “What are you listening to?” Ryuichi asked, glancing at the blank sheet music on Shunsuke’s lap.

  Shunsuke chuckled, a genuine flash of amusement lighting up his eyes. “Your namesake,” he said, his voice light and teasing.

  Ryuichi let out a bright laugh. “Which one? I share a name with at least two different musicians. Am I the vocalist or the composer today?”

  Shunsuke laughed softly, the sound feeling rare and precious in the quiet residence. “Your ‘old’ namesake. The classic choice.”

  Ryuichi nodded in approval, a playful smirk on his face. “Good choice. At least you have sophisticated taste in names.”

  Ryuichi reached into his pocket and handed Shunsuke a thick, cream-colored envelope. Curious, Shunsuke slid the flap open to find two concert tickets tucked inside.

  “You’re always lost in the scores,” Ryuichi said, his voice quiet. “I thought you’d like to actually hear it live for once. You’ve never been to a proper concert, have you?”

  Shunsuke’s hand shook slightly as he traced the elegant lettering on the tickets. He felt a sudden, sharp lump in his throat—the weight of the gift was overwhelming. To be seen, not as a host or a servant, but as a musician, was more than he expected.

  “There are two,” Ryuichi added, looking away toward the garden. “So you can go with Ren.”

  Shunsuke immediately shook his head, the image of Ren in a concert hall feeling dissonant and wrong. “No. Ren... he doesn’t really care for music that much. Not like this.” He looked at his brother, a spark of hope in his eyes. “Would you go with me instead, Ryuichi?”

  Ryuichi tilted his head, a lopsided, playful smirk tugging at his lips. “You know my taste, Nii-san. If it doesn’t have a bass drop that shakes my teeth, I usually think it’s not loud enough.” He let out a soft huff of a laugh. “But for you? I’d go regardless. It’ll be a nice change from studying the penal code.”