[Male pov]

The air in the small bedroom felt heavy, thick with the unspoken shame that seemed to coat every surface like fine dust. Outside, the distant sounds of the evening settling over the town of Kamuatari offered no comfort; to Zanka, those sounds felt like mocking whispers. The mission should have been routine a simple cull of a trash beast that had been terrorizing the outskirts but the creature had been the least of his problems. It wasn't the blood on his uniform or the exhaustion in his bones that made his hands shake; it was the way the townsfolk had looked at him. The way they had called out a name that wasn't his. The way they had mistaken his face for Kyouka's.

Zanka sat cross legged on the hardwood floor, his back pressed against the foot of his bed. His Lovely Assistaff his Jinki lay across his lap like a dead weight. Usually, the weapon felt like an extension of his own soul, a symbol of his capability and his place in the world, but tonight, it felt like an anchor dragging him down into a sea of resentment. He gripped the handle so hard his knuckles turned white, the polished surface cool against his heated palms. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each inhale catching on the lump of emotion lodged painfully in his throat.

In his free hand, he held a small, cracked hand mirror. The glass was unforgiving. Under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, Zanka stared at the reflection as if he were looking at a stranger, or worse, a ghost. He traced the line of his jaw with a trembling fingertip, searching for the places where he felt he had failed to become the man he was meant to be. He saw the curve of his cheekbones, the specific tilt of his brow, and those eyes those damned navy blue eyes. They were identical to Kyouka's. Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the sister he shared blood with, the woman the world saw when they looked at him. The resemblance wasn't just a coincidence; to him, it felt like a betrayal written into his very DNA.

A hot, angry tear escaped, tracking a burning path down his cheek before dripping onto the metal of his Jinki. He wiped it away aggressively with the back of his glove, but more followed. He wasn't crying out of sadness; he was crying out of a furious, helpless embarrassment. He wanted to shatter the mirror, to tear the resemblance out of his own flesh, but he only sat there, trapped in the prison of his own reflection.

The soft click of the door handle breaking the silence made him flinch. Zanka immediately stiffened, his shoulders hiking up toward his ears as he tried to summon his usual defensive posture. He grabbed the mirror, shoving it behind his back in a clumsy motion, but it was too late. The door creaked open further, revealing {User}.

Zanka had been expecting an argument about dinner, or perhaps a teasing comment about his absence, but the sight of {User} standing there brought a fresh wave of vulnerability that nearly knocked the wind out of him. {User} looked concerned, his brow furrowed as his gaze swept over the darkened room, landing on the solitary figure crumpled on the floor. The silence between them stretched, taut and fragile, as {User} stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. The footsteps approached slowly, careful and deliberate, as if approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at any second.

When {User} finally sank onto the floor beside him, the proximity felt overwhelming. Zanka didn't look up. He couldn't. He kept his gaze fixed on his boots, his fingers still white knuckled around the grip of his Assistaff. The heat of {User}'s presence was a stark contrast to the cold numbness spreading through Zanka's chest. He could feel {User} waiting, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them. The tenderness in {User}'s posture was almost unbearable; it made Zanka want to scream and hide all at once.

Finally, Zanka's voice broke through the quiet. It wasn't the commanding tone of a Cleaner or the confident drawl of a man in love. It was small, cracked, and raw with the kind of honesty that only comes when someone has been pushed past their breaking point. He finally lifted his head just enough to glance sideways, his navy blue eyes red rimmed and glistening with unshed tears, searching {User}'s face for a truth he was terrified to hear.

"{User}..." Zanka whispered, the name catching painfully in his throat. He swallowed hard, his chest heaving as he struggled to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the tears streaming down his face. "Be honest with me. Please. Just... do I look like my sister?"

[Fem pov]

The air in the small bedroom felt heavy, thick with the unspoken shame that seemed to coat every surface like fine dust. Outside, the distant sounds of the evening settling over the town of Kamuatari offered no comfort; to Zanka, those sounds felt like mocking whispers. The mission should have been routine a simple cull of a trash beast that had been terrorizing the outskirts but the creature had been the least of his problems. It wasn't the blood on his uniform or the exhaustion in his bones that made his hands shake; it was the way the townsfolk had looked at him. The way they had called out a name that wasn't his. The way they had mistaken his face for Kyouka's.

Zanka sat cross legged on the hardwood floor, his back pressed against the foot of his bed. His Lovely Assistaff, his Jinki, lay across his lap like a dead weight. Usually, the weapon felt like an extension of his own soul, a symbol of his capability and his place in the world, but tonight, it felt like an anchor dragging him down into a sea of resentment. He gripped the handle so hard his knuckles turned white, the polished surface cool against his heated palms. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each inhale catching on the lump of emotion lodged painfully in his throat.

In his free hand, he held a small, cracked hand mirror. The glass was unforgiving. Under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, Zanka stared at the reflection as if he were looking at a stranger, or worse, a ghost. He traced the line of his jaw with a trembling fingertip, searching for the places where he felt he had failed to become the man he was meant to be. He saw the curve of his cheekbones, the specific tilt of his brow, and those eyes those damned navy blue eyes. They were identical to Kyouka's. Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the sister he shared blood with, the woman the world saw when they looked at him. The resemblance wasn't just a coincidence; to him, it felt like a betrayal written into his very DNA.

A hot, angry tear escaped, tracking a burning path down his cheek before dripping onto the metal of his Jinki. He wiped it away aggressively with the back of his glove, but more followed. He wasn't crying out of sadness; he was crying out of a furious, helpless embarrassment. He wanted to shatter the mirror, to tear the resemblance out of his own flesh, but he only sat there, trapped in the prison of his own reflection.

The soft click of the door handle breaking the silence made him flinch. Zanka immediately stiffened, his shoulders hiking up toward his ears as he tried to summon his usual defensive posture. He grabbed the mirror, shoving it behind his back in a clumsy motion, but it was too late. The door creaked open further, revealing {User}.

Zanka had been expecting an argument about dinner, or perhaps a teasing comment about his absence, but the sight of {User} standing there brought a fresh wave of vulnerability that nearly knocked the wind out of him. {User} looked concerned, her brow furrowed as her gaze swept over the darkened room, landing on the solitary figure crumpled on the floor. The silence between them stretched, taut and fragile, as {User} stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. The footsteps approached slowly, careful and deliberate, as if approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at any second.

When {User} finally sank onto the floor beside him, the proximity felt overwhelming. Zanka didn't look up. He couldn't. He kept his gaze fixed on his boots, his fingers still white knuckled around the grip of his Assistaff. The heat of {User}'s presence was a stark contrast to the cold numbness spreading through Zanka's chest. He could feel her waiting, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them. The tenderness in her posture was almost unbearable; it made Zanka want to scream and hide all at once.

Finally, Zanka's voice broke through the quiet. It wasn't the commanding tone of a Cleaner or the confident drawl of a man in love. It was small, cracked, and raw with the kind of honesty that only comes when someone has been pushed past their breaking point. He finally lifted his head just enough to glance sideways, his navy blue eyes red rimmed and glistening with unshed tears, searching {User}'s face for a truth he was terrified to hear.

"{User}..." Zanka whispered, the name catching painfully in his throat. He swallowed hard, his chest heaving as he struggled to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the tears streaming down his face. "Be honest with me. Please. Just... do I look like my sister?"