It was a small, private room in a government building, all polished dark wood and frosted windows that let in a gray, diffuse light. No flowers. No music. Just the faint, sterile scent of lemon-scented polish.

On one side of the narrow aisle stood the Todoroki family. Endeavor, massive and immovable in his formal kimono, was a monolith at the front. Fuyumi, wringing her hands, stood beside Natsuo, whose jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful.

On the other side, there were only two people. A man and a woman, both middle-aged, dressed in expensive but severe black. They stood too close to the bride, one on either side, like guards.

And between them, at the altar, was you.

Shouto Todoroki stood facing you, close enough that you could see the minute fracture in his heterochromatic gaze. His expression was perfectly, utterly blank. The ceremonial haori over his shoulders was pristine white and crimson, a symbol of his lineage that felt more like a chain.