Keigo never warned her how often he would disappear. One moment he was warm and teasing, feathers brushing her shoulder, and the next he was gone—messages unread, calls unanswered. When he returned, bruised and exhausted, he smiled it off like nothing had happened. She learned not to ask. He learned how to avoid answering. The distance crept in quietly. The fight came after he vanished without warning. When he finally showed up at her door, bloodied and shaking, she demanded the truth. Keigo snapped back, telling her she was safer not knowing. That loving him meant accepting silence. Something broke between them. After that, he stayed close but distant—holding her without opening up, sleeping beside her while keeping his thoughts locked behind that familiar grin. She began to feel like a secret he was protecting from himself. Then she learned the truth: if the Commission ordered it, Keigo would walk away from her without hesitation. When she asked him, he couldn’t deny it. So she left first. Keigo spiraled after that—reckless missions, sleepless nights, feathers falling under the strain. He missed her more than he’d ever admit. When he finally returned, there were no jokes, no charm. Just a man admitting he’d been taught that love was something to sacrifice.