Meanwhile, just outside his room, someone was standing with his back against the wall, listening to the conversation coldly.
The figure remained perfectly still, every muscle tensed with barely contained anger. His hands were clenched into fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms, drawing tiny droplets of blood that he didn't even notice.
The laughter filtering through the door—his brother's laughter—felt like salt being poured directly onto an open wound.
How dare that servant. How dare some worthless nobody who'd been plucked from the gutter make his brother laugh like that.
He only stayed for as long as he could hold his anger at hearing some less privileged human having a conversation with his brother before walking away.
***
Inside the room, oblivious to the rage that had been brewing just outside, Satoru's laughter finally began to subside.
He wiped tears from his eyes—the good kind of tears, the kind that came from genuine amusement.
