The air in the grand study was thick with the scent of old leather, expensive whiskey, and a hatred so palpable it felt like a physical weight. Chiho Hayasaka knelt on the plush Aubusson rug, her silk kimono pooling around her like spilled ink. Her perfectly manicured hands were clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white. Her face, usually a mask of serene elegance, was contorted with a raw, guttural fury. Tears streamed from her almond eyes, not of sorrow, but of pure, undiluted rage.
"I curse you, Haruki Nakano," she spat, her voice a venomous hiss that slithered through the quiet room. "I curse the day I ever laid eyes on you. I hope you rot." Across from her, the man in the high-backed leather chair remained unmoved. Haruki Nakano simply watched her, his expression a placid lake under a winter sky—frozen, deep, and utterly unreadable. There was no pity in his eyes, no anger, no satisfaction. There was only a profound and chilling coldness, a void where a man's soul should be. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture so subtle it was almost imperceptible, as if observing a curious specimen under glass. The silence stretched, punctuated only by Chiho's ragged breaths. But to understand the ice that now encased his heart, we must rewind. Back to a day of suffocating warmth and hollow promises, one year ago.
One Year Earlier,
The wedding was an affair crafted from dreams and bankrolled by a fortune. Cherry blossoms, flown in out of season, filled the grand hall of the Hayasaka estate, their delicate fragrance mixing with the expensive perfumes of Japan's elite. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the crystal glasses and the diamonds adorning the necks of the guests, scattering rainbows across the pristine white tablecloths. It was a picture of perfection, a celebration of the union of the Hayasaka Group's eldest daughter, Chiho, to a man no one had ever heard of.
Haruki Nakano stood at the altar, feeling like a ghost haunting someone else's fairy tale. The tailored tuxedo felt stiff and foreign on his frame, a costume he was being forced to wear. He kept his gaze fixed on a point just beyond the officiant, trying to ignore the whispers that rippled through the pews like a persistent, nagging breeze.
"Who is he? I don't recognize his family name."
"I heard he has nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"Look at him. He's handsome, I suppose, but… he has the eyes of a stray dog."
"Chiho-sama could have had anyone. Why him?"
He knew why. It was a deal. A transaction. He was a convenient, blank slate for the Hayasaka family to write their own story upon—a husband with no powerful family to interfere, no ambitions to challenge their own, a puppet they could easily control. And in return? He got to live. It was as simple and as complicated as that.
Then, the music swelled, and the heavy doors at the end of the aisle swung open. A collective gasp swept through the hall. Chiho was breathtaking. She moved with an innate grace, her custom-made gown shimmering with every step. Her jet-black hair was swept into an intricate updo, revealing the sharp, aristocratic line of her jaw and the elegant curve of her neck. Her oval face was a portrait of calm composure, her brown eyes holding a regal, almost dismissive, confidence. She was a queen surveying her court, and Haruki was just another fixture in her castle.
As she reached the altar, her father, Hiroshi Hayasaka, a man with a gaze as sharp as cut glass, placed her hand in Haruki's. Her skin was cool to the touch, and she didn't so much as glance at him. Her eyes were fixed forward, on the future she was securing, not the man she was shackled to.
"You know your role," she whispered, her voice so low it was barely audible over the music. It wasn't a reminder; it was an order.
Haruki simply nodded, his throat tight. He recited his vows in a quiet, steady voice, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. When it was her turn, Chiho's voice was clear and resonant, each word delivered with the precision of a business declaration. The rings were exchanged, cold metal on his finger, a symbol of his gilded cage. The officiant pronounced them husband and wife. The kiss was chaste, a brief, sterile press of her lips against his. There was no warmth, no passion, only the fulfillment of a contractual obligation. The crowd erupted in polite, orchestrated applause. Haruki felt nothing but a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. He had sold his name, his freedom, his future, all for the privilege of breathing within these opulent walls.
A month later, the reality of that transaction began to carve itself into his soul. The illusion of a marriage, thin as it was on the wedding day, was stripped away entirely. He was not a husband; he was less than a servant. He was given a small, bare room in the staff quarters, a world away from the master suite where Chiho slept alone. His days were filled with endless, menial tasks, and his nights were spent staring at a cracked ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of a life he was adjacent to but never a part of.
The cruelty was casual, a part of the family's daily routine. One morning, as he was polishing the already gleaming hardwood floors of the main hallway, Chiho's younger brother, Jin, sauntered by. Jin, a young man who wore his arrogance like a well-tailored suit, intentionally kicked over the bucket of water.
"Watch where you're going, you useless bastard," Jin sneered, though Haruki hadn't moved an inch.
Before Haruki could even react, the back of Jin's hand cracked across his cheek. The slap was sharp, stinging. Haruki's head snapped to the side, but he didn't make a sound. He didn't even flinch. He just stayed on his hands and knees, the cold, soapy water seeping into the knees of his trousers.
"Clean this up," Jin ordered, stepping over the mess without a second glance. "And do it properly this time."
Haruki simply picked up the rag and began to wipe the floor, the taste of blood on his tongue. He learned quickly that resistance was futile. It only made the punishments worse.
Mitsuha, his mother-in-law, preferred a more refined form of torture. Her weapons were words, dipped in poison and aimed with surgical precision.
"The tea is lukewarm," she would declare, setting the cup down with a clatter. "Can you not even manage a simple task like boiling water correctly? You truly are good for nothing. I don't know what my husband was thinking, allowing someone of your… caliber… into this house." Hiroshi, the patriarch, was perhaps the worst. He rarely spoke to Haruki directly. Instead, he treated him like a piece of furniture, an inanimate object unworthy of acknowledgment. He would hold conversations with his wife or son about Haruki while he was standing right there in the room.
"Mitsuha, tell the boy to fetch my briefcase. My hands feel dirty just thinking about him touching my things."
Chiho, his wife, was a phantom of cold indifference. She would pass him in the halls, her eyes sliding over him as if he were part of the wallpaper. Her only words to him were commands. "Iron my blouse." "Fetch my shoes." "Stay out of my sight." He was a stain on her perfect life, a necessary evil she chose to ignore as much as possible. He was a living ghost, haunting the edges of their perfect world, absorbing their ridicule, their insults, and their blows like a sponge. He built a wall around his heart, brick by painful brick, letting the humiliation wash over him, leaving behind only the scars no one could see.
In this desolate emotional landscape, there was one tiny, unexpected flower: Megumi, Chiho's younger sister. She was seventeen, with a bright, genuine smile and eyes that hadn't yet learned the family's characteristic coldness. Where Chiho was a sculpture of ice, Megumi was a ray of sunshine. She was the only one who saw him as a person. One afternoon, after another verbal lashing from Jin in the garden, Haruki was sitting on a stone bench, staring blankly at a koi pond. He was tracing the ugly red handprint that was starting to fade on his cheek.
"Does it hurt?"
He looked up, startled. Megumi was standing there, holding a small first-aid kit. She sat next to him without waiting for an invitation, her presence a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the estate.
"It's nothing," he mumbled, his default response.
"It doesn't look like nothing," she said softly, dabbing a bit of soothing cream onto a cotton pad. "Here, let me." She gently tended to the mark on his face, her touch careful and kind. It was the first gentle human contact he had felt rarely, and it almost broke him.
"I'm so sorry, Haruki-niisan," she whispered, using the affectionate term for 'brother-in-law'.
"For how they treat you. It's wrong. But… I don't know what to do. I'm helpless here."
"It's okay, Megumi-chan," he found himself saying, the words feeling rusty in his throat.
"Thank you."
She just offered him a sad smile. From that day on, she sought him out. She'd bring him a glass of cold water when he was working in the garden, or sit with him for a few minutes on the bench by the pond, chattering about her school day, her friends, her dreams of studying art abroad. Her company was a lifeline, a brief respite from the suffocating darkness. In her presence, he could almost remember the man he used to be, before he became this empty shell. He found himself looking forward to her small acts of kindness, and a fragile, protective affection for her began to grow in the barren soil of his heart.
Then, one evening, the sky fell.
The family was gathered in the formal dining room. The crystal chandelier cast a cold, white light over the scene. Haruki stood silently by the wall, as was his station during meals, ready to refill glasses or clear plates. The tension at the table was thicker than usual. Hiroshi cleared his throat, the sound like gravel grinding.
"A decision has been made," he announced, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "We have finalized an arrangement with the Hondo Corporation. To seal the partnership, Megumi will be marrying their eldest son, Kenji Hondo."
The clatter of Megumi's fork hitting her plate was the only sound. Her face went pale. "What? Father, no… Kenji Hondo? Everyone knows… everyone knows what kind of man he is."
The rumors about Kenji Hondo were vile and persistent—a degenerate who treated women like disposable toys, with a reputation for cruelty and a string of scandals covered up by his family's money.
"They are just rumors," Mitsuha said dismissively. "You will be a wife of the Hondo family. You should be grateful."
"Grateful?" Megumi's voice trembled, tears welling in her eyes. "You want me to marry that… that monster? Father, please! I'm begging you. Anyone but him!"
"This is not a negotiation," Hiroshi stated, his voice like steel. "This will secure our company's future for the next decade. Your feelings are irrelevant in this matter."
"Stop crying, you're embarrassing us," Jin sneered from across the table. "Just do what you're told for once."
Megumi turned her desperate, pleading eyes to her older sister. "Chiho-nee-san… please. Help me."
Chiho delicately dabbed her lips with a napkin, her expression calm, almost bored. "Listen, little sister," she began, her tone soft and reasonable, which made it all the more cruel. "We all have to make sacrifices for this family. It's what we do. Do you think I wanted to marry…" She paused, letting her eyes flicker towards Haruki for a fraction of a second, her disgust clear. "…a nobody? But it was necessary. Now, it's your turn. Your sacrifice will benefit all of us. You should be proud to play your part."
The manipulation was flawless, twisting a horrific fate into a noble duty. Megumi's face crumpled, the last of her hope extinguished. The tears streamed down her face as she sobbed, her shoulders shaking.
From his corner of the room, Haruki felt something inside him, something he thought had long since died, begin to burn. He had endured his own torment in silence. He had accepted his fate. But this… this was different. They were about to feed the only light in this damn house to a wolf, and they called it a 'sacrifice'. He watched Megumi, the kind, vibrant girl who showed him compassion, being broken by her own family. Her own blood are about sell her. And a single, unfamiliar word pushed its way up from the depths of his being.
"Enough."
The word was quiet, but it cut through the room like a shard of glass. Everyone froze. All heads turned to him, their expressions a mixture of shock and outrage. It was the first time he had ever spoken out of turn, the first time the furniture had made a sound.
"What did you say?" Hiroshi's voice was dangerously low.
"Are you all seriously going to marry Megumi-chan to some scumbag for a business deal?" Haruki said, his voice gaining strength, his eyes fixed on the Hiroshi.
Jin shot up from his chair. "You shut your mouth! You don't have the right to say anything, you worthless piece of trash!"
"You are a guest in this house on our charity," Mitsuha hissed. "Know your place."
Haruki's gaze shifted to Chiho. He was looking for something, anything—a flicker of doubt, a hint of conscience. He found nothing but ice.
"This has nothing to do with you," she said coldly, her voice devoid of any emotion. "Stay out of it."
The unified assault was immediate and overwhelming. Haruki fell silent, not because he was scared, but because he saw the futility of it. The decision was made. The cage was locked.
Megumi slowly lifted her head, her face stained with tears. Her fight was gone. Defeat was etched into every line of her body. She looked past her family, her gaze landing on Haruki. The noise, the anger, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in a pocket of shared despair.
She pushed her chair back, stood up on wobbly legs, and walked over to him. She stopped just before him, her eyes holding a deep, profound sadness that seemed far too old for her years.
"Thank you, Haruki-niisan," she whispered, her voice cracking. Her words were only for him. "You… you are a nice person. You have a kind heart.
She took a shaky breath, her gaze hardening for a moment as she glanced back at her sister. Then she looked back at him, and her final words struck him with the force of a physical blow, shattering the last of his carefully constructed walls.
"My sister," she said, her voice filled with a quiet, devastating certainty. "She doesn't deserve you."
Megumi turned and walked out of the room, her small frame carrying the weight of a sentence she did not deserve. The family resumed their dinner as if nothing had happened. But for Haruki, everything had changed. Megumi's words echoed in the sudden, vast emptiness inside him. She doesn't deserve you. It wasn't an insult to Chiho. It was a revelation. He had accepted his worthlessness because they had all told him it was true. But the one person who showed him kindness saw something more. And in that moment, as he stood in the cold, white light of that dining room, the man who accepted pain without a word began to die, and something new, something hard and cold and terrifying, began to take his place.