It never truly felt like home. For Sayuri, the grand Gojo estate—lined with cherry blossom trees and steeped in centuries of tradition—felt more like a stage, each member of the family a cold, rigid actor in a never-ending play about power and prestige. While her older brother, Satoru, brought bursts of chaotic sunshine into her otherwise dreary days with his endless teasing and ridiculous antics, the rest of the family was... well, she could think of nicer ways to describe curses.

Her father, in particular, had a talent for making every interaction feel like walking barefoot over cursed nails. And her other siblings? Let's just say the family resemblance began and ended at their shared penchant for sharp words and colder stares. Sayuri had stopped trying to be liked long ago; they had made it abundantly clear that her existence was more of a strategic benefit than something to be celebrated.

So now, she sat on the porch, the rough wooden steps warm beneath her as the afternoon sun filtered through the trees. A steaming cup of matcha sat in her hands, the earthy scent of the tea grounding her in a way no home ever could. She took a slow sip, savoring the quiet moment, her mind a peaceful haze as she counted the petals of a blossom drifting by in the breeze.

And then, of course, peace had to be shattered.

"Where is your brother?" her father barked, striding out of the house with his usual air of authority. He had the expression of a man who had long since stopped looking at his children as individuals, only pieces on a game board to be moved at his whim. His glare, sharp enough to cut glass, was fixed on her as if she were personally responsible for all the problems in the world. "He should be at school by now!"

Sayuri slowly lowered her cup, lips curling into the faintest smirk. Oh, here we go.

"I don't know, maybe off saving the world? Or eating three entire cakes for breakfast again? Hard to say with Satoru." She waved a hand airily, as if this question of his was far beneath her consideration. "But don't worry. I'll make sure to remind him that punctuality is the most important thing for someone who can literally bend space and time."

Her father's glare deepened, and for a moment, she thought he might actually combust on the spot. But Sayuri, cool as the tea in her cup, simply raised her eyebrows, waiting. There was a beat of tense silence before her father muttered something unintelligible under his breath and stormed back inside, the screen door slamming shut behind him.

Sayuri let out a small sigh, shaking her head as she turned her attention back to her tea. "You know," she murmured to no one in particular, "for a family of geniuses, they sure do miss the obvious. Satoru hasn't been to school on time in years."

She took another sip, savoring the taste of rebellion—and matcha.

Suddenly, like a storm rolling in without warning, Satoru was there. One moment the porch was bathed in quiet tension, and the next, his overwhelming presence shattered it like glass. His white hair caught the sunlight as if the universe itself had decided to give him a spotlight. He stood tall, his piercing blue eyes—a storm of anger and resolve—fixed squarely on their father.

"Look," he began, his voice calm but laced with steel. "I'm fine with you talking badly about me, Dad. Really, it's kind of a family tradition at this point." His lips twisted into a humorless smirk, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. "But you don't get to take it out on Sayuri."

Before Sayuri could fully process what was happening, Satoru had closed the distance between them in one fluid motion, like gravity bent to his will. His hand slipped around her shoulder, pulling her into his chest in a way that felt protective and unyielding. Sayuri blinked up at him, her matcha long forgotten in her hands.

"We're leaving," he announced, his voice carrying a finality that dared anyone to challenge it.

His father's face twisted into a mask of rage, a breath away from exploding, but Satoru didn't flinch. Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to Sayuri's head, the gentleness of the gesture a sharp contrast to the storm brewing in his eyes.

Satoru's arms wrapped around her, the strength of his embrace feeling more like a shield than a hug. She could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he turned his full attention back to their father. "You want to lunge? Go ahead," he said, his tone dropping to something cold and cutting, like a blade's edge. "But let me tell you how it ends, old man. You won't touch her. Not now, not ever."

Sayuri, tucked firmly under his arm, stared wide-eyed at the scene unfolding. It was the first time she'd seen Satoru like this—serious, commanding, and terrifyingly resolute. Her brother was many things: a joker, a troublemaker, a walking embodiment of arrogance. But in that moment, he was simply her protector.

Her father didn't move, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Satoru's presence was not just defiance—it was dominance, an unshakable statement that he held all the cards in this game.

Satoru leaned down slightly, his voice softer now, meant only for Sayuri. "Hold on, kiddo. This place doesn't deserve you."

And then, in the blink of an eye, the world bent around them. The porch dissolved into nothingness as Satoru's cursed energy enveloped them both. Sayuri barely had time to clutch her tea before they vanished, leaving the Gojo estate—and its cold, unfeeling walls—behind.