Chapter Text
You know, if anyone told me months ago that I would die in my sleep from carbon monoxide poisoning and then wake up as a baby in the Zenin clan—more specifically, baby Mai Zenin—
I would have called them a lunatic and reported them to the nearest psychiatric ward.
Yet here we are.
Months have passed since my death. Not metaphorical months. Actual, lived-in-this-body months. Long enough for the initial panic to fade and be replaced by a bone-deep, soul-crushing realization:
This is real.
This is happening.
And I am so incredibly fucked.
I’m staring at my reflection in a polished bronze mirror as a woman who is very much not my mother adjusts the layers of my clothing. Her hands are efficient, impersonal.
This is routine to her. I am not her child. I am simply another Zenin responsibility.
Silk. Stiff. Heavy. Too many layers for a baby. Too many rules for a human being.
The reflection staring back at me isn’t mine.
Black hair, already thick. Pale skin that bruises too easily. Eyes too sharp for an infant, even dulled by age and circumstance. A face that looks soft now, round and harmless—but I know. I know. This is the face they’ll later call plain. Weak. Forgettable.
Mai Zenin.
The name sits wrong in my mouth, even unspoken.
I want to scream. I want to kick. I want to dropkick baby Naoya clear across the room and punt that little future misogynistic nightmare into the nearest wall hard enough to improve the timeline.
Unfortunately, my motor skills currently cap out at “angry flailing,” and the woman clicks her tongue in mild annoyance as she restrains my wrists with practiced ease.
Then—
Worry.
Confusion.
Danger?
The emotions slam into me without warning. No filter. No buffer. Raw and unpolished, like someone shoved their heart directly into my chest.
I stiffen.
Ah. Right. That.
Maki.
Apparently, that’s also a new thing: my twin sister and I can share emotions. Instantly. Seamlessly. Like someone took half my soul, stapled it to hers, and forgot to add a privacy filter.
The first time it happened, I nearly lost my mind.
Canonically, the twins did not have a telepathic bond. Canonically, they barely communicated at all. Canonically, they were isolated, misunderstood, and crushed beneath the Zenin heel until one of us broke and the other burned.
This is not canon.
Which means either I’m hallucinating, or fate decided—briefly, cruelly—to give us one unfair advantage.
I reach back instinctively, not with language, but intent. Emotion shaped into reassurance.
No worry. Safe.
The response is immediate.
Relief.
Warmth.
Trust.
It hits me harder than I expect.
Maki settles, her emotional presence smoothing out like a lake after a stone sinks beneath the surface.
As safe as a woman can be in the Zenin clan—which is to say, not safe at all. But I keep that thought to myself. She’s a baby. She doesn’t need existential dread yet. She’ll get plenty later.
If you’re wondering how I know I’m actually in the Zenin clan and not trapped in a very elaborate dying-brain fantasy—or if I’ve simply lost my mind—trust me, I checked.
The first thing I did once I gained enough mobility was slam my head against the wooden crib bars.
It hurt. A lot.
My baby's body, deeply offended by pain and betrayal, immediately burst into tears loud enough to summon half the household.
Dreams don’t hurt like that. Neither do delusions, as far as I know. I still can’t definitively prove I’m not insane, but the jury’s leaning toward “unfortunately sane enough”.
The second thing I did was listen.
Babies are underestimated. Especially baby girls. Especially Zenin baby girls. No one thinks we’re paying attention. No one thinks we’re capable of it.
The women here function like a strange hive mind—maids, caretakers, distant relatives—collectively raising children that don’t belong to them. They whisper constantly. They gossip relentlessly. And when they think no one is listening?
They talk freely.
I don’t understand the full language yet. The syntax slips through my grasp like water. But names? Names are easy. Names repeat. Names stick.
“Maki-san.”
“Mai-san.”
Occasionally, spoken with reverence or irritation: “Gojo-sama.”
And far too often—spoken with pride, expectation, entitlement: “Naoya-sama.”
That alone tells me everything I need to know.
There’s a hierarchy here. A brutal one. Old. Rigid. Inherited like rot in the bones.
And I already know exactly where I fall in it.
At the bottom.
Another pulse from Maki brushes against my awareness.
Unease.
Curiosity.
She doesn’t know why she’s afraid. She just knows something is wrong.
I respond instinctively, projecting calm, grounding her the way she grounds me. It’s strange—comforting someone else steadies me too. Like our souls are propping each other up, half and half, making something almost whole.
You’re not alone, I send. I’ve got you.
The answer blooms warm and fierce.
Trust.
Attachment.
Something sharp and bright beneath it all.
Oh.
That’s dangerous.
I close my eyes as the woman finishes dressing me, committing everything to memory. The smell of incense clings to the room. The weight of silk presses down on my chest. The way adults look past me, never quite at me.
The Zenin clan will never see me as a threat.
Good.
They’ll see a weak girl with a useless technique. A spare. A disappointment. Someone not worth watching too closely.
And I will smile sweetly. Cry on cue. Play my role perfectly.
Because I don’t need to be strong right now.
I just need to survive.
And when the time comes—when I’m old enough to move, to plan, to aim—
I’ll make sure this family regrets letting me live.
Maki sends one last emotional echo before drifting back into sleep.
Warmth.
Safety.
Faith.
I stare up at the ceiling, already exhausted, already done with life, already planning crimes that will take years to execute.
The writing on the wall is very clear.
And it says: You’re fucked.
So I might as well make it everyone else’s problem too.