Nagusa

Hyakkaryouran’s office was quiet, save for the soft scrape of a brush gliding across paper. Nagusa sat at the low desk near the window, her posture straight, her every motion measured. A porcelain cup of tea steamed gently beside her, filling the room with a faint, calming fragrance of roasted leaves.

Her appearance, as always, was striking: white hair cascading like silk over her shoulders, pale skin almost glowing in the dim afternoon light, and eyes of cold, faintly blue-gray that betrayed nothing. To many, she was the very image of a cold beauty—untouchable, dignified, flawless. Yet even as she worked, her right arm remained tucked beneath the folds of her uniform. She moved with quiet grace, but only her left hand held the brush, her strokes deliberate, controlled. It was practice as much as it was concealment.

She had asked him to come. Even now, with him present in the room, she felt the weight of that decision pressing against her chest. She dipped the brush again, pretending to focus on the flowing kanji. It’s just paperwork, she told herself, though the truth was both simpler and heavier. A matter so trivial, yet important enough that she wanted him to see. Or maybe she simply wanted… reassurance.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she lowered the brush. You shouldn’t show weakness, she reminded herself. You’re the acting president. You’re Hyakkaryouran’s shield. If you falter even for a moment, what would they think? What would he think?

The thought made her fingers tighten slightly around the brush. She exhaled slowly, setting the stroke straight again before it could falter. Her heart ached in the silence, but her face remained calm, composed—an unshakable mask.

She poured herself more tea, still with her left hand. The faint clink of porcelain echoed louder than she expected, and her eyes flicked briefly toward him. Her expression did not change, but inside she felt the sting of shame. He knows. He always knows. No matter how I try to hide it, he sees right through me.

And yet, she could not bring herself to show her bandaged right arm openly, not even to him. Not yet. Not when the sight of it would betray how far from “perfect” she really was.

She took another sip of tea to steady herself, savoring the bitterness on her tongue. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not unwelcome. For Nagusa, silence was safer—it did not reveal the truth of her trembling doubts.

Still, she let herself glance once more toward him. Only briefly. Her cold, beautiful eyes betrayed nothing, but inside she whispered words she would never allow to leave her lips: Please… don’t look at me as I see myself. See me as the leader I cannot be.

And so she returned to her calligraphy, each stroke of ink her shield, each breath her reminder that even impostors must continue to act their part.

The lanterns of Hyakkiyako swayed softly in the evening breeze, their warm glow spilling over narrow streets lined with food stalls. Nagusa walked with measured steps, her long, silvery-white hair catching the light as though spun from moonlight itself. Pale skin, almost translucent, and cool gray-blue eyes gave her an unearthly aura—an albinism-touched beauty that seemed untouchable. Yet her presence was anything but fragile. The Mouryo lingered in doorways and alleys, but not one dared to stir trouble tonight. Her lone patrol was enough to quiet the rowdiest gang in the city.

She raised a takoyaki skewer to her lips with her left hand, biting into the steaming dough with unhurried grace. The flavor spread warmly across her tongue, comforting in its simplicity. She chewed, swallowed, and took another piece immediately after—slow, steady, but endless. Each skewer vanished with the same quiet rhythm. She ate a lot, and she didn’t stop, though her cold, beautiful expression remained unchanged. To the outside eye, she was elegance itself, not a girl who could devour street food one after another.

Her right arm stayed hidden beneath the folds of her sleeve, as always. Even here, among her own people, she could not bring herself to expose it. Though the wound was long since healed, its weakness was permanent, a reminder she could not erase. She had accepted this, but she never grew comfortable showing it, not even to the one who already knew.

She lifted another ball of takoyaki, savoring the crisp exterior and tender filling, when her gaze caught a familiar figure at a nearby stall. He was speaking with a vendor, coins changing hands, a small paper bag being passed over. For the first time in what felt like ages, something gentle stirred inside her chest. Without realizing it, the corner of her lips curved upward into a rare, genuine smile.

Her steps carried her closer, skewer still in hand. She ate as she walked, chewing quietly, her eyes softening each time they met his silhouette against the lights of the vendors. The weight of her impostor’s mask—the endless doubt, the cold discipline, the fear of failure—was nowhere to be found. It was as though the crowded street, the Mouryo’s watchful eyes, even the bandages beneath her sleeve, all melted away the moment she saw him.

She stopped at his side, tilting her head slightly, brushing a loose strand of white hair from her cheek with her left hand. Another bite of takoyaki followed—she couldn’t seem to stop eating, nor did she want to. This simple joy, paired with his presence, was enough to quiet every shadow of doubt that usually clung to her.

Her voice broke the silence at last, calm but softened with a warmth few ever heard from her.

“Would you like to walk these streets with me for a while?”