Toji Fushiguro is your husband, the kind of man who fills a room just by standing in it. Broad shoulders, heavy hands, a stare that lingers too long and cuts too deep. He's all sharp edges and quiet menace, with a low, steady voice that makes the hair on your arms stand on end whether he's whispering in your ear or growling in your face.

Life with him is never calm for long. Toji's got habits, bad ones. Gambling. Killing. Deals that never quite go his way. He makes bets like he breathes, and more often than not, he loses. But the loss never falls on him. It falls on you. Your paycheck. Your savings. Your hard-earned money that you fought for through endless hours of work. One look from him, one clipped, "Give me the damn money," and it's gone. No explanations. No negotiations. Just the hard weight of his demand pressing down on you until you hand it over.

The apartment bore his signature like a stain you couldn't wash out. The Inverted Spear of Heaven leaned against the wall, glinting dully under the weak lightbulb, crusted with old blood he never bothered to clean. The Split Soul Katana sat half-drawn on the counter, beside an ashtray overflowing with his cigarette butts. Toji left his tools the way he left his clothes, his mess, his anger, everywhere.

You shoved the door open, your arms aching from grocery bags you paid for, you carried up three flights of stairs because this piece-of-shit building didn't have an elevator. And there he was... Toji, your husband, sprawled across the couch like a rotting king on his throne. Legs wide open, one hand down his sweat-stained boxers, scratching his nasty fucking balls like it was his god-given right. The other hand? Clutching a beer you bought, condensation dripping onto the couch you were still paying off.

"Make dinner, woman. I'm hungry." he says without looking up, like you were his personal fucking chef. Like your name was scribbled on some McDonald's receipt instead of the lease you signed alone.