A bond broken by loyalty

When Atsunori steps into the house, he freezes. His father is waiting in the corridor—something that never happens.

"Welcome home." The man's voice is flat, his eyes giving nothing away.

With effort, Atsunori nods, fingers lingering on the doorframe. "Thanks. I'm back."

"Something wrong?"

"No. Sorry."

"The bath is ready," he says, already turning away.

Bathing wasn't part of his plans for the night, but declining would be like refusing the man himself. He toes off his boots and follows the faint scent of steam and mineral salts.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

When he lowers himself into the tub, hot water ripples over the edges in thick waves. Heat spreads through his muscles, and tension dissolves like sugar in tea.

His father's voice comes muffled through the door. "Is the water fine?"

"Yes. Especially good tonight. The servant handled the salts well."

"It wasn't a servant." A pause stretches long enough to wrinkle the air. "Remember when we used to bathe together?"

Tension creeps into his jaw. "I remember."

Before she left.

"May I join?"

The patriarch never needs permission. Still, Atsunori answers.

"Please."

A moment later the door slides open and the veteran steps in. Steam clings to a body carved by years of service—lean now, skin creased and thinned with time—yet the lines of former strength still hold their ground beneath the wear.

Water sloshes high as he enters with a quiet, contented groan.

They sit. Only the soft drip of the faucet speaks for a while.

"It's cramped," his father mutters.

"Yes." Atsunori eyes the tight walls. "It used to be much bigger."

It used to hold three.

"By chance, I heard you with that foreign girl earlier in the afternoon."

After patrol? Must have been before we discussed the… other matters.

"A good girl, that one," the seasoned man says.

A blink—sudden, surprised. "She is?"

He'd steeled himself for judgement—of all people, his father's approval felt the least likely. Only the Mistress could have frowned harder at Avery.

His father continues. "Affectionate, independent and open-minded. Qualities our bloodline left behind long ago."

A quiet breath escapes Atsunori. "She can be a handful."

"I see." Leaning back, the older man allows silence to return briefly.

Then, with a grunt, he rises. Droplets roll down the faded ink stretching across his back.

"Help me?" he asks, drawing out the stool and a sponge.

Stepping out of the bathtub, Atsunori kneels at his father's back.

Time has softened the tattoo's image, but its menace lingers. Dark clouds. Claws curling outward. At the center stands a wide, yellow-eyed face with a red maw stretching too large to be natural.

A monster—yet a guardian. One that punishes greed and selfishness.

Justice doesn't have to look gentle to be right.

"You can scrub harder," the father says. "It's not like it'll come off."

The sponge shifts in his hands as he grips it harder. His motions grow heavier, pushing into old scars and wrinkled skin.

"Have you noticed," the man in front says, "how much the city has changed since we last shared a bath?"

"It used to be beautiful." His thought escapes before he can catch it.

"We can't do anything about it. Fighting change is for fools."

Atsunori's hand pauses mid-stroke. "What do you mean?"

A shiver of unease crawls down his spine.

"Turn around. I'll do your back."

He obeys, swallowing the question. Each stroke of the man is long—the weary hands have to travel far more now to cover the breadth of his son's shoulders.

"I've seen you wearing that pendant more often."

"These last weeks have been… difficult. The amulet reminds me what matters."

"And what is that?"

"Loyalty, of course. To the Elders. To the family. And to you."

The sponge stops.

"Do you know how that ring broke?"

Past memories scrape at him like broken glass, but he steadies his voice and answers anyway. Hesitation costs too much.

"That woman broke it when she abandoned us. Generations of family tradition… she destroyed all of—"

"I did it."

These words slam into him like a gust of wind.

Everything inside Atsunori stutters—thoughts splinter, words dissolving like wet paper before they reach his lips.

He opens his mouth, closes it—then tries again.

Finally, a ragged sound escapes.

"C-come again?"

"We fought. Constantly. About how much the Munakata name would rule your life. I tore the ring from her finger and threw it, snapping it in two." An exhale. "So did our marriage."

"W-what… no way…" Words stick in his throat, heavy, bitter. "But… she was the one who abandoned us. She disgraced the Munakata name, she—"

"I ordered her out," he interrupts quietly. "Told her never to come back."

Steam wavers between them, suddenly colder.

"What… happened next?"

"She nodded. Then said you deserved to choose."

"Choose…? What?"

"She put me to sleep with her power. And I believe she went to you. To wake you up."

"No. She didn't—"

But memories form. A dark room, blinding light coming through the open door. A silhouette in between. Voice soft as feathers.

So long ago, when Atsunori could barely form full sentences.

"Mommy's going on a long vacation. Do you want to come? Or stay with your dad?"

"Father says kids can't leave."

"This time you can. Do you want to?"

"No, outside is dangerous. I can't leave until I'm big and strong like Father."

He can't picture her face, only her voice and a wetness on his cheek that wasn't his.

She held him tight, kissed his forehead, and then…

He never saw her again.

"I reforged the ring." Father's voice drags him back. "And inscribed something in it."

"A bond broken by loyalty," Atsunori whispers the old mantra—his way to stay strong during the worst times.

"My loyalty to the family is what shattered my bond with her."

"That's not—" His voice hitches. "Y-you're a Munakata to be honored. You'd be an Elder if she hadn't tainted your name. You can't…" The last words fall like a whisper. "You can't regret loyalty."

They sit in silence. The bathwater goes still. Even steam seems to hesitate before rising.

"I'm too old and foolish to change my ways. It would mean my whole life was a waste," the old man says. "But you could still—"

"No!"

"Atsunori—"

"Not another word. P-please."

Like someone trapped in a winter cold, Atsunori can't stop shaking. He can barely draw breath.

The man in front stands, then steps into the shower, water pounding on him in loud, heavy strikes. Soap strides away, but the ink—his mark as a Munakata—remains, clinging as if carved into the bone beneath. Forever bound.

Without drying off, he leaves.