The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the Mamiya residence, painting the polished wooden floors in warm gold. Dust motes floated lazily in the light, sparkling for a fleeting moment before drifting to the shadows near the edges of the room. The nursery was quiet, almost impossibly still for a house that should have been alive with servants, aides, and the usual hum of activity that came with being the scions of one of the Mamiya Family's more prominent branches.
I crouched beside the small bed, watching my little sister stir beneath the soft blanket. Yui's hair was a mess—blonde with a hint of brown in the sunlight—and her tiny hands waved in the air like she was reaching for something invisible. My chest ached every time I saw her like this, so fragile, so impossibly small.
"Morning, Yui," I said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. My fingers lingered there a moment longer than necessary, not just out of tenderness, but because I wanted to memorize this moment. Her warmth, her tiny heartbeat beneath my palm, the way she trusted me without question—it was fleeting, and I knew it. Somehow, even at seven, I already understood that life wasn't always fair.
"I promise, Yui," I murmured quietly, almost to myself. "I'll always be cool for you. I'll work hard... I'll make sure you're safe. No matter what."
Her eyes, wide and innocent, blinked up at me. Bright and trusting. Bright and fragile. She gurgled something that sounded like a word, though I couldn't understand it. It didn't matter—she squeezed my finger tightly, and that tiny grip anchored something deep inside me. The weight of responsibility pressed down on me, heavier than any toy or lesson, heavier than my daily schedule of drills, tutoring, and etiquette lessons.
At that moment, something shifted. It wasn't just affection. It wasn't just a brotherly duty. It was a promise that would grow into obsession—a resolve to never be weak, to always strive, to protect. No matter the cost. No matter the obstacle. Even if the world itself was merciless.
I straightened, brushing off my knees and standing taller than my small frame allowed. Even at seven—or whatever age I was meant to be counted—my mind was already racing with strategies, plans, contingencies. I thought about school, about tutors, about the physical training Father insisted upon even at my age. But more than that, I thought about Yui and what I would need to do to protect her. She couldn't fight for herself—not yet. She would need me.
I glanced around the nursery. The walls were lined with polished wood and ivory shelves, filled with books I wasn't supposed to touch yet, but which I had already peeked into countless times. The furniture was simple yet expensive, a reflection of the family's wealth and taste. This was the world I had been born into, a world of expectations and rules I barely understood but already felt suffocating under. And yet, Yui was a bright point in it all. A reminder that some things were worth bending rules for.
"Akihiko," a soft voice called from the doorway.
It was Mother, dressed impeccably even in the early morning, her expression serene and practiced as always. She paused, watching me hover over the bed.
"You're talking to her again," she said gently, though I could sense the faint edge beneath the politeness. Mother was always polite, even when she was disappointed. "She doesn't understand everything you say yet, you know."
"I know," I replied quietly, not taking my eyes off Yui. "But I need her to know I'm here. That I'll always be here."
Mother nodded slightly. She understood more than she let on. Perhaps she even pitied me a little, though she would never say it. That was how our family functioned—feelings were carefully measured and controlled, shown only when convenient or strategic. But she stayed at the doorway a moment longer, silently observing, before gliding away without another word.
Alone again, I sank to my knees beside Yui once more. I studied her tiny face, trying to memorize every detail—the curve of her cheeks, the faint freckles that would eventually fade, the little scar above her eyebrow from some minor accident I had only just barely prevented. My mind replayed every misstep I had made as a "big brother" so far, every moment I had failed to anticipate danger, every time I had hesitated.
I could not fail her again. I would not.
Especially knowing shes at a life and death situation constantly...
Even then, my thoughts were not simple. I knew, in the back of my mind, that Father would be disappointed in me if I showed weakness. If I couldn't uphold the family name, if I couldn't excel academically, socially, physically—he would consider it a flaw, a stain. And Mother, while softer, would expect the same. Every Mamiya heir was expected to carry themselves with precision, with excellence, with a cold reliability that could inspire respect and fear alike.
I clenched my fists, the sound of my nails pressing into my palms grounding me. I was determined—not just for the sake of appearances, or for the sake of meeting parental expectations, but for Yui. I would bend my life around her, shape my ambitions to her safety and happiness, even if the world demanded cruelty in return.
Yui's small hand waved again, tugging me from my thoughts.
"Eat," I whispered, pulling her gently into my lap. Breakfast had been served by the household staff, but I had always preferred to feed her myself. She laughed—a tiny, tinkling sound that made my heart ache and thrum all at once.
As I fed her, I thought about my future. There would be tutors, parties, endless lessons on etiquette, social strategy, and academics. There would be exercises to strengthen my body, drills to sharpen my mind. There would be endless competitions with cousins, peers, and other children of influence. And through it all, I had a singular purpose: to grow strong enough, capable enough, to be the brother she deserved.
"You have to be patient, Yui," I said softly, guiding a spoonful of porridge to her lips. "I will make sure you're safe. I will make sure you are happy. I will—"
My words trailed off as she giggled, banging her tiny fists on the table. I smiled, hiding the tremor in my hands. That laugh... that trust... it was everything. And it was fleeting. I knew it, though I could not yet comprehend how fleeting.
Later that morning, Father arrived unexpectedly. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes flickered toward Yui and then me.
"Akihiko," he said, voice steady but firm. "I expect you to train properly today. Remember, weakness is not an option. The Mamiya name carries weight. Your sister's safety... your family's legacy... all of it rests on you being competent. Do you understand?"
I nodded crisply. "Yes, Father. I understand."
He gave a curt nod and turned to Mother, leaving the room silently. His presence was imposing even in his absence; the pressure of living up to the family legacy was suffocating, yet it was also strangely motivating. I would work harder, faster, better—not for him, but for Yui. And by proving my strength and competence, I would protect her. That thought alone sent a surge of determination through me, hot and sharp as a blade.
After he left, I glanced once more at Yui, who was now walking toward a stuffed toy, her laughter echoing in the sunlight. I touched the top of her head, brushing the hair back, and whispered again, barely audible even to myself:
"I promise, Yui. I'll always be your big brother. I'll always be strong. I'll never fail you."
And with that promise, unspoken yet eternal, I rose to my feet. The nursery, the polished floors, the sunlight—all of it faded into the background. There was only the world outside waiting, filled with expectations, challenges, and countless obstacles.
But I was ready.
I would grow. I would endure. I would become unstoppable.
For Yui.
For the family.
For the name Mamiya.
The nursery doors closed softly behind me, leaving the sunlight to spill across the floor. Yui was settled with a small rattle in her hands, cooing and gnawing on it with delight, utterly unaware of the burdens her existence placed upon me. My chest ached as I watched her, and yet the feeling of resolve that had surged earlier refused to fade. I would protect her. I had to.
The nanny, a calm woman who had overseen my upbringing since infancy, approached with a neat tray of water and a brush. She was responsible for ensuring I looked presentable before every formal engagement—a duty she treated as sacred.
"Akihiko-kun," she said softly, holding out a fine white shirt and a small jacket embroidered with the family crest. "Your father expects you to attend the peace party today. We must leave shortly. Please be sure to look your best."
I took the garments, slipping off my hoodie and turning to the mirror. Even at this age, the reflection staring back at me was unmistakably Mamiya: sharp grey eyes, hair slightly messy but tameable, and a posture I worked to perfect daily.
"Yes, Shiori," I replied, my voice low. "I understand."
While I dressed, my older brothers entered the room in succession, each a display of Mamiya perfection. The eldest, Takumi, polished and self-assured, towered over me as he adjusted his cufflinks. His expression was one of practiced calm, the kind that made him seem untouchable even at our age.
"Akihiko," he said without turning, his voice calm but carrying weight. "Try not to spill anything on yourself today. Father doesn't appreciate carelessness, even from the youngest."
"Yes, Takumi-oniichan," I replied quickly, adjusting my collar.
The second brother, Haruto, followed with a more playful expression, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.
"You're always so serious, little brother," he teased, leaning casually against the wall. "Don't overdo it. This is supposed to be fun, after all."
I shot him a glance. "Fun isn't a priority. Yui's safety—our family's reputation—that is."
Haruto chuckled softly but shook his head, muttering something about me being a bore. Their effortless composure, their polished confidence, it all left a subtle ache in my chest. I loved my brothers, but I could not help noticing how easily they bore the weight of the family name. How naturally they moved through it. How little effort it seemed to cost them.
I pressed my lips together. I will surpass them, I thought silently. I must. Not for my pride, but for Yui.
Father entered abruptly, his presence commanding even in our small, sunlit nursery. His gaze swept across us with precision, noting every detail—the straightness of collars, the smoothness of hair, the posture of his sons. When it settled on me, I felt the familiar tightening in my chest.
"Akihiko," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "You will not embarrass the Mamiya name at this party. This is not a plaything. You are the youngest, yes, but that does not excuse incompetence. You understand?"
"Y-Yes, Father," I responded, bowing slightly.
He nodded once, approvingly enough, and then looked to Takumi and Haruto. "Do not let him falter. Keep an eye on him."
"Yes, Father," they replied in unison, each word precise, echoing the lessons drilled into us since birth.
As Father left, I lingered in the mirror, adjusting my sleeves. A shadow passed over my expression—a flicker of envy, brief and unwelcome. My brothers carried the weight of expectation with ease; even my father, for all his severity, seemed to trust them instinctively. For me, there was always doubt. Always scrutiny. Always the unspoken challenge: Can the youngest Mamiya truly measure up?
I clenched my fists, brushing away the doubt as if it were a fly. I would not fail. I would train harder, endure longer, think sharper. I would meet, then surpass, the standards set before me. Not for Father. Not for my brothers. But for Yui.
The nanny approached again, holding a tray with a small brush and a comb. She knelt beside me patiently, smoothing down my hair, tucking stray strands neatly behind my ears.
"You're doing well, Akihiko-kun," she said softly. "Your father will notice. But remember... even the smallest gesture matters. Stand tall, walk with confidence, speak when spoken to. Everything counts."
"I understand," I murmured, focusing on the reflection in the mirror. I adjusted my tie once more. "I will not falter."
Soon, the our car arrived. The polished black vehicle waited in the driveway, its surface gleaming in the morning light. Servants moved efficiently, opening doors and helping my brothers climb in with ease. Takumi sat with his usual calm, adjusting his gloves, while Haruto leaned casually against the seatback, smirking as if the world were already his to command.
I stepped forward, adjusting my jacket one final time. My eyes flicked toward the nursery window, where Yui sat with a small toy, waving at me. My heart tightened.
"Wait for me," I whispered. "I'll make sure the world is safe enough for you."
The nanny helped me into the car, and the doors closed with a soft thud. As we drove through the tree-lined streets toward the venue, I observed my brothers casually discussing the expected guests—the children of politicians, diplomats, and business magnates.
"The Kanzaki will be there, of course," Takumi noted, tone precise. "His father will be present as well. Keep an eye on him, little brother. That family is... cunning."
I nodded silently. Cunning? I thought. I'll need to learn that too.
Haruto chuckled. "There will be other kids your age too, besides the Kanzaki's son"
I felt a flicker of curiosity—and hopefulness hoping to find a new friend.
As the car rolled on, I felt my resolve solidifying. Today was more than a social gathering. Today was an opportunity. A test of composure, skill, and presence. And perhaps, unknowingly, the first step in forming connections that would shape my future.
I glanced once more at the small reflection of myself in the polished carriage window. The boy staring back was calm, composed, and... determined. Perhaps too determined for a child. Perhaps even reckless.
But that was fine. I had a promise to keep.
The car doors opened with a soft thud, and the crisp morning air hit me immediately. Even at this age, I could feel the weight of the polished stone hallways and the faint hum of music seeping from the ballroom ahead. Nanny's hand guided me forward, adjusting the hem of my blazer with precise care.
The moment I stepped into the room, I froze—not from fear, but from calculation. Crystal chandeliers hung low, sparkling over a crowd of children who looked... almost too perfect. Their hair was combed just so, their uniforms pristine, their expressions carefully measured. They were all scions of power, like me, though most seemed more practiced at pretending than actually thinking.
I clutched my plate, my stomach immediately detecting the buffet table across the room. Mini quiches, tiny sandwiches, cream-filled pastries... the real reason I came to these gatherings became apparent. Eat first. Observe second.
A familiar figure caught my eye almost immediately—a boy I recognized from previous parties. Slightly older than me, sharp-eyed, his posture rigid as always. Kanzaki. He spotted me, too, and gave the faintest nod—a silent acknowledgment.
I walked over, keeping my expression neutral, stuffing a small tart into my mouth as I approached.
"You... again," he said quietly, leaning just slightly so no adults could hear.
I chewed deliberately, pausing for a brief moment to swallow before responding.
"Mm. Yes," I said between bites, then reached for another tart.
Kanzaki's brow lifted slightly. "Still... eating everything first?"
I shrugged, mouth full. Words were optional. Actions—like piling quiches onto a plate—spoke louder.
"Of course," I mumbled with my mouth full. Another bite.
Kanzaki tilted his head, a faint smirk on his face. He opened his mouth to speak again, then closed it. He understood the futility. I had ended the conversation with my appetite alone. He gave a small sigh and drifted back into the crowd, leaving me to my self-imposed ritual of consumption and observation.
Across the room, a girl stood near the wall, small but poised beyond her years. She carried a cane, her posture perfect, her gaze sharp as she quietly observed the room. I didn't know her—had never met her—but she kept looking at me, head tilting slightly as if cataloging every detail: my height, the way I held the plate, my stoic expression. Her eyes flicked toward my hair, my hands, and back to my face as though trying to commit every aspect of me to memory.
I didn't notice. My focus was on the tiny sandwiches—careful calculations on which ones had the most filling, which pastries would maintain structural integrity until they reached my mouth. The world could wait.
Other children darted around, whispering, giggling, bumping into each other as they tried to appear composed while clearly betraying their age. One boy tripped over his own feet and nearly collided with a tray of canapés; he laughed nervously while another girl stifled a giggle, hiding behind her mother's dress. The room was a strange mixture of refinement and chaos—a grown-up party for children who were still very much children.
From the far corner, I heard snatches of conversation: names, family reputations, small boasts. I cataloged them all, silently, while taking another bite of a cream puff. The girl with the cane—still watching—scribbled notes in her small notebook. I glanced at her briefly. Her focus was unnerving, but irrelevant.
I moved slowly through the room, eyes scanning, plate piling, mind observing. Adults mingled in the background, their voices low but commanding, throwing polite instructions and gentle reprimands. The children, however, were free to explore the hall in half-formed manners of diplomacy, curiosity, and mischief.
I noticed small gestures of hierarchy—the older kids subtly corralling the younger ones, the whispers exchanged at corners of the room—but for me, the game had two rules: eat and watch. Everything else was secondary.
The girl kept glancing at me, scribbling again, lips pursed in concentration. She hadn't approached yet. I didn't care.
By the time the adults announced a brief recess for refreshments, I had already secured a small fortress of pastries on my plate. I retreated to a corner, sitting silently, chewing with deliberate focus. From the corner of my eye, I noticed her taking careful mental notes, and I allowed a small smirk to twitch at the corner of my lips. Let her memorize.
Nearby, a few other children attempted to engage in polite conversation, asking me trivial questions about school or my family. I answered them in short phrases, swallowing pastries between words, until they eventually lost patience and wandered off. Conversation was exhausting. Eating was essential. Observing, optional but necessary.
And through it all, I thought of Yui—tiny, trusting, and far away at home. She was my anchor, my reason. Everything else—the politeness, the games, the silent competitions—mattered little compared to the promise I had made.
Eventually, my plate was empty, and I leaned back, satisfied. The girl with the cane finally approached, notebook in hand, tilting her head to study me. I looked up lazily, expression neutral.
"You are... the Mamiya boy, yes?" she asked softly, precise, almost rehearsed.
I blinked once, then shrugged.
"I... am," I replied, mouth still flecked with puff pastry crumbs from before, barely noticing.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly, cataloging me like a puzzle she'd been told to solve. I paid her no mind. Food. Observation. Yui. Those were the only things that mattered today.
Then I noticed her. Small. Tiny in comparison to the other children, precise in posture, confident in gaze—but tiny. That fact sparked something in me, a fleeting thought that made me grin almost uncontrollably:
Big brother mode: activated.
I stood taller, puffed out my chest just a little, and, with the bravado only a child could muster, made my move.
"Come on!" I said suddenly, grabbing her wrist without waiting for a response. "You're coming with me. I'll show you the dessert section!"
She blinked, mouth opening slightly in surprise.
"W-what?"
"No talking! Big brother knows best!" I declared, dragging her like a ragdoll across the marble floors. She stumbled slightly but kept pace, cane clattering against the floor, and I barely noticed.
The other children glanced at us—some amused, some wary—but I didn't care. This was important. Protect. Show. Eat first, then instruct.
She opened her mouth again, clearly about to launch into some speech about politics, strategy, or some high-minded concept that children like her seemed obsessed with. I ignored it entirely. Words didn't matter—not when the pastries waited.
We reached the dessert table, a mountain of tiny cakes, tartlets, chocolates, and flaky pastries gleaming under the chandeliers. I immediately grabbed one, biting into it with deliberate gusto.
"Here!" I said, shoving a cream-filled puff into her mouth before she could protest. Her eyes widened, and I grinned, patting her shoulder.
"Shh! No crying! Big brother won't let anyone hear!" I whispered, loud enough that nearby adults didn't flinch, but small enough to feel like a secret.
Her hands flailed slightly, but I held her gently yet firmly. She mumbled something muffled through the pastry, eyes narrowing at me, probably registering indignation, confusion, and outrage all at once. I didn't care. She tasted sweet, soft, and more importantly, quiet.
I moved to the next section, grabbing a tart and popping it into my mouth while gesturing with my other hand for her to follow. She shuffled behind, silently observing, her notebook momentarily forgotten.
"You... you always eat like that?" she finally managed, voice muffled.
"Of course!" I said, crunching into a small almond cookie. "Dessert is the battlefield, and I am the general!"
She blinked, but said nothing. She was small. I was big. And apparently, that made me the leader.
We made our way across the room, and I continued my tour. I pointed out trays of pastries like they were monuments in some grand museum. "This one? Dangerous. Filled with cream that can explode if you bite wrong. That one? Soft, easy to eat, safe. This? The crown jewel. Only for true warriors."
She didn't argue. Didn't try to reason. She simply followed, notebook closed, observing the chaos of a child who didn't care about politics, influence, or the whispers of the grown-ups around us.
At one point, she opened her mouth as if to speak again. Without hesitation, I plucked a small chocolate tart from the plate and stuffed it in. Her muffled protests were silenced almost instantly.
"See?" I said, chewing thoughtfully. "Sometimes, the mouth needs food, not words. Big brother knows these things lil sis!"
"Im not lil sis, Im Sakayangi!" She shouted then scowled slightly, then blinked, perhaps realizing that resistance was pointless. I wasn't mean—I was protective. I was a big brother, after all. And if that meant forcibly ensuring she ate and kept quiet, then so be it.
We moved along the table, and I continued sampling, pausing only to explain the virtues of each pastry like some kind of general pointing out strategic positions on a battlefield. She followed, sometimes stepping carefully to avoid trays, sometimes catching a glimpse of other children whispering and giggling at our antics.
I glanced at her briefly. She was observing. Calculating. Probably noting that I didn't care about politics, chess apparently its her hobbies, or alliances—all the things the adults expected. But I didn't notice. I only noticed how small she was, and how much fun it was to "baby" her.
"Here!" I said, shoving a tiny éclair toward her. "Eat this one. Big brother demands it. You must be strong to follow me."
She hesitated, but took a bite, eyes narrowing, cheeks puffed. I laughed softly.
"Good," I said. "See? No crying. No fuss. Big brother protects you, and Big brother feeds you."
Around us, the other children whispered and stared, some shaking their heads at my audacity. I didn't care. I didn't care about whispers, names, or recognition. Food and protection—those were my only rules.
And as she chewed quietly, I felt that familiar pang again: the promise I had made that morning to Yui. That promise had found another, smaller soul in this room—a tiny, observant child who might be caught up in the same world of grown-up games and expectations. And as long as I could, I would shield them, in my own chaotic, ridiculous way.
Because being a big brother meant showing strength, making decisions, and sometimes, yes... shoving a pastry into someone's mouth so that no one could interfere.
I patted her shoulder once more. "There. Safe. Fed. Protected. Big brother does his job well."
She blinked, probably calculating all the social and political ramifications, but I didn't notice. My eyes were on the next pastry, the next bite, the next step of the "battlefield" I had declared in chocolate, cream, and almond.
"Here! Try this one!" I exclaimed, holding up a tiny chocolate éclair like it was the crown jewel of the buffet.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, clearly calculating whether accepting it would make her appear weak—or worse, indebted. I didn't wait. I popped it into her mouth.
"See? Quick decisions save lives," I said, patting her shoulder.
Muffled protest escaped her, but I ignored it. There were rules in my world. Eat first. Observe second. Talk last.
I glanced around. Some of the other children were staring, whispering behind their hands. One boy tripped over his own feet near the cake stand, and a girl squealed, grabbing her tiny notebook to jot something down. I grinned. Perfect chaos. My kind of battlefield.
"No time for talking! Big brother moves fast!" I announced, grabbing a tiny tart with one hand and gesturing for her to follow with the other.
She shuffled after me, small feet padding softly on the polished marble. Every so often, she tried to speak, probably starting some lecture on politics, alliances, or the mysterious "White Room" her family mentioned. But I ignored it. Words didn't matter—not now. Pastries, placement, and survival did.
"Careful! That tray is booby-trapped!" I warned dramatically, pointing at a plate of mini cream puffs. "One wrong move and—disaster!" I pretended to stumble but recovered, scooping one into my mouth.
She blinked again, taking mental notes. Small, precise, quiet. Observing everything. Cataloging me. I glanced at her once, smiling faintly.
"You're really small," I said casually, more as a declaration than a question. "Big brother has to look out for you."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she stayed silent. I reached for another tray—this one filled with almond tarts—and popped one into her mouth before she could protest.
"Shh! Quiet! Big brother protects you!" I whispered fiercely. "No one will hear a thing. You're safe now."
She swallowed, frowning slightly. I took that as a victory.
Across the room, other children were starting to whisper among themselves. One of the older girls tugged at her younger brother's sleeve, whispering something about "that Mamiya boy" and "completely unbothered being a mess." I didn't notice. I was busy sampling a miniature eclair stuffed with cream, plotting my next route through the dessert battlefield.
"This way!" I said, dragging her again toward a new tray. "Big brother will show you the strategic positions. You have to learn where the safest bites are."
She stumbled slightly, but I steadied her with a hand on her back. Protective instinct kicking in, I thought. She was small, delicate, and clearly overwhelmed by the "grown-up chaos" masquerading as a party.
"I... I think this one has chocolate ganache," she finally managed, her voice soft, careful. "It... it's rich. And—"
I ignored her, plucking it off the tray and eating it giving her a piece...more so kind of shoving it to her mouth.
"Shh! Let's appreciate the desserts ok?"
Her muffled protests were silenced. I grinned faintly. She can analyze all she wants. My rules: eat, survive, repeat.
Moving past the table, I noticed a few other children trying to approach the desserts at the same time. One tripped over a chair, sending a puff of powdered sugar into the air. I chuckled. Perfect distraction. I grabbed two small tarts and shoved one into her hand.
"Here. You need ammo, too. Dessert is war," I said.
She blinked at me, powdered sugar dusting the corners of her lips. Her notebook remained closed. Her careful planning had been interrupted. My chaotic strategy was winning, whether she admitted it or not.
I paused briefly, chewing. My chest swelled a little with pride. This is what being a big brother means. Leading, feeding, protecting... And Yui's face flashed in my mind. Tiny. Trusting. Innocent. She had been the original reason I decided to live by rules of protection.
"No one can steal your desserts while I'm here," I said, eyes scanning the crowd. "I am your shield. You... you just follow me."
She swallowed again, nodding slightly, though her eyes flicked to the adults and other children with quiet calculation. She was observing, analyzing, probably mentally drafting notes about my competence, strategy, and—if her father's whispers were true—how dangerous I might be later in politics.
I didn't care.
"Next stop!" I said, pointing dramatically at a tower of mini cream puffs. "Big brother will demonstrate the art of conquering the enemy!"
She shuffled along obediently, tiny hands grasping the edges of trays to steady herself.
"I... I think that's risky..." she tried to warn, but I was already diving for a tart, scooping it into my mouth with precision.
"You must act fast in battle! No hesitation!" I declared. Then, before she could protest further, I shoved a chocolate tart into her mouth.
She gagged slightly, muffling a tiny cry. I patted her head quickly.
"Shh! Safe. Protected. Big brother's rules!"
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't move away. She had no choice. My enthusiasm was overwhelming. I am large, I am strong, I am protector—and dessert is war.
After a few more rounds of pastries and chocolate éclairs, I finally leaned back slightly, breathing heavily from the exertion of dragging her around, shoving desserts into her mouth, and "strategically conquering" trays.
She blinked at me, probably calculating whether this was a child's game or some strange ritual of dominance. I only smiled faintly, crumbs still clinging to my lips.
"You see? Big brother knows best," I said. "Eat, survive, and listen. That is the rule."
She stayed quiet. For now, the game had ended in my favor.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, that small, constant reminder pulsed: Yui. Tiny. Trusting. Innocent. I would protect. I would endure. I would act.
Even if it meant shoving pastries into someone's mouth to keep them quiet.
Because that was what big brothers did.
I was halfway through demonstrating the "strategic conquest" of the dessert table, another tart clutched in one hand, another shoved into her mouth, when a shadow fell over me.
I glanced up—my father.
His dark eyes were sharp, surveying the scene, gaze flicking between me and the small girl I had commandeered as my "protégé." His lips pressed into a thin line, and I instantly felt that familiar twinge in my chest—the one that meant I had just crossed a line.
"Akihiko," he said, voice calm but heavy with menace, "what exactly do you think you're doing?"
I froze mid-chew, crumbs clinging to my lips. The small girl looked up at me with wide eyes, clearly questioning whether this was normal behavior for heirs of powerful families.
"Protecting," I mumbled. "Big brother... protects."
My father's gaze didn't soften. He pinched the bridge of his nose slightly, a gesture I had come to recognize as very bad.
Behind him, I noticed another figure approaching: a man with a quiet, composed air— Mr.Sakayanagi or whatever. He had been observing from a distance, calm and collected, probably noting every nuance of the interaction. His expression remained relaxed, though a small corner of his mouth hinted at amusement.
"It seems..." he said softly, tone almost teasing, "that your son has decided to educate my daughter in the art of dessert strategy."
I glanced at Sakayanagi, who was still standing obediently, blinking crumbs from her lips. She hadn't protested, not even when my father appeared. Clearly, she had cataloged my "flamboyant big brother behavior" and decided that compliance was the best option.
"Akihiko," my father said again, more firmly, "release her immediately. That is not acceptable behavior."
I hesitated. Protective instincts warred with my respect for authority. But then, sensing the combined weight of the two fathers, I released my grip, letting her step back.
"Yes, Father," I muttered, brushing crumbs from my blazer, trying to act casual.
Her father, still calm, approached the small girl, straightening her posture slightly and giving her a gentle, almost imperceptible nod.
"It's fine," he said quietly, tone smooth. "I think we can resume... civilized interactions."
My father groaned, clearly exasperated, and turned his glare back to me.
"Akihiko," he said, voice low, "this is a political gathering, not a battlefield. Control yourself. Must you always turn everything into... chaos?"
I shrugged, still chewing the last bit of pastry in my mouth.
"I... I was just... helping her," I said, glancing briefly at Sakayanagi. "Keeping her safe."
"By stuffing pastries in her mouth?" my father muttered incredulously.
"Yes!" I said earnestly, puffing my chest slightly. "Big brother rules!"
Arisu's father chuckled softly, patting her shoulder.
"She's fine," he said. "Clearly, your son has... a unique approach. But I think we can let this pass."
My father groaned again, turning away to mutter under his breath, clearly wishing he could teleport me home immediately.
I glanced at Arisu, who finally gave me a long, measured look—eyes narrowing, calculating silently. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The message was clear: she had observed, recorded, and judged my tactics, and would remember.
I smirked faintly. Big brother duties completed. Chaos managed. Crumbs intact.
And somewhere deep inside, I felt that familiar pang—the reminder of the promise I had made to Yui. Protect. Feed. Endure. Lead.
Even if the adults disapproved.
Even if the world didn't understand.
Because that was what big brothers did.
The party continued around us, glittering chandeliers reflecting in polished marble, children whispering and giggling in chaotic formations, while I stood there, crumbs on my lips, smirk tugging faintly at my face, ready for the next "battle" that life—or dessert—might throw at me.