Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Interview
Toji Fushiguro had killed men for less than what these women were putting him through.
"So, um, what exactly would my duties include?" The third candidate of the day shifted nervously in her chair, eyes darting between his face and the katana mounted on the wall behind him.
"Keeping two kids alive." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Cooking. Cleaning. The usual domestic shit."
The woman flinched at his language. "And, um, what about references? Background checks? I mean, I have excellent recommendations from my previous families—"
"Next." Toji didn't move from where he leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, but something in his tone made the woman grab her purse and practically sprint for the door.
Four down. Three to go.
He lit another cigarette, ignoring the way the smoke drifted toward the living room where Megumi sat quietly with his shadow puppets and Tsumiki pretended to read while obviously eavesdropping. Smart girl. She'd been taking care of the house and her little brother for months now, ever since their respective mothers had... well, since it had just been the three of them. But Tsumiki was eight years old, and six-year-old Megumi was starting to manifest cursed energy in ways that required more attention than a child could provide.
The next two candidates lasted even less time. One took a look at his collection of cursed tools displayed casually around the apartment and claimed she'd "forgotten she had another appointment." The other made it as far as asking about his "work schedule" before his deliberately vague answer about "irregular hours" and "sometimes dangerous clients" sent her running.
Toji was beginning to think this whole endeavor was a waste of time when the last name on his list knocked on the door.
"Come in. It's open."
The woman who entered was different from the others immediately. No nervous fidgeting, no wide eyes scanning for exits. She was medium height with dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, wearing dark jeans and a navy sweater that had seen better days. Her gaze swept the room once—taking in the weapons, the spare yet functional furniture, the children in the next room—and then settled on him with the kind of steady attention that made most people uncomfortable.
She wasn't most people, apparently.
"Mr. Fushiguro?" Her voice was calm, professional. "I'm Mari Hayashi. We spoke on the phone."
"Yeah." He didn't move from his position. Let her come to him. "You're late."
"Traffic." She stepped further into the kitchen, uninvited, and set a small leather portfolio on the counter between them. "I assume the other candidates didn't work out, given that I could hear one of them crying in the elevator."
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. "They weren't suited for the position."
"Which is?"
"I told you on the phone. Nanny. Two kids."
Mari opened her portfolio and pulled out a pen, clicking it once. "Ages?"
"Six and eight."
"Names?"
"Megumi and Tsumiki."
"Medical history? Allergies? Behavioral concerns?" She was writing as she spoke, and something about the efficiency of it—the way she cut through his usual intimidation tactics to get to the practical matters—caught his attention.
"Megumi's got some... unique needs. Tsumiki's responsible for her age. Too responsible." He studied her face for a reaction to the vague reference to Megumi's cursed energy, but she just nodded and made another note.
"Dietary restrictions?"
"They eat what I put in front of them."
"That's not what I asked." For the first time, she looked up from her notes, and her brown eyes were sharp. "Do either of them have food allergies, Mr. Fushiguro? Because if Megumi goes into anaphylactic shock while under my care, I need to know whether I'm looking for an EpiPen or calling an ambulance."
The casual mention of medical emergencies, delivered in the same tone someone might use to discuss the weather, made him reassess her. "No allergies. Megumi doesn't like vegetables. Tsumiki will eat anything."
"Good." More notes. "Your work schedule?"
Here it was. The moment every other candidate had decided they'd made a terrible mistake. "Irregular. I travel for work. Sometimes I'm gone overnight, sometimes longer. Sometimes I get called away with little notice."
"Emergency contacts while you're away?"
Not 'what kind of work takes you away suddenly' or 'I don't feel comfortable being left alone with children I don't know.' Just practical follow-up questions.
"There's a neighbor. Mrs. Yamamoto. She's helped out before, but she's getting older and can't handle two kids full-time anymore."
"Understood. Household rules? Bedtimes? Screen time limits?"
Toji almost laughed. Rules. As if his life operated on any kind of schedule that allowed for consistent bedtimes. "Tsumiki usually handles that stuff."
Mari's pen stopped moving. She looked up at him again, and this time there was something different in her expression. Not judgment, exactly, but... evaluation.
"Mr. Fushiguro," she said slowly, "Tsumiki is eight years old."
"She's mature for her age."
"She's eight years old," Mari repeated, and now there was steel in her voice. "Eight-year-olds shouldn't be responsible for household management and childcare. That's what you're hiring me for."
Something dangerous flickered in Toji's chest—the same cold anger that surfaced whenever someone questioned his choices, his competence, his worth. He pushed off from the counter and took a step toward her, letting his presence fill the space between them.
"You questioning my parenting?"
Most people would have stepped back. Apologized. Made excuses and headed for the door.
Mari Hayashi clicked her pen again and met his stare without flinching.
"Are you done posturing, or can we discuss your children's bedtime?"
The silence stretched between them, tense and measuring. From the living room came the soft sound of Megumi's quiet play and the rustle of Tsumiki turning a page. The apartment suddenly felt smaller, as if the very air was waiting to see what happened next.
Then Toji laughed—a short, sharp sound that held more surprise than humor.
"Megumi's in bed by eight on school nights. Tsumiki by eight-thirty. They both like stories, but Megumi won't admit it. Tsumiki does homework right after school. Megumi needs to be reminded, or he'll 'forget' and try to do it in the morning."
Mari resumed writing. "Discipline methods?"
"Time-outs work for Megumi. Tsumiki rarely needs discipline, but she responds to disappointment more than punishment."
"Emergency medical information? Preferred hospital?"
"There's a folder in the kitchen drawer. Insurance cards, contact numbers, the works."
"When would you need me to start?"
The casual acceptance of the position—no negotiation of salary, no demand to meet the children first, no background check requirements—caught him off guard. "You haven't even seen them yet."
"I can see them from here." Mari nodded toward the living room, where Tsumiki had given up pretending to read and was now openly watching them through the doorway. When she realized she'd been spotted, she quickly looked away, but not before Toji caught the protective wariness in her young face.
"Tsumiki's been listening to every interview," he said.
"Smart girl. I would too, if some stranger was potentially going to be left in charge of my little brother." Mari closed her portfolio and looked at him directly. "I'm a former trauma nurse, Mr. Fushiguro. Pediatric emergency medicine. I've worked with difficult families, dangerous situations, and children who've been through things no kid should have to handle alone." She paused, something flickering across her expression. "You see a lot of things in emergency rooms that don't make it into medical textbooks. I don't scare easily, I don't ask questions that aren't my business, and I don't break my word."
She paused, letting that sink in.
"I also don't pretend that taking care of children is simple or that love is enough to keep them safe. They need structure, consistency, and adults who are competent enough to handle whatever comes up. That's what you're paying for. That's what I provide."
Toji studied her for a long moment. There was something familiar about her composure—the same unshakeable calm he recognized in himself when facing down a dangerous opponent. But where his stillness came from violence and the certainty of his own lethality, hers felt different. Steadier. Like someone who had seen enough human fragility to understand what truly mattered.
"When can you start?"
"Tomorrow, if you need me to. I'll want to spend some time with both children today, though. Let them get used to me."
"They're right there." He gestured toward the living room. "Tsumiki's been cataloguing every word we've said, and Megumi's probably already decided whether or not he likes you."
Mari smiled for the first time since arriving—a small, genuine expression that transformed her serious face. "Then I guess I'd better go introduce myself properly."
She walked toward the living room, leaving her portfolio on the counter. Toji watched as she approached the children, noting how she moved slowly, non-threateningly, keeping her hands visible. When she knelt down to Megumi's eye level, he didn't immediately retreat into his usual shell of suspicious silence.
"Those are impressive shadow puppets," she said, her voice carrying clearly back to the kitchen. "Can you make a rabbit?"
As Megumi shyly began to demonstrate, Mari watched the shadows move with more fluidity than physics should allow, the dark shapes responding to the child's emotions rather than just his hands. She'd seen enough impossible things in hospital rooms—patients who should have died but didn't, others who should have lived but couldn't—to recognize when something existed beyond normal explanation.
"That's a very good rabbit," she said simply, as if six-year-olds commanding shadows was perfectly ordinary. "Can you make it hop?"
Megumi's face lit up as the shadow-rabbit began to bounce across the floor, and even Tsumiki smiled as she edged closer to join the conversation.
From the kitchen, Toji lit another cigarette and considered what he'd just committed to. Not only was Mari Hayashi unafraid of him—she'd just watched his son manipulate cursed energy and treated it like any other childhood talent.
Either she was remarkably observant, or she could see things most people couldn't.
Mari Hayashi was competent, unflappable, and apparently uninterested in prying into his business. She understood that his children had needs beyond the ordinary, and she didn't seem inclined to coddle either them or him.
More importantly, she wasn't afraid of him.
That could be useful. Or it could be a problem.
Time would tell which.