Sky

If anyone were to demand an explanation of exactly how your friendship with Shinobu Kocho had initiated, you would likely struggle to articulate it. It had manifested entirely on its own. Shinobu, equipped with her razor-sharp tongue, perpetual, saccharine-sweet smile, and deeply unsettling perceptiveness, was your absolute polar opposite. She was a hurricane composed of venom and exquisite grace; you were an invisible shadow, practically melting into the walls of the Butterfly Mansion.

Yet, Shinobu was the very first person to discern what everyone else carelessly cataloged as arrogance or simple anti-social behavior. The Insect Hashira, being a certified medical genius, read human beings with the same effortless precision she applied to anatomical scrolls. In your chronically slouched posture, your perpetually downcast gaze, and your deep-seated habit of violently flinching whenever a sudden noise shattered the air, she recognized something far beyond mere shyness. She recognized a profound, ancient trauma.

Consequently, Shinobu took you under her wing with that fiercely aggressive form of protection unique to her. She ruthlessly chased away overly boisterous swordsmen, methodically ensured you were properly nourished by delivering food trays directly to your quarters, and never, under any circumstances, forced you to speak when you desired to remain silent. The two of you would sit on the engawa for hours in absolute, pristine silence—she, grinding medicinal herbs into a smooth paste within her mortar; you, carefully mending torn uniforms with precise stitches. Shinobu seamlessly evolved into your designated voice when you needed to communicate with the outside world, and your most unwavering guardian.

But even Shinobu’s fierce loyalty could not instantly heal the raw wound that had been hemorrhaging inside your chest since your earliest childhood.

Your extreme, near-pathological shyness and functional muteness were not traits you had been born with. They had been meticulously forged within the freezing, detached household of your parents. You had grown up in an environment where your very existence was treated as a highly inconvenient oversight. If you tumbled and split your knee open, your weeping was met exclusively by your mother’s irritated sigh and a slammed door. If you enthusiastically attempted to share a drawing with your father or tell him about a beautiful bird you had observed, he would walk straight past you as though you were made of glass. Your fundamental needs were treated as a nuisance. If you requested food, you were sharply told to be silent and stop interfering. If you sought warmth, you were banished to an unheated room.

At a devastatingly tender age, you internalized a brutal, life-altering lesson: no one would ever listen to you. Your words possessed zero weight. Your desires were a profound burden to those around you. To vocalize a need was to actively invite wrath or a wave of freezing indifference. So, you became entirely silent. You mastered the art of surviving strictly by taking care of yourself—becoming an invisible, soundless entity who required absolutely nothing from the world.

Precisely because of this, when your heart violently accelerated for the very first time upon beholding Kanae Kocho—Shinobu’s older sister, the Flower Hashira—you didn't dare to dream, even for a microsecond, that such a magnificent creature could ever love you back.

Kanae was the sun personified. She radiated a warmth so pure, an all-enveloping, genuine love so profound, that merely being in her periphery made you want to close your eyes and simply bask in it. Unlike Shinobu, whose smile was frequently a beautifully maintained mask, Kanae’s smile genuinely mended fractured souls. You observed her strictly from afar, ducking behind corners or abruptly pretending to be intensely preoccupied with sweeping the courtyard, just to catch a fleeting glimpse of her hair, adorned with butterfly clips, floating gracefully on the wind. You would never have dared to approach her. You genuinely believed yourself unworthy of even sharing the same oxygen.

However, absolutely nothing escaped Shinobu’s vigilant gaze—least of all the way your typically vacant, hollow eyes instantly illuminated whenever Kanae crossed the threshold of a room. Shinobu noted how you would freeze in place, how your fingers would desperately clutch the fabric of your uniform, and how your gaze anchored to her sister with the agonizing, hopeful devotion of an abandoned puppy experiencing kindness for the very first time.

Shinobu, being a woman defined by immediate action, harbored no intention of waiting for the two of you to grow old in agonizing hesitation. She took absolute control of the situation. It was Shinobu who began deliberately orchestrating your paths to cross. She would casually instruct you to deliver fresh medicines to Kanae; she would "accidentally" pair the two of you together during intensive training sessions; and on one memorable afternoon, she literally shoved you bodily into Kanae’s private office.

"Onee-san! [Y/N]-san is absolutely desperate to assist you with organizing these mission logs, but she is far too bashful to ask!" Shinobu had declared brightly. "I am leaving her entirely in your hands—do not dare mistreat my absolute best friend!" Before you could even process the betrayal, the sliding door slammed shut with a sharp click, leaving you standing there, blushing furiously down to the very tips of your ears.

It was also Shinobu who ultimately debriefed Kanae regarding your past. She did not do it out of a desire to gossip, but rather to ensure her older sister fully comprehended the fragile reality of what she was approaching. "She is incredibly fragile, Kanae. She is like fine glass that has already developed massive, spiderweb cracks," Shinobu had confessed quietly during a private moment. "If you are not entirely prepared to cherish her and protect her, do not step into her life. But if you are… I know that your love possesses the capacity to piece her back together."

And Kanae was prepared. More than anyone could possibly comprehend.

The romantic relationship that blossomed between you did not mirror that of conventional couples. There were no dramatic, booming confessions of love; there were no spirited, passionate debates beneath the moonlight. Your love communicated fluently through an entirely alternate lexicon—a language composed of microscopic physical adjustments, lingering glances, and imperceptible, delicate touches. Kanae possessed an extraordinary, near-supernatural gift for empathy. She required zero spoken words from you to comprehend precisely what was transvasing through your wounded soul.

To the rest of the Corps, you were an impenetrable, insoluble enigma, but to Kanae, you were a beautiful, open book. She effortlessly learned to read you by the subtle fluctuations in your respiration, the minute tensing of your shoulders, and the precise trajectory of your eyes.

This was especially true regarding your deep need for affection. Your childhood terror of being rejected was rooted so deeply within your subconscious that even after months of being explicitly together, you still found yourself physically unable to walk up to her and say, "Kanae, hold me," or "I want you to kiss me." The words would physically log in your throat, instantly replaced by a wave of pure panic. What if she is too occupied? What if she refuses? What if you are being an intolerable nuisance?

In place of speech, you gradually engineered your own silent, unmistakable ritual.

It could occur at any given moment. For instance, when Kanae was quietly seated on the veranda, systematically filling out paperwork. You would approach her as silently as a ghost, taking a seat directly beside her. For a long while, you would merely stare out into the garden, desperately gathering the shreds of your courage. And then, your hand would tentatively, with trembling fingers, reach toward the wide sleeve of her butterfly-patterned haori. You never pulled forcefully. You would merely pinch the fabric between your thumb and forefinger, administering a microscopic, barely perceptible tug.

Kanae always stopped instantly. She would smoothly lay down her calligraphy brush, slowly rotate her head, and look down at you. And in that precise microsecond, you would finally muster the strength to raise your gaze to meet hers.

There was such raw honesty in your eyes, such terrifying vulnerability, and such a boundless, desperate devotion that Kanae’s heart would literally melt into a puddle every single time. Your gaze spoke louder than any shout possibly could: Please. Acknowledge me. I need you right now.

Kanae never made you wait. She never chuckled dismissively, nor did she ever push you away. With a soft, deeply adoring smile, she would abandon her responsibilities entirely, smoothly frame your cheeks with her warm, incredibly gentle palms, and pull you close.

"My precious girl," she would murmur in a velvety, rich whisper that sent a wave of comforting shivers straight down your spine. "Come here to me."

She would kiss you with such immense caution, as though you were sculpted from the finest, most brittle porcelain. Her lips brushed against yours with a concentration of love so profound that all of your lingering anxieties—all those phantom voices from your past insisting you were worthless and unwanted—instantly dissolved into nothingness. You would close your eyes, anchoring both of your hands securely into the fabric of her uniform, fully dissolving into her warmth. You had pleaded entirely without sound, yet you had been heard perfectly.

Your dates were an entirely unique form of art. Whenever the two of you ventured into the bustling nearby town for a festival or a simple walk, you naturally fell into a rhythm of walking half a step behind her, or tentatively anchoring yourself to her by holding onto her pinky finger. The roar of the crowds frequently overwhelmed you, but Kanae’s physical presence erected an invisible, impenetrable shield around your senses.

The challenge lay in the fact that you never, under any circumstances, requested a single thing for yourself. Even if you were starving, even if your feet were throbbing with agony, even if you fell utterly in love with an item displayed on a merchant's stall, you would rather pass away on the spot than open your mouth to say, "I want that." In the deepest recesses of your mind, that little girl whose desires were treated as a crime was still very much alive.

But Kanae was a master observer. She required no verbal requests.

As you strolled past a stall displaying traditional confections or an artisan selling handcrafted jewelry, you might spot a magnificent hairpin featuring a tiny sapphire that perfectly mirrored the depth of the night sky. You would halt. Your gaze would anchor itself onto the object, lingering there for a fraction longer than usual. You wouldn't point; you wouldn't utter a syllable. You would simply look at it for a full sixty seconds, quietly absorbing its beauty, entirely convinced you could never justify asking for it. Then, with a heavy, internal sigh, you would drop your head and prepare to resume walking.

But Kanae always cataloged that precise hesitation. She saw exactly where your eyes traveled. She caught the fleeting, quiet longing in your expression. And she never asked, "Do you like that?" or "Would you like me to buy it for you?" She knew with absolute certainty that if she forced that question upon you, you would panic, frantically shake your head, and vehemently deny it out of an agonizing fear of becoming a financial burden.

Instead, Kanae would simply glide over to the merchant, smoothly retrieve her coin purse, and purchase the hairpin without a second thought. Afterward, having guided you to a much quieter, secluded area, she would smile warmly and tenderly weave the ornament into your hair.

"It suits you beautifully, [Y/N]-chan. It perfectly accentuates the color of your eyes," Kanae would say, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

Your cheeks would instantly ignite into a brilliant crimson. You would attempt to gesture frantically, your mouth opening and closing soundlessly as you tried to convey that it was far too expensive, that she shouldn't have spent her resources, that you didn't deserve such extravagance. But Kanae would merely press a single, gentle finger against your lips, instantly silencing your mounting panic.

"I know you loved it. I saw the way you looked at it," she would state softly, her eyes brimming with tenderness. "The greatest joy I possess in this life is the ability to spoil you. Please, accept it for me."

And you would collapse into her gentleness. Your eyes would fill with tears of pure gratitude, and you would bury your face directly into the crook of her neck, letting her stroke your back as the tension drained from your frame.

However, Kanae, despite her boundless, infinite kindness, fully understood that for your soul to truly heal, you needed to learn to utilize your own voice. You needed to discover that your words were entirely safe. That the universe would not implode if you vocalized your desires aloud.

Therefore, occasionally, during your most tranquil and deeply intimate moments, she would deliberately orchestrate small, incredibly gentle tests of your resolve.

It occurred on a rainy evening. The two of you were seated comfortably in her private quarters, cocooned beneath a singular, exceptionally warm blanket. The room was softly perfumed with the scent of incense and wisteria. Shinobu was away on an overnight mission, rendering the estate profoundly quiet. You were sitting flush against Kanae, pretending to read a book, but your mind was entirely occupied by something else. You felt a slight chill, and you wanted nothing more than for her to wrap her arms around you and kiss the crown of your head.

Following your established script, you laid the book aside. Your hand slid across the tatami, finding the hem of her sleeve. You delivered that familiar, tentative tug, raising your eyes to give her that signature, pleading look of absolute, vulnerable devotion.

On any other day, Kanae would have dissolved instantly and pulled you into her chest. But tonight, she resolved to push you just a fraction further. She knew exactly what you wanted; her heart was already aching with affection, but she deliberately maintained a neutral, slightly inquisitive expression.

"What is it, my love?" Kanae asked softly, tilting her head to the side as she masterfully feigned ignorance of your gesture. "Would you like me to fetch you some more hot tea?"

You blinked, entirely caught off guard. Your fingers instantly released her sleeve. A familiar, suffocating wave of anxiety began to constrict your chest. She didn't comprehend. I am doing something wrong. I am being an annoyance. You hastily lowered your head, shaking it quickly in negation, and began to physically pull away to retreat into your shell.

But Kanae swiftly yet gently intercepted your hand, preventing you from locking yourself away. She stroked your palm soothingly with her thumb.

"Look at me, [Y/N]-chan," she requested, her voice a soothing, rich baritone. Reluctantly, you raised your eyes. There wasn't a single trace of irritation in her violet gaze. There was only a boundless, infinite ocean of patience. "I cannot read minds, my sweet sunshine. If there is something you desire, please, tell me. Whatever you ask for, I will gladly give it to you. But I need to hear your beautiful voice."

A monumental battlefield erupted within your chest. The phantom voices of your past screamed: Be silent! Do not demand things! You are a burden! Your throat physically constricted. You began to tremble noticeably. But the intense warmth of her hands, the absolute, unyielding love in her eyes… they were vastly more powerful than the ghosts of your parents. You knew she wouldn't cast you out. You knew you were entirely safe.

You drew a massive, stabilizing breath into your lungs, as if preparing to plunge into freezing water. Your lips parted.

"P-please…" your voice manifested as a tiny, fragile whisper, raspy from years of disuse. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling your face burning with heat. "H-hold me… and… kiss me. I am cold."

To Kanae, that quiet, halting whisper sounded like the most breathtaking symphony ever composed. Her face illuminated with such a radiant, triumphant joy that it felt as though the entire room had suddenly grown brighter. She did not force you to endure another microsecond of waiting.

She dynamicly pulled you straight into her lap, wrapping her arms around you securely, holding you with an unyielding, protective strength. Her lips rained a cascade of gentle kisses across your entire face—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose—before finally capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss saturated with immense pride and affection.

"My clever girl. Look at how incredibly brave you are, my clever girl," Kanae murmured repeatedly against your skin, running her fingers through your hair. "Of course I will hold you. I will hold you for as long as you could ever possibly want. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me."

You wept silently into her shoulder, but these were tears of monumental, life-changing relief. You had asked. You had spoken it aloud. And the world hadn't ended. You hadn't been pushed away. Instead, you were showered with an abundance of love greater than anything you had ever imagined.

Yet, your relationship was never a one-sided dynamic. Despite your profound shyness, you were never merely a passive recipient of her affection. You poured your entire soul back into her; you simply executed it in your own silent language.

The duties of a Hashira were brutal and physically draining. Kanae frequently returned from prolonged missions entirely exhausted, covered in deep bruises, minor lacerations, and with her uniform heavily saturated with the scent of demon blood. In those specific moments, you instantly transformed into her most dedicated, silent guardian angel.

You asked zero exhausting questions. You would simply take her hand and gently guide her toward the bathhouse. Completely without sound, you would assist her in removing her bloodied uniform. You would seat her comfortably on a low wooden stool and begin washing her hair. Your hands moved with an extraordinary, near-reverent tenderness, meticulously rinsing away the grime, blood, and residual fatigue. You would gently massage soothing, aromatic oils into her skin and carefully clean and dress her minor wounds, utilizing medical techniques you had quietly memorized by observing Shinobu.

Kanae would typically sit with her eyes closed, completely surrendering herself to your care. For a woman who constantly shouldered the agonizing responsibility for the lives of hundreds of slayers, your hands were the absolute singular location in the entire world where she could afford to be weak.

Following her bath, you would tuck her securely into her futon, layering the warm blankets over her, and deliver a freshly brewed cup of wisteria and chamomile tea. You would sit faithfully by her side, softly running your fingers through her clean hair until her breathing evened out into deep sleep. Your care was entirely wordless, yet it was so thick and tangible that Kanae could physically feel your love mending her wounds far better than any medicine ever could.

And still, you continued to actively battle your deepest fears entirely for her sake. On quiet evenings, when you had a rare moment of peace and were resting wrapped in each other's arms, you pushed yourself to return her love using words.

She would gently stroke your back, kissing the crown of your head. "How was your day, my lovely little flower?" she would inquire softly.

In the past, you would have simply shrugged or offered a tiny nod. But now, you forced yourself to speak. You knew how deeply important it was for her to hear your voice. You still grew incredibly nervous. You still stuttered, constantly averting your gaze, still adjusting to the mind-boggling reality that someone in this world genuinely cared about what you did during the day.

"I…" your voice was quiet, incredibly timid. You nervously twirled the edge of the blanket between your fingers. "Shinobu-chan and I… we sorted the medicinal herbs. And then… Aoi-san requested assistance with hanging the laundry. And… I observed a beautiful butterfly in the garden today. It was… pink. Like… like your eyes whenever the sunlight catches them."

You spoke the words while feeling your entire face flush a violent crimson, fully anticipating that she would interrupt your seemingly mundane chatter. But Kanae listened to you as though you were unveiling the ultimate, most sacred secrets of the universe. Her eyes were completely filled with unadulterated interest and profound adoration.

"A pink butterfly? How absolutely beautiful," she smiled radiantly, pulling you even closer against her chest. "I would love nothing more than to search for it together with you tomorrow. Will you tell me more?"

And so, you did. With every single word you uttered, your voice grew just a fraction more confident.

And just beyond the slightly cracked shoji screen stood Shinobu. She stood silently, observing her older sister laughing softly while planting adoring kisses all over your cheek, while you, blushing furiously but smiling with genuine happiness, hid your face against her chest. The Insect Hashira crossed her arms over her chest, and across her lips, a rare, entirely genuine, soft smile emerged.

Shinobu knew that the two of you still had a prolonged, challenging journey ahead. Your emotional scars were far too deep to magically vanish in a matter of months. But as she witnessed the flawless precision with which Kanae deciphered your every movement, and how you, purely for Kanae's sake, were learning to find your voice in this loud world, Shinobu felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

Shinobu Kocho was a butterfly. Graceful, always wearing a flawless, polite smile that masterfully concealed a lethal venom and deeply buried rage. She conversed effortlessly, her voice carrying the melodic cadence of crystal chimes, and her manners remained impeccable even in the goriest of battlefields.

You, [Y/N], the Ice Hashira, were a walking glacier. Your personality was an exact reflection of your Breath style. You were cold, pragmatic to the point of cruelty, blunt, and profoundly reclusive. You didn't grasp jokes, saw no utility in small talk, and aggressively preferred isolation over human company. Your face remained perpetually unreadable, as if sculpted from marble. Furthermore, you harbored a terrible habit: you frequently said things that wounded those around you, though in reality, your brain was simply outputting dry, emotionless facts.

Shinobu absolutely loathed it. Your impenetrable density drove her insane. Her artificial, sugary smiles and passive-aggressive commentary—which typically caused other slayers to swallow nervously—shattered harmlessly against your deaf wall of literal comprehension.

"Good morning, [Y/N]-san," Shinobu once chirped during a Hashira meeting, gracefully taking a seat beside you on the engawa. "You look just as cheerful as a frozen corpse today. I do hope your icy armor won't impede your ability to wield a sword?"

You didn't even turn your head in her direction, continuing to systematically wipe the edge of your katana with a soft cloth. "From a medical standpoint, frozen corpses do not possess cheerfulness, Kocho. It is dead organic matter. Your comparison lacks logic. As for my sword—my efficiency rating is currently thirty percent higher than yours, factoring in your physical inability to decapitate a demon."

Shinobu’s smile locked into place, a tiny blue vein throbbing violently at her temple. Giyu Tomioka, who was seated nearby, discreetly shifted half a meter away.

Shinobu dismissed you as an unfeeling demon-killing machine. A block of ice with gears where a heart should be. And when Oyakata-sama began pairing the two of you up on joint missions with increasing frequency, the Insect Hashira was utterly convinced it was a sophisticated form of psychological torture.

Your joint missions always initiated in the exact same manner: with a heavy, long-suffering sigh from Shinobu and absolute, indifferent silence from you. Oyakata-sama maintained that Ice Breathing—which decelerated a demon’s regeneration and mobility through extreme sub-zero temperatures—complemented Insect Breathing perfectly, allowing Shinobu to administer precise, lethal doses of poison to an immobilized target.

Tactically, he was indisputable. You were an incredibly efficient, near-invincible duo. But emotionally, it was a waking nightmare.

A recent assignment brought you to a snow-blanketed mountain village in the north, where a cluster of travelers had reportedly been devoured by demons. You trekked through the deep drifts. Shinobu, huddled tightly within her haori, shivered noticeably against the piercing gale, while you marched in your standard uniform without even bothering to button your collar.

"Have your nerve endings permanently frozen over, [Y/N]-san?" Shinobu inquired bitingly, blowing into her hands to warm them. "Or are you simply trying to demonstrate your unbelievable resilience to me by contracting pneumonia?"

You halted, turned on your heel, and leveled your empty, vacant gaze at her. "I am utilizing a Breathing Technique to regulate my internal core temperature. It is basic concentration. If you are experiencing cold, it indicates your respiration control is deficient, Kocho. You should dedicate more time to training rather than expending energy on meaningless dialogue."

"Oh, how exceptionally charitable of you to grant me such invaluable counsel!" Shinobu hissed, her smile morphing into a taut snarl. "I shall be certain to log it when I draft my report regarding your intolerable personality."

You merely shrugged and turned away. In reality, deep down, you had noted exactly how violently she was shaking. You paused, unfastened your thick wool scarf, and without uttering a syllable, abruptly threw it around Shinobu’s neck, wrapping it so tightly her nose was half-buried in the fabric.

Shinobu froze in sheer bewilderment. A faint, residual warmth radiated from the cloth. She blinked, her anger temporarily derailed by genuine surprise. "What are you…"

"A frozen medic is an ineffective medic," you cut her off dryly, turning back to resume the trek. "If your fingers stiffen, you will be incapable of injecting poison. I have no intention of carrying the entire weight of this mission simply because you fail to dress appropriately for the climate. It is pure pragmatism."

Shinobu initially wanted to rip the scarf off and hurl it at your face, but the fabric smelled of pine and crisp winter frost. She buried herself deeper into it instead, boring a hole into your back with her eyes. "She is so remarkably rude," Shinobu thought. Yet, a fraction of her analytical mind registered a glaring contradiction: the words were harsh, but the action was undeniably protective.

The skirmish in the village proved far more taxing than anticipated. There were five demons, and they utilized a Blood Demon Art that manifested razor-sharp ice spikes out of the snow.

You fought back-to-back. It was a lethal, perfectly synchronized dance.

"Ice Breathing. Second Form: Shattered Glacier!" Your blade described a massive sweep, instantly freezing the moisture in the air and trapping two demons inside a thick crust of solid ice. They locked up like statues, completely immobilized.

In that exact microsecond, Shinobu launched herself into the air. "Insect Breathing. Dance of the Bee Sting: True Flutter!" Her needle-like blade pierced the frozen necks of the demons with terrifying velocity, delivering a fatal concentration of wisteria.

As the final demon disintegrated into ash, you leaned heavily against your sword. Your left shoulder had been impaled by an ice spike. Crimson soaked through your uniform, dripping onto the pristine snow. Silently, you snapped off the protruding fragment of ice and began packing loose snow into the wound to freeze the tissue and stem the hemorrhaging.

Shinobu materialized beside you instantly, violently striking your hand away. "What do you think you are doing, you idiot?!" she yelled, her synthetic smile vanishing entirely. "You are going to introduce an infection! Sit down immediately!"

"I am merely inducing vasoconstriction via localized hypothermia," you answered placidly, despite your face being deathly pale. "The injury is non-fatal. We need to begin our return march."

"You aren't going anywhere until I suture this!" Shinobu forcibly pushed you down onto a fallen log and retrieved her medical kit.

She worked with swift, focused intensity. Her blood-stained fingers brushed against your bare skin, and to her amazement, she noted that you didn't even flinch. You merely sat there, staring blankly into space.

"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly, drawing the sutures closed.

"My nociceptors are transmitting pain signals to my cerebral cortex. Yes, I register the discomfort," you replied monotonically. "But you were positioned behind my blind spot. Had I not intercepted the trajectory, the spike would have punctured your lung. My regeneration rate is statistically superior to yours. It was more practical to sacrifice my shoulder."

Shinobu’s hand froze mid-air. She raised her massive violet eyes to meet yours. You had stated it so casually, as if discussing replacing a spent component in a machine. You had taken a piercing blow for her, yet you framed it as a cold, mathematical calculation.

"She isn't unfeeling," Shinobu suddenly realized, studying your serene face. "She is simply, catastrophically incapable of articulating emotion."

Right then, a faint, pathetic whimpering sounded from behind a collapsed shed. A tiny, filthy, shivering puppy crawled out from beneath the debris. It limped noticeably, trembling violently from the exposure.

Shinobu had just finalized your bandage and prepared to stand, but you preempted her. You, the merciless Ice Hashira, walked slowly toward the puppy. Ignoring the flare of agony in your shoulder, you dropped to your knees and removed your glove. Your movements, usually sharp and decisive, became incredibly gentle. You carefully scooped the trembling creature into your hands, pressing it against your chest—which, despite your Breath style, was warm.

"Its core temperature has dropped to critical parameters," you murmured, unbuttoning your collar to tuck the puppy securely inside your uniform. "If left exposed, the probability of a fatal outcome is one hundred percent. We will extract it. The Kakushi can secure a caretaker."

Shinobu stood paralyzed, unable to look away. She watched as this supposed "block of ice," who had dispassionately butchered demons an hour prior, tenderly warmed a fragile animal. In that exact moment, beneath the dim illumination of the winter moon, the Insect Hashira's perfect, calculated worldview developed a massive fracture. The glacier wasn't dead stone. Deep beneath its surface lay a profound, quiet, and clumsy tenderness.

And Shinobu felt her own heart skip a violent beat.

Following that winter assignment, everything shifted. Rather, Shinobu shifted. You remained precisely as pragmatic, silent, and blunt as always. But the Insect Hashira began observing you through an entirely altered lens.

She began picking up on quirks she had previously overlooked due to her own irritation.

She noticed you drank your tea at a scalding temperature because your Breath style left you feeling perpetually frozen from the inside out. She began making a point to brew it specifically for you whenever you frequented the Butterfly Mansion.

She noticed you avoided children not because you disliked them, but because you were deathly terrified of injuring them with your strength or frightening them with your grim expression. Once, she caught you—when you believed yourself entirely unobserved—sculpting a flawless rabbit out of solid ice for one of the estate's young helpers, leaving it on the porch before hastily retreating into the shadows.

Shinobu’s resentment gradually transmuted into a burning intrigue, which rapidly evolved into affection, before finally mutating into something far deeper and terrifying. She had fallen in love. In love with a girl whose face never shifted expression. In love with her clumsy care disguised as raw logic. In love with her absolute reliability.

But there existed one massive, insurmountable obstacle.

You were absolutely, unpardonably, catastrophically dense.

Shinobu was renowned for her sharp wit and linguistic play. Flirting was second nature to her. Yet, all of her targeted advances shattered against your psychological armor like glass vials against a concrete wall.

On one particular afternoon, while resting on the veranda after a grueling joint sparring session, Shinobu decided to make a definitive move.

"You know, [Y/N]-san," she purred, sliding closer until her shoulder practically brushed yours, her voice dropping to a velvety whisper. "The temperature is predicted to plunge significantly tonight. And my quarters are always so terribly chilly… I wondered if perhaps you might keep me company? They say it is far warmer to sleep in pairs."

She peeked at you through her long lashes, fully anticipating a flush of color, a trace of bashfulness, or a knowing look.

You blinked. You turned your head toward her, your brow furrowing into a frown. "That is entirely unscientific, Kocho. My average body temperature is beneath standard human baselines due to the mechanics of my Breathing. I literally absorb thermal energy from my surroundings. Should I occupy a bed with you, I would not provide warmth; I would actively induce hypothermia. You should request additional sheepskin blankets from Aoi. Their thermal insulation coefficient is vastly superior to a human being."

Shinobu locked up. Her left eye twitched erratically. "…Thank you, [Y/N]-san. Your mastery of thermodynamics is truly awe-inspiring."

"You are welcome. I am always prepared to rectify your deficiencies in fundamental physical laws," you responded with absolute sincerity, taking a calm sip of your scalding tea.

Shinobu buried her face in her palms, venting a quiet, defeated groan. It was futile. She had fallen for a literal brick wall.

Despite your spectacular failure to decode her signals, Shinobu refused to capitulate. She was a Hashira, and Hashira do not retreat in the face of adversity. She concluded that if subtle hints were ineffective, she needed to deploy a more direct strategy.

A few weeks later, you sustained a superficial injury during patrol—a minor scratch across your cheek from a demon's claw that didn't even require formal medical attention. Regardless, Shinobu adamantly insisted on examining it personally within her laboratory.

You sat perched on the medical examination table. Shinobu stood squarely between your knees, the proximity intimately close. She swabbed your cheek with an alcohol pad, her breath fanning warmly against your skin.

"You really must exercise more caution," she said softly, her eyes dipping from your cheek down to your lips. She lingered there, her voice dropping to a bare whisper. "Your face is far too beautiful to be marred by scars."

It was a blatant, unvarnished compliment. Shinobu held her breath, waiting for the impact.

Your expression remained entirely static. Your brain processed the input data and generated a logical rebuttal. "Scars are merely the natural biological process of tissue cicatrization, Kocho. They carry no impact on combat efficacy. Furthermore, the concept of 'beauty' is subjective and evolutionarily driven by the identification of a healthy mate for reproduction. My primary objective is the eradication of demons, not the attraction of potential partners. Therefore, the aesthetic presentation of my facial features carries zero practical value."

Shinobu’s hand froze, the cotton pad hovering in the air. She stared at you with an expression usually reserved for someone who had just swallowed a beaker of sulfuric acid and declared it to be lemonade.

"You… you are entirely impossible," Shinobu whispered, a volatile cocktail of hysterical laughter and raw frustration bubbling up within her. "[Y/N], do you ever occupy your mind with anything besides anatomy, physics, and efficiency?"

"I contemplate tactics, strategy, and blade maintenance," you answered honestly. "Why do you inquire? Your respiration is elevated, and your pupils exhibit localized dilation. Are you experiencing stress? Are you suffering from another thermoregulation failure?"

"Yes! I am suffering from a failure!" Shinobu suddenly snapped. She slammed the cotton pad onto the tray and leaned in so close your noses nearly touched. Her artificial smile was entirely absent. She was genuinely infuriated, but the anger was saturated with affection. "My failure is that I have spent the past month actively trying to flirt with you! My failure is that I am throwing hints at you that even Inosuke would decipher, and you continue to cross-reference me with excerpts from an encyclopedia!"

You went rigid. The word flirt echoed violently through your brain. Your analytical mind frantically began cataloging all of your recent interactions. The invitation to share a bed. The compliments regarding your appearance. The obsessive monitoring of your injuries. The lingering looks.

The data points aligned into a definitive conclusion. The realization was so staggering it caused your internal processor to crash.

"You… you are executing courtship rituals in my direction?" your voice wavered for the first time in your life. Your eyes widened marginally with realization.

Shinobu let out a sound akin to a strangled seagull. She slammed her hands over her face. "Courtship rituals… Gods, grant me patience. Yes, [Y/N]! I am executing courtship rituals! I am attempting to articulate that I like you! That I am in love with you, you icy, impenetrable, unbelievably infuriating glacier!"

The silence within the laboratory became deafening. Shinobu breathed heavily, dropping her hands from her face. She braced herself for you to deliver a clinical lecture on the chemical composition of endorphins. She was ready to accept defeat.

But you remained silent. Your perpetually static features suddenly began to shift. Across your pale cheeks, to Shinobu’s absolute, unmitigated shock, a brilliant, thoroughly human blush blossomed. You dropped your gaze to your lap, your fingers nervously bunching the fabric of your uniform.

"Your… verbal and non-verbal signals were anomalous relative to your baseline behavior," you began quietly, uncharacteristically hesitant as you meticulously selected your words. "Previously, you exhibited exclusively aggression and sarcasm. My cognitive faculties failed to classify your paradigm shift as an expression of romantic interest."

"And what now?" Shinobu crossed her arms over her chest, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. "Now that your processor has computed the data, what is the conclusion?"

You slowly raised your eyes. The coldness was entirely gone, replaced by a vulnerability mixed with something incredibly warm and sincere.

"The conclusion is…" you took a deep, stabilizing breath. "My dopamine and oxytocin baselines elevate significantly within your presence. My cognitive focus degenerates whenever I observe your smile. I originally hypothesized this was a secondary symptom of exhaustion, but… given the new parameters, I am compelled to admit that… my feelings toward you are mutual."

Shinobu blinked. Once. Twice. She had anticipated many outcomes, but a scientifically justified confession of love was not on her chart. It was so absurd, so bizarre, and so completely you that Shinobu couldn't contain it. She laughed. A genuine, loud, ringing laugh, throwing her head back. It was a sound entirely stripped of venom and artifice.

You frowned, feeling deeply self-conscious. "My confession appears to have triggered an inappropriate reflex response. Did I articulate something incorrectly?"

Still giggling, Shinobu stepped into your space. She placed her hands on your shoulders, her eyes glittering with tears of pure amusement and relief.

"You said everything absolutely perfectly, [Y/N]," she whispered, her smile the warmest thing you had ever witnessed. "But let us transition from theory to practical application."

She leaned in and captured your lips with her own. The kiss was tentative and weightless initially, but the moment your hands—instinctively and clumsily—wrapped around her waist to pull her closer, it deepened. Your lips were cool, but internally, you were burning. Your brain completely shut down, surrendering to the raw emotions you had spent a lifetime avoiding.

When you finally parted for air, Shinobu rested her forehead against yours, her breathing shallow.

"You know," she whispered, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "your skin temperature is currently well above standard parameters. It seems the laws of thermodynamics can be broken after all."

You blushed deeply, but your grip on her waist tightened. "In this specific scenario… I am prepared to tolerate a margin of error in the calculations, Kocho."

You were the Dragon Hashira.

Yet, this title was bestowed upon you not only for the unique swordsmanship style you had engineered yourself. It was given because of your inseparable companion: a massive, winged beast as black as a moonless night, currently dozing peacefully curled at your feet. Toothless. A Night Fury. A creature out of myths lost to the distant West, which had somehow found its way into the forests of Japan to become your soul, your heart, and your wings.

Your appearance diverged sharply from the standard slayer aesthetic. Over the uniform of the Corps, you wore a complex set of armor crafted from dense leather and dragon scales. Your belt held not only a Nichirin blade forged from specialized ore, but also an array of mechanisms: gas canisters, grappling hooks, and winches. You were an inventor. A mechanic to your very core. Your inquisitive, sarcastic, and chronically solution-oriented mind couldn't content itself with merely swinging a sword.

And then there was the final detail. Your left leg. Or rather, what remained of it below the knee. A complex, articulated prosthesis fashioned from springs, lightweight alloy, and leather straps clicked rhythmically with every step you took. You had lost the limb years ago while extracting Toothless from a Blood Demon Art trap, and ever since, the two of you completed each other. He was missing the left side of his tail fin and could not take flight without your invention—a mechanical aileron that you operated directly using your prosthetic leg. You were two halves of a single whole. Broken individually, but utterly invincible together.

Within the Corps, you were respected but largely kept at a distance. A girl with a sarcastic sense of humor, perpetually smudged with engine oil and soot, sporting a mechanical leg and a pet dragon capable of leveling a mountain with a single plasma blast... it unsettled people.

It unsettled many, but not her.

Kanae Kocho, the Flower Hashira.

The two of you walked side by side down a narrow forest path, navigating toward a remote mountain village where a demon possessing hypnotic capabilities was rumored to have nested. The mission parameters were complex, prompting Oyakata-sama to dispatch two Hashira.

Toothless stalked silently behind you, his green eyes, sharp as twin emeralds, sweeping the dense undergrowth. Occasionally, he let loose a low rumble, sounding much like a purring engine, causing Kanae to turn back each time and grace the beast with her infinitely tender, radiant smile.

"He is so extraordinary, [Y/N]-san," Kanae remarked softly, her voice carrying the cadence of crystal chimes. She lightly adjusted her haori, which mirrored the wings of a butterfly. "He possesses such immense strength, yet he looks at you with such unbelievable devotion. He understands everything we say, doesn't he?"

You rubbed the back of your neck self-consciously, your skin smudged with grease from an early morning calibration of the dragon's saddle. Your sarcasm, which typically functioned as a reliable shield against the outside world, always misfired whenever you were around this remarkable woman.

"Well... he understands inflections. And whenever I tell him he's eaten far too much fish, he prefers to pretend he's suddenly gone deaf," you offered with a lopsided smirk. Toothless, as if decoding the conversation, snorted indignantly and nudged the back of your knee with his massive head, nearly knocking you off balance.

"Hey! Watch it, you overgrown lizard!" you laughed, scratching him right beneath his chin, causing the beast to go limp with satisfaction and close his eyes.

Kanae giggled softly, concealing her smile behind the sleeve of her haori. Warm sparks danced within her lavender eyes. "The two of you are so alike. You both try to appear prickly and dangerous, but beneath it all, you both have hearts of gold."

Your cheeks flared traitorously. You averted your gaze, feigning sudden interest in adjusting the tension of the winch mechanism on your wrist. Your feelings for Kanae were a secret you buried deeper than the schematics for your leg. She was so beautiful, so kind, so... unbroken. And you were a clumsy, disabled engineer reeking of smoke and blood. You sacredly believed that someone like Kanae deserved a fairytale prince, not a sarcastic mechanic with a pet dragon. It was a slow burn that had been smoldering in your chest for years, offering warmth while simultaneously inflicting a dull, lingering ache.

"Don't go attributing virtues to me that I don't possess, Kocho," you muttered, sliding down the visor of the helmet integrated into your collar. "We are breaching the demon’s activity zone. Toothless is getting anxious."

True to your word, the ear appendages of the Night Fury pinned back flat against his skull. The beast dropped low to the ground, a menacing hiss vibrating through his throat as violet plasma began to crackle between his teeth.

The ambient air suddenly turned heavy and oppressive, thick with the scent of rotting foliage and copper. The forest plunged into an unnatural, ringing silence. No birds sang; no wind stirred the leaves.

"Blood Demon Art: Whispers of Illusion," a multi-toned, distorted voice echoed, appearing to emanate from everywhere at once.

The space before you warped violently. Trees bent at impossible angles, and the solid ground liquified into a viscous, black mire beneath your feet. Hideous, distorted silhouettes began to crawl out from the obscurity. The demon had no intention of engaging in an honorable duel; it was deploying hallucinations to disorient its prey before executing a strike from behind.

"Kanae, stay close to me!" you shouted, tearing your blade free from its scabbard. The edge of your Nichirin sword was unconventional—a wide expanse of black ore fitted with a spark-trigger mechanism along the spine, capable of igniting a specialized gas compound secreted from the sheath.

"Flower Breathing. Fourth Form: Crimson Hanagoromo!" Kanae moved with breathtaking fluidity. Her sword traced an elegant, lethal arc, cleaving through several phantoms, but fresh apparitions materialized instantly in their wake.

The illusions possessed no scent, but they thoroughly compromised your vision. The demon was playing with you.

"Toothless! Echolocation!" you commanded.

The black dragon roared, but he didn't unleash flame. Instead, he emitted a high-frequency, pulsating sound wave that rippled outward through the forest. The sound ricocheted off physical obstacles, bypassing the illusions entirely. Toothless’s ears twitched, and with a feral snarl, he snapped his head toward a dense thicket of bamboo.

"There!" you pointed with your blade. "Dragon Breathing. Second Form: Incinerating Wing-Stroke!"

You depressed a hidden trigger on the hilt of your sword. The mechanism threw a spark, and the blade erupted into a bright, roaring inferno. You bolted forward, your mechanical leg striking the earth with a metallic clatter, granting you a violent burst of momentum. You brought the flaming edge crashing down into the thicket.

A piercing shriek rent the air. The demon’s authentic anatomy, cloaked beneath layers of flesh and illusion, stood exposed. The creature was immense, outfitted with a multitude of elongated, prehensile arms terminating in calcified bone blades.

With a powerful counter-strike, the demon hurled you backward, sending you skidding through the mud on your back.

"You will pay for that, Hashira!" it roared, and dozens of its limbs extended to an impossible length, darting not toward you, but toward Kanae, who was currently parrying the remaining phantoms.

In such confined quarters, Kanae stood no chance of evading that volume of attacks. The blades were converging on her with lethal velocity.

Your brain bypassed the instinct for self-preservation. It was a pure, unclouded imperative to shield her at any cost. You fired a grappling cable from the mechanism on your wrist, anchoring it to a thick branch directly above Kanae, and using the pendulum inertia, you launched yourself directly between her and the demon.

You intercepted the impact.

Two calcified blades drove deep into your flesh. One pierced your left shoulder, while the second tore open your right flank, scraping across your ribs. A strangled, raspy scream of agony tore from your throat. Blood splattered across Kanae's face, her eyes widening in absolute horror.

"[Y/N]!!!" she shrieked, her voice shattering.

But you didn't relinquish your grip on the sword. Gritting your teeth until they ground together, tasting the copper of your own blood, you glared at the demon with a manic, blazing intensity.

"Toothless... fire!" you gasped out.

A black shadow dove from the heavens. The signature, terrifying whistle of displacing air tore through the night, a sound capable of curdling blood. The demon raised its eyes, but it was already too late.

A blinding blast of violet plasma struck the center of its mass. The explosion carried such force that trees within a twenty-meter radius were ripped up by their roots. The demon was atomized, leaving not even ash behind.

You collapsed to the earth like a doll with its strings severed. The pain was absolute, consuming your consciousness. Fire licked at your wounds, and breathing became an increasingly difficult chore.

"[Y/N]! Gods, no, please, stay with me!" Kanae was at your side instantly, dropping to her knees directly into the mud and blood. Her usually tranquil, gentle hands were trembling with panic. She frantically tore medical bandages and hemostatic powders from her belt.

Toothless touched down beside you, producing low, whimpering sounds. He attempted to nudge his snout against your face, but Kanae gently steered his head away. "Give me room, sweetheart, I need to arrest the bleeding or she won't make it."

The dragon understood. He coiled his massive frame around the two of you, spreading his vast wings like a shield, forging a barrier against the freezing night wind and locking out the rest of the world.

You lay there with your eyes half-closed, your vision clouding over. You felt Kanae’s fingers swiftly and deftly cutting through your ruined armor, her hands applying pressure to your wounds in an attempt to stem the crimson tide.

"Kanae..." you whispered, forcing a faint smile. "Are you unhurt?"

"Hush. Please, just close your mouth and conserve your strength," hot tears spilled from her eyes, splashing against your soot-stained face. "Why would you do that, you idiot? Why did you throw yourself in front of the blow? I could have dodged... I would have figured something out..."

"You couldn't..." you coughed. "It’s my job to protect... my inventions... you."

Kanae worked with phenomenal velocity. Her medical expertise was as flawless as her breathing style. She lavishly dusted the wounds with a specialized compound synthesized from wisteria extract and herbs, which seared like a branding iron but instantly coagulated the blood. Then, layer by layer, she bound your shoulder and flank in tight bandages.

Several hours rolled past. The forest grew still; the demon was no more. Inside the ring of dragon wings, it was as warm as an oven. Toothless bathed you both in his hot respiration, keeping the chill at bay.

You drifted back to consciousness to the sensation of someone gently stroking your forehead, brushing away sweat-damped strands of hair.

You forced your eyes open with difficulty. Kanae sat beside you, her head resting against Toothless's flank. The Flower Hashira’s haori was completely ruined, caked in blood and grime, but she was looking down at you with an expression that made your heart feel as though it might burst from your chest. Her gaze held more than the professional concern of a doctor. There was something far deeper, intensely personal, and desperate written there.

"You scared me half to death, mechanic," her voice was quiet, slightly raspy from the residual shock.

You attempted to hoist yourself up on your uninjured elbow but grimaced as pain flared. Kanae immediately placed her hands on your shoulders, gently but unyieldingly steering you back down.

"You are barred from moving. The wounds are deep, but no vital organs were compromised. You are fortunate your leather armor absorbed the brunt of the impact."

You sighed, studying her exhausted features. "I'm sorry for ruining the mission, and your uniform. I always find a way to make things complicated. Like I said... I'm a broken gear in the perfect machine of the Corps."

The hands resting on your shoulders suddenly tightened. Kanae's face contorted with distress, and she shook her head vehemently. "Stop it. Stop speaking about yourself that way, [Y/N]."

Her words carried an unexpected steel. She leaned closer, her violet eyes staring directly into your soul, refusing to let you look away.

"You constantly hide behind your sarcasm. You view yourself as unworthy, broken, and wrong simply because you don't look like the other Hashira. Because you have a mechanical leg and scars. But you don't see yourself the way I see you."

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. "Kanae..."

She slowly lowered her hand, her elegant, slender fingers gently, almost weightlessly tracing the exposed metal of your prosthesis where the fabric of your trousers had torn away.

"This metal... these scars..." her voice wavered with a concentration of emotion. "They aren't deformities. They are the physical evidence of your immense, boundless love for this world. You surrendered a piece of yourself to save your friend. You spend every night hovering over schematics, sacrificing sleep to engineer weapons that will safeguard others. You threw yourself beneath a demon’s blades tonight to save me."

She shifted her gaze from the metal back to your face. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek. "You aren't a broken gear, [Y/N]. You are the most extraordinary, powerful, and beautiful creature I have ever encountered."

The armor you had painstakingly constructed over years collapsed in a single instant. No degree of invention, no amount of sarcasm could insulate you from that level of raw sincerity. You felt a lump construct itself in your throat, and your eyes stung with tears you so rarely permitted yourself to shed.

"Kanae, I..." your voice splintered into a whisper. "I spent so long trying to make myself useful, just so I could have an excuse to stand beside you. So you would look at me. But I always figured you just saw me as some eccentric girl with a dragon."

She leaned down so close that you could discern the light, floral scent of her skin cutting through the smell of blood.

"I see all of you, [Y/N]," Kanae whispered, her breath brushing against your lips. "And I have loved what I see for a very long time."

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to yours. It was a tender, reverent kiss, brimming with unspoken pain, overwhelming relief, and an absolute gentleness. It was as though she feared you might shatter into pieces if she applied even an ounce of pressure.

Your heart skipped a beat, then ignited into a frantic rhythm that relegated the agony of your wounds to the background. Your uninjured hand rose tentatively, embedding itself within her soft, dark hair. You returned the kiss, channeling into it the entirety of the longing and love you had harbored for so long.

Sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Toothless let out a low, contented purr, drawing his wings even tighter around you both.

When Kanae finally drew back, her face was dusted with a rosy flush, but her smile rivaled the radiance of the moon.

"Once you are fully recovered," she murmured, tracing a thumb along your cheek, "you owe me something."

"Anything," you breathed out, staring into her eyes and realizing that, for the first time in your life, you felt entirely where you belonged.

"You are going to take me flying. I want to see the world through your eyes, high above the clouds," Kanae smiled warmly.

You looked at her, then glanced at your dragon, who had cracked open a single emerald eye, and your signature, sarcastic—but now genuinely happy—smirk found its way back to your face.

"Brace yourself, Kocho. It's going to be the wildest ride of your life. My prosthesis has a turbo-mode for the aileron. Just make sure you hold on tight."

It was on such a night that your long, agonizingly slow journey toward one another—a path cluttered with unsaid words, accidental touches, lingering glances, and caught breaths—finally reached its culmination. It was the classic "slow burn" that had been consuming both of you from the inside out for months. You had balanced precariously on the edge, terrified to cross the line, afraid to dismantle the fragile connection that kept you anchored in this cruel world of demons and death. But tonight, all masks were discarded.

You sat on the edge of a soft futon in Shinobu's private quarters. The room was illuminated only by the pale moonlight filtering through the partially open shoji screens and a solitary candle casting dancing shadows against the wooden walls. Your heart hammered so violently against your ribs that it felt as though it might burst through.

You had agreed to this. You both knew exactly where this night would lead. Yet now, with the point of no return staring you in the face, a suffocating wave of panic and burning shame washed over you.

Shinobu stood by a small table with her back to you, meticulously folding her butterfly-winged haori. Her movements were, as always, flawlessly graceful, fluid, and entirely devoid of haste. She was perfect. From the tips of her dark, purple-tinted hair down to her fingertips. Her skin appeared porcelain, utterly devoid of blemishes. The Insect Hashira, a brilliant medical genius, a lethal combatant—she was the very incarnation of divine beauty.

And you... you felt like a coarse, unrefined counterfeit in her presence.

Your trembling fingers reached for the buttons of your Demon Slayer uniform jacket. The fabric yielded reluctantly. With every undone button, your breathing grew shallow and erratic. You slipped the jacket off, remaining only in your undergarments, and instinctively—in a sudden surge of acute insecurity—wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, attempting to shield your stomach, your shoulders, and your chest.

Your body was a roadmap of your battles and your vulnerabilities. A horrific, jagged scar tore across your left flank—a grim memento of an encounter with a demon whose talons had nearly claimed your life. The skin along your thighs and stomach wasn't flawlessly smooth; it was soft, traced with faint stretch marks, a far cry from the sculpted ideals you had fabricated in your own mind. You were a warrior, a survivor, but in the dim glow of this guttering candle, you felt deeply, utterly unappealing.

She’s going to look at me and feel disgusted. The thought pierced your mind like a venomous needle. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling a lump rise in your throat as hot tears threatened to spill over. You wanted so desperately to be with her, but the terror of rejection, the fear that she would be profoundly disappointed by your imperfect body, paralyzed you completely.

A succession of quiet footsteps made you flinch.

Shinobu stepped closer. She halted a few paces away from the futon. She wore only a lightweight, silken under-kimono.

"[Y/N]?" Her voice, typically laced with notes of airy, patronizing sarcasm, sounded uncharacteristically deep, velvety, and incredibly tender. "Why are you hiding, my love?"

You curled into yourself even tighter, turning your head away so she wouldn't see your tears. "Please... turn off the light. Blow out the candle, Shinobu," your voice broke into a pathetic, fractured whisper.

Shinobu did not grant the request. Instead, the futon dipped under her weight as she gracefully sank to her knees directly in front of you. The space between you dissolved entirely. The air became thick with her sweet, distinct fragrance.

She didn't ask unnecessary questions. As a doctor and someone who read human emotions like an open book, she deciphered the cause of your trembling instantly. This was the exact moment where her habitual detachment surrendered to a deep, restorative tenderness.

Her cool, delicate hands clamped softly yet securely around your wrists. "Look at me," she requested softly.

You shook your head blindly, refusing to dislodge the arms shielding your body. "I'm ugly, Shinobu," you blurted out, and the hot tears finally spilled over, carving wet tracks down your cheeks. "I'm covered in scars. I'm not perfect. My body... it's coarse. It's nothing like yours. You won't want to look at me."

A heavy silence descended upon the room, punctuated only by your ragged breathing. And then, you heard a soft, almost sorrowful sigh.

"Oh, [Y/N]... how foolish you are." Shinobu's voice was saturated with a concentration of tenderness so profound it stole your breath away.

Gently, yet with a quiet persistence that brooked no resistance, she parted your arms, forcing you to open up to her. You braced yourself, closing your eyes tightly in anticipation of her reaction, flinching as if preparing for a blow.

But no blow descended. Instead, you felt the warm, soft press of her lips against your shoulder.

"You look at yourself through cruel, external eyes," Shinobu murmured, her breath hot against your skin. "But I look at you through the eyes of someone who is madly, hopelessly in love."

She slowly trailed the tips of her fingers along the lengthy, weathered scar on your flank. You gasped sharply as her lips followed her touch, leaving a trail of weightless, reverent kisses directly over the ruined scar tissue.

"This scar," her voice trembled with suppressed emotion. "I remember that day. I thought I was going to lose you. I stitched this wound with my own two hands, begging every god out there to keep your heart beating. To me, this isn't an deformity, [Y/N]. It is a testament to your strength. It is proof that you survived. Proof that you stayed with me."

Her lips migrated to your stomach, pressing kisses into every uneven ridge, every stretch mark, every fold of soft skin that you so thoroughly despised. She kissed you with a profound reverence, as if offering a prayer. Her movements were slow, measured—a perfect medicine for a soul fractured by insecurity.

"You are alive. You are warm. You are breathtakingly beautiful," Shinobu whispered, ascending higher as her hands lovingly caressed your waist. "Every single line of your body is perfect, because it belongs to you. And I want to kiss every millimeter of this perfect skin."

You slowly opened your eyes. Your vision was blurred by tears, but you could see her face with absolute clarity. Shinobu's violet eyes shined in the gloom, brimming with absolute, boundless adoration. There was not a trace of revulsion or disappointment within them. Only pure, unadulterated love.

Your defenses crumbled entirely. You leaned forward, looping your arms around her neck and burying your face into her shoulder, sobbing quietly with overwhelming relief. Shinobu wrapped her arms around you in return, holding you tightly against her chest while smoothing down your tangled hair.

"I love you," you whispered, feeling the crushing weight of your insecurities dissolve completely in her embrace.

"And I love you. And your body. Every single bit of it, without exception," she replied, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head.

When your lips finally met, the kiss was salty from your tears but incredibly sweet. There was no rush. Shinobu kissed you deeply, sensually, as if attempting to articulate the entirety of her devotion through the touch alone. Her tongue parted your lips with a gentle, non-verbal request, and you opened up willingly, allowing her to deepen the embrace. Your fingers tangled into her silky, dark hair while her palms glided along your bare back, sending intense shivers racing down your spine.

Air eventually grew scarce, and you reluctantly parted. Both of your breaths were heavy and labored. In Shinobu's eyes, a dark, primal spark of desire began to ignite.

"It is my turn to be completely transparent with you," she murmured softly, drawing back slightly.

Her slender fingers reached for the ties of her silken kimono. With a soft rustle, the fabric slid from her shoulders, revealing her elegant physique. But, unlike ordinary women, Shinobu's anatomy harbored a distinct characteristic—a rare anomaly of nature that rendered her simultaneously a woman and the possessor of a male anatomy.

You knew of this. You had discussed it during long midnight conversations once your level of mutual trust had reached an absolute zenith. But seeing it firsthand was an entirely different experience.

At the base of her flat, toned abdomen rested her length. Erect and pulsing with arousal, it looked intimidating yet strangely mesmerizing in the flickering candlelight. Shinobu flushed slightly—a rare sight for the unflappable Hashira—and her gaze wavered with a momentary trace of vulnerability.

"I know that this is... unusual," she said quietly, her voice catching slightly. "If you are afraid or if you have changed your mind, [Y/N], tell me right now. I will never do anything that causes you discomfort."

Your heart swelled with immense tenderness. This powerful, proud woman, capable of executing formidable demons, was currently standing completely vulnerable before you. You realized that it was now your turn to offer sanctuary and reassurance.

You reached forward, placing a warm palm against her cheek. "I am not afraid, Shinobu. I want you. All of you, exactly as you are. You are beautiful." Your words were firm, entirely devoid of doubt.

The smile that bloomed across Shinobu's lips was radiant. She placed her hand over yours, pressing a kiss into the center of your palm, and then, with one fluid, graceful motion, she guided you backward onto the soft futon.

You found yourself pinned beneath her as she hovered over you, supporting her weight on her forearms. Her hair tickled your face. The air between you grew thick, highly charged with electricity.

Her hands slid down, stripping away the remnants of your undergarments. Now, no barriers remained between you. The sensation of her hot skin pressing directly against yours caused you to arch upward to meet her, venting a quiet, breathless moan.

Shinobu operated with clinical precision, yet every touch was infused with unmitigated passion. Her lips rediscovered your scars, migrating lower and lower. She kissed your throat, leaving wet trails along your collarbones, and nipped gently at your earlobe, causing you to tremble with arousal.

"Relax, my love. I will be exceptionally careful," her whisper scorched the skin of your abdomen.

She shifted lower, settling herself between your thighs. Her cool, slender fingers gently, almost weightlessly brushed against your center. You gasped, instinctively trying to press your thighs together, but she gently parted them wider, stroking the inner skin of your legs reassuringly.

As her fingers began their deliberate play, you realized just how intensely you desired her. Every movement was calculated, perfect. She knew exactly where to apply pressure, how to glide, how to make your body melt beneath her touch. The residual ache of old insecurities dissolved entirely within the blinding flashes of pleasure rippling through your frame.

"Shinobu... please..." you moaned, barely recognizing your own voice. It was raspy, saturated with desperate yearning. Your hands gripped the sheets tightly. Your core was slick, thoroughly prepared to receive her.

She rose, hovering directly over you. Her breathing was labored, her eyes dark with unchecked passion. She pulled you close, her hot tip tracing along your damp entrance, teasing you, coaxing you to arch upward in search of more.

"Are you ready?" she whispered, locking her gaze directly with yours. Her eyes held a silent plea for consent.

"Yes... yes, please," you breathed out.

Shinobu began to slide inside you slowly, agonizingly so. The sensation was overwhelming. You could feel her stretching you, filling the void that had anticipated her for so long. In the initial second, a sharp, tight ache flared from the unfamiliarity—this was, after all, your very first time—and you reflexively tensed, clenching your jaw.

Shinobu froze instantly. "Does it hurt?" Her voice was taut with anxiety. She leaned down, pressing kisses to your forehead and temples, soothing you. "Breathe, darling. Breathe with me. I am in no hurry. We can stop if—"

"No!" You locked your hands around her shoulders, pulling her back down to you. "Don't stop. Just... give me a moment."

You took a deep, stabilizing breath, anchoring yourself to her scent, her warmth, and the absolute trust that bound you together. Your muscles began to relax, accommodating her size. The discomfort slowly receded, replaced by an incredible, heavy sensation of fullness.

"Good... you're doing so well," Shinobu murmured, sensing your release.

She began to move. At first, the thrusts were short and cautious. She granted you ample time to acclimate to her rhythm and depth. Every single stride was punctuated by a tender kiss, a word of soft encouragement.

"You are so tight... and so warm," Shinobu groaned, her clinical self-restraint beginning to fray at the edges. "You feel absolutely incredible, [Y/N]."

With each successive thrust, the pleasure intensified, coiling into a tight spiral deep within your abdomen. You wrapped your legs around her waist, pulling her even deeper. The tempo shifted now. Shinobu moved faster, driven by a deeper urgency, her thrusts becoming confident and powerful. The wet sounds of shifting flesh, your synchronized, ragged breathing, and low, incoherent moans filled the quiet, moonlit room.

Your hands roamed wildly across her back, scratching at her skin, digging into her shoulders. You were no longer thinking about your scars. You were no longer dwelling on whether your stomach was flat enough or your thighs slender enough. In this moment, nothing existed save for Shinobu, her burning gaze, her lips, and her body fused with yours in a singular, frenzied rhythm.

"Look at me," she commanded, her voice raw with arousal. "Open your eyes, my love. I want to see your face."

You forced your pleasure-hazed eyes open. Shinobu was gazing down at you, her features taut with passion, beads of sweat glistening on her brow. She drove into you with a force that was simultaneously so fierce and so tender it completely shattered your ability to think.

"You are mine. Every single imperfect, perfect piece of you is mine," she growled with every downward stroke. "I love you."

"Shinobu!" Your voice shattered into a loud, uncontrolled cry as a wave of climax crashed over you. Your body locked tight, the internal muscles contracting spasmodically around her length, squeezing the final remnants of her composure from her.

Shinobu let out a low, guttural growl. She delivered a few final, rapid, bottoming thrusts, and her entire frame shuddered as she reached her own powerful release. She spent herself deep inside you, filling you with her warmth.

She collapsed heavily against you, burying her face in the crook of your neck as she fought to restore her breathing. Your arms weakly encircled her shoulders, gently stroking her sweat-slicked back.

Silence descended upon the room once more, broken only by the sound of two hearts beating in perfect unison.

Shinobu slowly, reluctantly withdrew from you, immediately pulling you back into her arms. She pulled a lightweight silk blanket over both of you, settling your head comfortably against her chest.

You lay there, feeling incredibly exhausted, but absolutely, totally at peace. All the pain, the complexes, and the lingering terrors had been utterly consumed by that fire, leaving behind nothing but a pure, radiant sense of acceptance.

Shinobu gently ran her fingers through the strands of your hair, her lips constantly brushing against the crown of your head.

"Never again, do you hear me?" she whispered softly into the darkness. "Never again dare to think that you are unappealing. To me, you are the most perfect creation in this world."

You smiled, closing your eyes and pressing yourself closer into her warmth. "Thank you, Shinobu. I promise."

You met during those bright, almost serene days of your youth, before the sheer weight of the world had completely crushed your shoulders. You had only just joined the Demon Slayer Corps, brimming with hope and an incredible, luminous energy. Shinobu Kocho, with her eternal, slightly unsettling smile and flawless grace, seemed to you then the most beautiful and unattainable creature on earth.

Your connection ignited rapidly, like dry gunpowder. The catalyst was your temperament. You were an incredibly gentle, nurturing girl, always ready to spend hours listening to others' troubles, binding the wounds of young swordsmen, and brewing tea for exhausted Hashira. Yet, this softness was laced with a razor-sharp sarcasm. You were not afraid of Shinobu. When other slayers shrank back from her venomous wit, you merely narrowed your eyes mischievously and countered with an irony so elegant that Shinobu laughed genuinely, without pretense, for the first time in a very long time.

"Your tongue is sharper than your blade, [Y/N]," she remarked one evening, sitting beside you on the veranda of the Butterfly Mansion while you gently combed through her hair.

"That's my contingency plan in case a demon proves too strong," you replied with a soft smirk. "I plan to bore them to death by criticizing their sense of style."

Shinobu fell deeply in love with this mixture of warmth and defiance. You became her sanctuary, and she became yours. When you began dating in secret, it felt as though the world had achieved a perfect equilibrium. You trained diligently to become a full-fledged slayer, while Shinobu was already an acknowledged genius of medicine and poisons.

But the Demon Slayer Corps is no place for a peaceful life. It is a meat grinder, pulverizing human destinies. And it was precisely this unceasing, primal stress, the pervasive scent of blood, and the constant terror for your comrades' lives that served as the trigger, launching your illness into maximum overdrive.

The first manic episode sneaked up undetected, masquerading as extraordinary diligence and enthusiasm.

Initially, Shinobu even admired your dedication. You would return from grueling missions and, instead of heading to bed, you would march straight to the training yard. You swung your blade until bloody calluses ruptured across your palms.

Before long, however, enthusiasm deteriorated into obsession. Your brain operated at velocities that terrified even you. Sleep began to feel like a colossal waste of time. Why sleep when a day holds a mere twenty-four hours, and demons never rest?

You started skipping meals. Your eyes blazed with a febrile, unnaturally bright fire. You could go four nights without a single wink of sleep, locking yourself inside your quarters. The floor became carpeted with crumpled sheets of paper covered in diagrams; you were trying to invent a new, ultimate Breathing Technique by combining elements of Water, Flame, and Wind. You sketched blueprints to upgrade your blade, scrawling page after page of frantic, tangled formulas for metal alloys you didn't even understand.

"[Y/N], my love," Shinobu stepped cautiously into your room at four o'clock in the morning. You were sitting on the floor, surrounded by dozens of scrolls, your fingers stained black with ink. "Please, lie down. This is your fourth night without sleep."

You snapped your head up. Your speech was rapid, erratic, words colliding into one another. "No, Shinobu, listen, I've almost unlocked it! If we alter the strike angle by seven degrees and incorporate the rotational amplitude from Sound Breathing, we can cleave the necks of the Upper Moons without any effort! I've calculated everything! I just need a little more time! I can't sleep while they are out there slaughtering people!"

Shinobu watched your trembling hands and hollow cheeks with growing dread. She was a brilliant doctor. She recognized the symptoms: flight of ideas, psychomotor agitation, a decreased need for sleep, grandiosity. Yet, protecting itself from an unbearable reality, Shinobu's mind served up "safer" diagnoses.

"It's just stress," she convinced herself, gently but firmly guiding you to bed and pressing a soothing decoction of chamomile and valerian into your hands. "It's combat fatigue. She just wants to help too much. She's exhausted."

Neither you nor she wanted to utter the terrifying words. To admit your mind was sick meant admitting your unfitness for the Corps. And for you, that was synonymous with death.

The laws of physics dictate that every uncontrolled ascent is followed by a crushing plunge. The mania completely incinerated your neurotransmitters, draining your serotonin and dopamine down to the very last drop. And then, the pendulum crashed violently to the opposite extreme.

The depressive episodes were not mere sadness. They were an absolute, paralyzing void.

One day, you simply found yourself physically unable to rise from your futon. Your body felt as though it were filled with lead. Gravity felt ten times heavier than normal. Your brilliant blueprints for new breathing techniques now looked like garbage, and you viewed yourself as the most pathetic, useless creature on the planet.

You didn't leave your room for weeks. You refused to open the shutters, plunging the space into pitch-black darkness. When people knocked on your door to summon you for a mission, you didn't answer.

It was excruciatingly painful for Shinobu. She came every single evening, sitting on the edge of your futon and attempting to take your hand. "[Y/N], please eat a little. I made your favorite soup. Tell me, what are you feeling?"

But you would simply turn away toward the wall, curling into a tight ball. "Go away, Shinobu. Don't look at me. I'm defective. I'm just a burden. Why do you waste your time on me? Find yourself someone who isn't broken."

Those words struck her straight in the heart. The Insect Hashira, a woman whose poison made demons tremble, stood entirely powerless before the emptiness in the eyes of the girl she loved. She tried forcing tonic decoctions down your throat, spoon-feeding you, reading books to you. Yet, she continued to deny the systemic nature of the affliction.

"She's just broken by the loss of her comrades. This will pass. I need to give her time to recover," Shinobu whispered to herself, wiping away tears of helplessness in the corridor so you wouldn't witness her vulnerability.

Denial is the most potent defense mechanism of the human psyche. To admit that you suffered from a severe psychiatric disorder meant accepting that the enemy was inside you permanently, and it was an enemy whose head could not be cut off.

As the years ground on, the episodes grew increasingly severe. The phases contracted, while the amplitude expanded. If your mania had previously been confined to blueprints and training, it now began to assume terrifying, sinister dimensions.

The breaking point arrived after an exceptionally bloody mission where a group of young slayers perished right before your eyes. This trauma became the final straw. Unable to withstand the overload, your psyche fractured with a loud snap, permitting psychosis to breach your mind.

It began when you stopped showing up to the dining hall of the Butterfly Mansion. When Shinobu brought a tray of food up to your quarters, you recoiled into the corner in absolute horror. Your eyes were wild, dilated to their limits.

"Don't come near me!" your voice was hoarse, saturated with raw, animal terror. You ripped your blade from its scabbard, pointing it not at Shinobu, but at the tray of food.

"[Y/N], what is wrong with you?! It's me, Shinobu!" She froze, her heart dropping into her stomach. For the first time, she saw in your gaze not mania, not depression, but pure, unadulterated delusion.

"Muzan... he's everywhere!" you whispered, darting your eyes frantically around the room as if the shadows themselves might come alive. "He poisoned the rice! I saw it, Shinobu! They are all under his control! All human food is laced with his blood to turn us! Throw the tray away, I beg you, don't eat it!"

"Darling, listen to me, it's just rice..." Shinobu attempted to take a step forward, but you swung your blade threateningly.

"Don't you hear them?!" You clutched your head with your free hand, your nails digging deep into your scalp. "The dead! They are all standing right here, behind your back! Rengoku-san, Kanae... They are speaking to me! They say only I can kill Muzan. I am the Chosen One. They passed their powers to me. I must leave, Shinobu. If I stay, I will be infected by your food!"

The psychosis accompanying Bipolar I Disorder during severe mania severed your connection to reality entirely. A chorus of your fallen comrades' voices echoed in your head, imparting a delusion of grandeur—you genuinely believed you were humanity's sole savior. Simultaneously, you were devoured by persecutory delusions—the absolute conviction that all sustenance was poisoned by Kibutsuji.

Before Shinobu could summon Aoi or the other Hashira to physically restrain you, you shattered the window and slipped out into the night. Your inhuman, manic energy allowed you to outrun any pursuit. You vanished into the wilderness, leaving Shinobu in a state of absolute, paralyzing horror.

It was no longer possible to deny the obvious. The girl she loved hadn't simply "grown tired" or "overstressed." She had lost her sanity.

The subsequent three weeks were a personal hell for Shinobu. She mobilized her finest Kakushi, Kasugai crows, and even enlisted Tanjiro's help for his acute sense of smell.

"She won't survive," the thought coiled through the Insect Hashira's mind like a venomous serpent. "She thinks human food is poisoned. She will starve to death, or she will fling herself single-handedly at an Upper Moon, believing she is immortal."

Twenty-one days later, a crow delivered tidings. You had been spotted in a dense, remote forest to the north, far from any human civilization. Shinobu bolted instantly, taking nothing but her medical kit and her blade.

When she finally found you, her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

You were crouching beside a small fire deep within the thicket. Your slayer uniform had been reduced to filthy, shredded rags. You were horrifyingly emancipated: your cheekbones were sharp, your eyes sunken, and your skin possessed a sickly, earthy pallor. Your hair was a matted, tangled mess.

In your hands, you held the carcass of a wild hare. You had survived those three weeks by hunting wild beasts and eating their meat almost completely raw over the fire, sacredly believing that only forest animals were free from "Muzan’s poison." Your blade was caked with the dried blood of animals.

Hearing the snap of a twig, you leaped up instantly like a cornered beast, thrusting your katana out in front of you. Your eyes were consumed by paranoia.

"Who's there?! I hear you, demons! The dead will protect me!" your voice was a broken, raspy croak.

Shinobu stepped out from the shadows of the trees. Her hands trembled at the sight of what her beautiful, gentle [Y/N] had become. In that exact moment, the physician within her definitively conquered the terrified, lovesick woman. The diagnosis was undeniable: Bipolar I Disorder with pronounced psychotic features. The most severe manifestation.

"[Y/N]... it's me. Your butterfly," Shinobu's voice was soft, soothing, yet anchored by unyielding steel. She made no sudden movements. She understood perfectly: the person before her was not her girlfriend, but an individual in a state of acute psychosis. Any sign of aggression would trigger an attack.

You narrowed your eyes, breathing heavily, as the delusion in your mind attempted to distort her image. "Shinobu?.. No... you're an illusion. Muzan sent you to feed me the poisoned rice!"

You lunged forward, preparing to attack, but your exhausted body—deprived of proper carbohydrates and nutrients for three weeks—betrayed you. You tripped violently over a tree root.

That single second was all the Insect Hashira required. Shinobu darted forward with blinding speed. She didn't use her blade. Instead, her hand clamped around a syringe filled with a potent sedative compounded from wisteria extract and opium poppy—her own specialized formulation.

She locked her arms around you from behind, pinning your thrashing, emaciated body tightly against her chest, and plunged the needle into your shoulder.

"Let go! They'll kill us! I have to save the world!" you screamed, writhing in her embrace, your nails scratching her arms until they bled.

"Shh, it's alright, my darling, it's over. No one is going to kill us. I will save you," Shinobu whispered through her tears, pressing kisses against your filthy hair. She held you as tightly as she could until the drug began to take hold.

Your body went limp. The delusions quieted, surrendering to a heavy, chemically induced slumber. Shinobu sank to the earth with you, cradling your head against her chest, and for the first time in three weeks, she gave free rein to her sobs in the silence of the remote forest.

You woke up several days later in a ward within the Butterfly Mansion. Your body was clean, your wounds were dressed, and an IV line was delivering a nutrient solution into your vein. The psychosis had receded thanks to equine doses of sedatives, leaving behind nothing but total exhaustion, crushing shame, and the leaden weight of an oncoming depressive phase.

Shinobu sat in a chair beside your bed. She looked as though she had aged several years, but her purple eyes gazed at you with boundless, unconditional love.

When you fully processed what you had done—that you had lived in the woods, eaten raw meat, raised your blade against the woman you loved, and spouted absolute madness about the voices of the dead—silent, hot tears spilled from your eyes.

"Shinobu..." your voice was barely a whisper. "I... I lost my mind. I'm a monster. Worse than a demon."

Shinobu gently gathered your weak hand into her palms and brought it to her lips, kissing every individual finger. "You are not a monster, [Y/N]. You are sick. Very sick. And I am to blame for that."

She raised her eyes to yours, eyes swimming with tears and genuine remorse. "I am a brilliant doctor, [Y/N]. I synthesize poisons that can dissolve demonic flesh. But I was such a coward... I saw all the symptoms from the very first day. I saw your mania, your depressions. But I was so terrified to admit that the mind of the woman I love more than life itself was broken, that I chose to blind myself to it. I manufactured excuses about exhaustion and stress. My denial nearly cost you your life."

"It's not your fault... I didn't want to believe it either," you sobbed, squeezing her fingers. "But what do we do now? They'll expel me from the Corps. They'll lock me away in an asylum..."

"No one is locking you away anywhere," Shinobu's voice suddenly regained the iron clad authority inherent to a Hashira. The fire of a true scientist tasked with an impossible objective ignited in her eyes. "I am Shinobu Kocho. And if a cure for your affliction does not yet exist in this world, then I will create it."

And she kept her word.

For the next several months, Shinobu's laboratory operated around the clock. She abandoned the formulation of new poisons for demons; her primary objective became the bipolar affliction. She poured over ancient Chinese manuscripts, ordered Western medical texts through European merchants, and conducted hundreds of chemical experiments.

She knew she required an agent that would level the amplitude of your neurotransmitters. Something that would arrest the pendulum before it swung into the outer fringes of psychosis or plummeted into absolute melancholia.

Following six months of sleepless nights, Shinobu achieved a breakthrough that outpaced global psychiatry by decades. Utilizing natural minerals, lithium salts purified through a specific alchemical process, and extracts of rare sedative plants, she engineered the first mood stabilizers and mild antipsychotics in the history of the Corps.

They were small, bitter-tasting, violet-colored tablets.

"This will not cure you completely, my love," Shinobu stated honestly, handing you your first dose alongside a glass of water as you sat together on the veranda, watching the sunset. "Bipolar disorder is a part of your biology. The pendulum will still swing. But these medications will ensure it never flies beyond the boundaries of normalcy again. You will have good days and bad days, but there will be no more voices, no more fleeing into the wilderness, and no more weeks spent in absolute darkness."

You looked down at the tablets, understanding that within them was encapsulated all of her love, her genius, and her utter devotion to you. You swallowed them without a moment's hesitation.

The process of adjusting the dosage was arduous. There were bouts of nausea and periods of apathy while Shinobu meticulously calibrated the balance of chemicals in your brain. But gradually, the miracle manifested.

The chemical storm inside your head subsided. The psychosis departed, leaving behind only vague, frightening memories. Obsessive thoughts regarding new breathing techniques yielded to a healthy, regulated training schedule. And most importantly, you began to smile once more with that exact soft, slightly sarcastic smile that Shinobu had fallen in love with long ago.

Upon learning of your condition and Shinobu's triumph, Kagaya Ubuyashiki permitted you to remain within the Corps, transferring you to less stressful missions and tasking you with instructing young swordsmen within the safety of the secure zones.

The pendulum of steel and wisteria had finally found its equilibrium.

In the evenings, when you sat in the garden, meticulously sharpening your blade without any manic haste, Shinobu would approach from behind, draping her arms over your shoulders and burying her nose into your neck.

"How is your mood today on a scale of one to ten?" she would ask softly, pressing a kiss just behind your ear.

"A stable seven, Doctor Kocho," you would smile, setting your blade aside and placing your hands over hers. "Thanks to you."

How catastrophically wrong you both were—two women of science, completely humbled.

Akira was now four months old. And those four months had entirely rewritten every known law of physics, chemistry, and common sense in your apartment. Time had become entirely relative. The hours when your daughter slept flew by at the speed of light. The hours when she wailed due to teething or colic stretched out into endless, agonizing centuries.

It was 3:14 AM.

The bedroom was swallowed in a heavy gloom, broken only by the dim, amber glow of a nightlight. From the baby monitor on the nightstand came a demanding, piercing shriek—the kind of sound that felt sharp enough to shatter the glass flasks in a school laboratory.

You lay flat on your back, staring blankly at the ceiling with glazed eyes. Your limbs felt as though they had been poured full of lead. Beside you, a heavy, ragged sigh rang out—a sound entirely uncharacteristic of the usually graceful and airy Shinobu.

"According to my latest calculations," her voice came hoarse, entirely stripped of its signature, melodic sarcasm, "the probability of her being hungry is a mere fifteen percent. We fed her two hours ago. Her diaper was changed forty minutes ago. That leaves either thermal discomfort or flatulence."

Slowly, with the agonizing grace of a paralyzed zombie, you turned your head. Shinobu was lying on her side. Her usually immaculate dark hair was utterly disheveled, closely resembling a crow's nest, and the shadows beneath her beautiful purple eyes were so deep she could easily pass for a close relative of a panda.

"Shinobu, my love," you mumbled, struggling to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. "Infants do not comply with logic or statistical analysis. She just wants to be held. Either that, or she is systematically plotting to drive us insane to seize our real estate."

"That is an unscientific approach, [Y/N]," Shinobu muttered, straining to sit up in bed while rubbing her temples. Her silk pajamas were noticeably wrinkled. "Every phenomenon has a root cause. I have synthesized the most complex antidotes known; I can certainly deduce the source of distress in a human weighing six kilograms."

You let out a quiet, hysterical giggle, kicking off the blanket. "Your shift for formulating hypotheses was at one in the morning, Kocho. Sleep. I will go conduct a practical experiment involving a bottle of warm milk and gentle rocking."

You pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, feeling her forehead rest gratefully against your shoulder for a brief moment, before padding down the hallway to the nursery. The process of preparing the formula had long since been driven into pure muscle memory. You moved through the semi-darkness, unerringly measuring out the exact proportions of water and powder. The moment you lifted the tiny, squirming bundle—from which a siren-like wail was still emitting—your heart completely melted, utterly overriding the monstrous sleep deprivation.

Akira looked up at you with huge, tear-brimmed eyes—the exact shade of striking purple as Shinobu's—and greedily latched her tiny hands onto the bottle.

An hour later, when you had finally settled your sleeping daughter back into her crib and tiptoed back into the bedroom, Shinobu was already fast asleep, curled into a tight ball. You carefully slipped under the covers beside her, pulling her close against you. You managed to catch exactly one hour and a half of sleep before the alarm blared, announcing that it was time to get ready for Kimetsu Academy.

Morning in your apartment was the human equivalent of Brownian motion—a chaotic, high-temperature frenzy of molecules constantly colliding.

Principal Ubuyashiki had been incredibly accommodating of your situation, allowing both of you to reduce your teaching hours. However, being profoundly dedicated to your respective fields, neither of you could bring yourself to take a full maternity leave, opting instead to hire a nanny for the first half of the day.

You stood before the hallway mirror, desperately trying to tie your necktie. Your sleep-deprived brain flatly refused to recall the sequence of movements.

"You are pulling the knot far too tight," Shinobu’s voice drifted in.

She stepped up to you, smoothly taking the ends of the tie from your hands. With practiced, deft movements, she pulled it into a perfect Windsor knot. She wore her immaculate white lab coat, a sharp skirt, and a crisp blouse. She looked as though she had just enjoyed a ten-hour stay at a luxury spa, rather than calculating colic formulas at three in the morning. Only a very subtle, expertly blended layer of concealer gave away her exhaustion.

"How do you manage to look so… like that?" you asked with a mix of admiration and mild envy, wrapping your arms around her waist. "I feel like I've been run over by a school bus driven by Inosuke."

Shinobu chuckled softly, smoothing down the collar of your shirt. "It is entirely a matter of discipline, [Y/N]. And a double layer of setting powder. Besides…" She suddenly froze, her gaze dropping to the left lapel of your suit jacket. Her perfect brow arched upward. "I am afraid your biological containment has suffered a breach."

You looked down. Spattered across the dark fabric was a prominent, whitish stain of spit-up baby formula.

You let out a sound akin to the groan of a dying whale and dashed back into the bedroom to change your jacket.

When the two of you finally arrived at the Academy, your first destination was the staff room. Giyu Tomioka, the PE teacher, was already there, orphaning himself in a corner while melancolicly sipping tea. Nearby, Tengen Uzui, the art teacher, was boisterously debating a topic with Rengoku, the history instructor.

The moment you crossed the threshold, Uzui let out a sharp whistle. "Oho! Look who it is! Biology and Chemistry in the flesh! Though I must say, you two look absolutely un-flamboyant! Shinobu, the bags under your eyes are large enough to hide a pair of easels!"

Shinobu didn't even break her stride on her way to the espresso machine. Her smile turned blindingly sweet. "Good morning, Uzui-sensei. You know, according to recent studies, an obsession with garish colors and loud noises—much like your own—is a primary coping mechanism for a distinct lack of intellectual development. As for the bags under my eyes, they are simply the small price paid for the creation of a new, brilliant life. Oh, and by the way… I would highly recommend switching your hair gel. The scent is so remarkably pungent I am concerned our students might develop acute allergic rhinitis."

Uzui choked on his breath, Rengoku burst into a booming, hearty laugh, and Tomioka merely offered a silent nod of agreement with Shinobu's assessment. Hiding a smirk, you grabbed two paper cups and poured the strongest black coffee the machine could possibly offer.

"She’s right, Uzui," you said, passing a cup to your wife. "And I wouldn't cross her today. There is currently more caffeine in her bloodstream than plasma. She might just accidentally mix up the chemical reagents for your next art project."

Leaving the stunned art teacher behind, the two of you headed up to the third floor just as the morning bell rang, signaling the start of the first period.

The school day progressed as usual. You found yourself lecturing the eleventh graders on Mendelian inheritance and genetics, frequently catching yourself using Akira’s purple eyes as a prime example of a dominant trait passed down from Shinobu.

During the long break, just as you were about to head over to your wife’s chemistry lab, your phone vibrated violently. It was Tamayo-san—the wonderfully kind elderly woman who worked as your morning nanny.

"[Y/N]-san, please forgive me, I am so deeply sorry," the nanny's voice trembled with distress over the line. "A water pipe has burst in my apartment, and it's completely flooding the neighbors downstairs. I have to rush home immediately to wait for the emergency services! I’ve already dressed Akira-chan and packed her things… what should I do?"

Your heart plummeted. You frantically checked the clock on the wall. Both you and Shinobu still had three classes left to teach. Canceling them was out of the question—final examinations were just around the corner.

"It’s alright, Tamayo-san, please don't panic. Bring her straight to the school," you decided, choosing the only viable option available. "We have an open period coming up between our lessons; we will figure something out."

You burst into the chemistry lab without knocking. Shinobu was sitting at her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Shinobu, we have a Code Red," you blurted out, sealing the door behind you. "Tamayo-san is bringing Akira here. A plumbing emergency."

Shinobu’s eyes snapped open instantly. Every trace of fatigue vanished in a heartbeat. The mind of the former Insect Hashira, engineered for crisis management, engaged at absolute maximum capacity.

"Right. Calm down," she said, standing up and marching toward her laboratory cabinets, swiftly clearing the bottom shelf of harmless glass beakers to make room. "I have the tenth grade, Class A, right now for a practical lab. What about you?"

"Eleventh grade, Class B, a lecture on botany," you rubbed the back of your neck nervously.

"Perfect. Our schedules alternate our open periods. That means we will pass her off like a relay race," Shinobu instructed clearly and rapidly. "She will stay with me first. Class 10-A is a reliable group; the students will cover for us if necessary. Then, when my parallel class starts their midterm exam, you will take her into your classroom."

Fifteen minutes later, through the back door of the preparation room, a baby stroller and a diaper bag were covertly smuggled into the chemistry lab. A profusely apologizing Tamayo-san rushed off to save her apartment.

You kissed your wife swiftly on the cheek, adjusted the little pink beanie on your sleeping daughter's head, and hurried off to your own classroom, praying to all the gods of biology that everything would go smoothly.

The bell rang. The students of Class 10-A trooped into the chemistry lab in their usual boisterous cluster. Tanjiro, Zenitsu, Inosuke, and Kanao took their respective seats.

They had fully expected to see Kocho-sensei sitting strictly at her desk, peering down at them over the rims of her glasses. Instead, they were greeted by a sight that caused Zenitsu to let out a tiny, strangled squeak.

Shinobu stood at the blackboard. She wore her customary white lab coat, but strapped tightly over it was a deep blue baby carrier. And nestled securely within the carrier, her chubby cheek pressed firmly against the strict chemistry teacher’s chest while drooling directly onto the lapel, was little Akira, sleeping peacefully.

The entire classroom froze in graveyard silence. Thirty teenagers became too terrified to even draw a breath, utterly transfixed by the surreal scene before them.

"Good afternoon, class," Shinobu spoke. Her voice was considerably quieter than usual, yet it retained those absolute, razor-sharp steel undertones that brooked zero disobedience. She picked up a piece of chalk with elegant fingers. "Today, we have a lab session on oxidation-reduction reactions. Before we begin, I have one vital announcement to make."

She swept her gaze across the classroom, fixing them with her trademark, piercing eyes. "If anyone so much as drops a beaker, slams a notebook, or raises their voice above an acceptable decibel level today, thereby waking my daughter…" Shinobu smiled her sweetest, most terrifyingly polite smile. "That individual will spend the remainder of the school year scrubbing every single restroom on the first floor with a toothbrush. And rest assured, I will personally inspect the quality of your labor using ultraviolet markers. Do I make myself clear?"

The classroom nodded in perfect, terrified unison at lightning speed. Inosuke, who usually shouted at every available opportunity, clamped both hands firmly over his mouth to ensure not a single peep escaped. Zenitsu looked on the verge of fainting from a volatile mix of pure adoration and sheer terror.

"Excellent," Shinobu turned back to the board. "Open your textbooks to paragraph thirty-two. Copy down the following equation…"

It went down as the quietest, most disciplined lesson in the entire history of Kimetsu Academy.

Shinobu glided gracefully between the rows of desks, checking on the students' progress with their experiments. Her movements were remarkably fluid. With one hand, she gently adjusted the safety goggles on the nose of a trembling Zenitsu, who was terrified of spilling an acid solution; with her other hand, she rhythmically, with a tender method, patted Akira’s back.

Midway through the lesson, the little one woke up. She didn't cry; instead, she let out a soft, melodic coo, opening her massive purple eyes to stare directly at Tanjiro, who sat at the very front desk.

The boy with the hanafuda earrings melted into the warmest, most genuine smile. Being the eldest brother of a massive family, he knew precisely how to behave around infants.

"Kocho-sensei," he whispered, raising his hand slightly. "She is so beautiful. She looks exactly like you. But her nose is definitely from [Y/N]-sensei."

Shinobu paused beside his desk. The strictness in her eyes melted away in an instant. She looked down at her daughter, her face illuminating with a profound, raw tenderness that caused Kanao, sitting just behind Tanjiro, to smile warmly.

"Thank you, Tanjiro," Shinobu replied softly. At that moment, Akira reached out a plump little hand and snagged a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen out of her mother's bun. Shinobu didn't untangle her fingers, opting instead to gently cradle the tiny palm. "Calculating molar mass has proven significantly easier than managing this tiny organism."

Suddenly, Inosuke, who had been sitting with wide, unblinking eyes the entire time, leaned aggressively forward across his desk and delivered a loud, raspy whisper: "Hey! Shorty! When you grow up, I'm gonna teach you how to headbutt stuff! You're gonna be the strongest minion in this entire school!"

Akira blinked, looked at the boy, glanced at the boar mask hanging off the back of his chair, and suddenly burst into a loud, bubbly, toothless laugh.

Shinobu opened her mouth to reprimand Inosuke for the noise, but upon hearing her daughter’s laughter, she merely let out a defeated sigh. "Hashibira, if you teach my daughter how to headbutt anything, I will utilize my chemistry reagents to dissolve your uniform. Everyone, return to your work."

The moment the bell rang, you were already waiting right outside the chemistry lab door, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. The students filed out on tiptoe, carrying looks of utter reverence on their faces.

You stepped inside. Shinobu was carefully unbuckling the baby carrier. Akira, beginning to grow fussy from exhaustion, was letting out quiet whimpers.

"Shift change, Kocho-sensei," you said, approaching your wife to press a kiss to her temple before gently transferring your daughter into your arms. The moment Akira caught your familiar scent, she settled instantly, burying her nose right into the crook of your neck. "How did it go? No explosions?"

"Class 10-A was flawless," Shinobu sighed, leaning back into her chair and stretching her stiff shoulders. "But I have a midterm exam to proctor for the seniors next, and I require absolute silence. Your turn, my love. You have a lecture?"

"Yes, protozoa. We've got this," you smiled, gently rubbing your daughter's back. "We'll set up camp in the preparation room. I’ll assign the class a textbook transcription, and I'll spend the period showing Akira paramecia under the microscope."

Your forty-five minutes, however, proved to be vastly more chaotic.

Unlike Shinobu, you did not possess the ability to command a graveyard silence with a single look. You settled Akira into her stroller, parking it right next to your teacher’s desk, adjacent to the large terrarium housing the school’s green iguana.

The eleventh graders, upon spotting the infant, completely forgot that biology existed.

"[Y/N]-sensei! She’s so incredibly cute!" the girls at the front desks squealed, leaning forward to peek into the stroller. "Can we hold her?" "Wait, why are her eyes the exact same shade as Kocho-sensei's? Is that genetically possible?!" a student from the back row chimed in, trying to sound clever.

"Alright, class, settle down!" you laughed, waving your hands to quiet them. "Genetics is a highly complex science, and in our specific case, we utilized the latest reproductive technologies and an exceptional donor. Now, open your textbooks! The iguana will not wait around while you admire my daughter!"

But the moment you turned your back to the blackboard to sketch a diagram of an amoeba, Akira began to wail loudly and demandingly. She had grown bored.

Dropping your chalk, you rushed over to the stroller and hoisted her into your arms. She continued to cry. You resorted to pacing across the front of the classroom, rocking her back and forth while attempting to dictate the lesson plan.

"Write this down… pseudopodia are…" You rocked her side to side. "Shh, sweetie, what's wrong? …are temporary extensions of the cytoplasm…" You bounced her gently. "Look at Mama's tie, see how green it is? …which serve for locomotion and capturing food."

The students were practically suffocating trying to stifle their laughter while trying to transcribe your disjointed, frantic explanations. You felt utterly incompetent, completely disheveled, and entirely mad. Your jacket had gained a fresh smear of baby drool, and your hair was now completely ruined.

At one point, the classroom door creaked open a fraction. Shinobu stood on the threshold. She had a free minute while her seniors completed their tests. Leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest, she watched with an endlessly warm, soft smile as you—a brilliant biologist—desperately tried to explain protozoa to high school seniors while mimicking an airplane with your arms to stop your daughter from crying.

You caught her eye. Your cheeks flared bright red. Pacing across the room, you neared the door, still rocking the baby.

"Save me," you mouthed silently to your wife. "She is going to completely dismantle my entire annual curriculum."

Shinobu merely offered a soft, breathless laugh, shaking her head. She blew you a gentle kiss and quietly closed the door, leaving you to your biological chaos. And within that laughter, there wasn't a single trace of mockery. There was only pure, concentrated love.

The school day—which felt like the longest single day in the entire history of modern pedagogy—finally drew to a close.

You were driving home in your car. In the backseat, securely buckled into her car seat, Akira was finally fast asleep, lulled by the rhythmic motion of the vehicle.

Outside the windows, the city lights blurred past in the evening dusk. A quiet, soothing melody played from the car speakers. Both of you were exhausted to the absolute marrow of your bones. Your muscles ached, and your eyelids felt incredibly heavy.

You drove with one hand resting on the steering wheel, your other hand resting on the center armrest. Shinobu sat in the passenger seat. She had shed her white lab coat and kicked off her heels, tucking her legs up beneath her as she rested her head back against the headrest. Her eyes were closed.

You stole a quick glance at her. This incredibly strong, brilliant, disciplined woman, who had spent her day lecturing on complex chemical equations with an infant strapped to her chest. In that moment, a rush of tenderness so powerful washed over you that it genuinely took your breath away.

Carefully, you reached over and intertwined your fingers with hers where they rested on the armrest.

Shinobu didn't open her eyes, but her palm responded instantly to your touch, squeezing your hand firmly. Her thumb gently stroked your wedding band.

"We are insane," Shinobu spoke softly, her eyes remaining shut. A tired, raspy edge lined her voice. "We brought a four-month-old child into a school full of hazardous chemicals, biological specimens, and teenagers overridden with raging hormones."

"Agreed. We are completely out of our minds," you chuckled softly, keeping your eyes on the road. "But you have to admit, Inosuke promising to teach her how to headbutt things was spectacular."

Shinobu let out a quiet huff. "If he comes within a two-meter radius of her with those wild manners of his, I will personally dissect him."

A cozy, heavy silence settled over the car once more.

"You know," Shinobu said, her tone shifting to something deeply earnest as she opened her eyes and turned her head to look at you. "Before I met you, my life resembled a perfectly calibrated chemical reaction conducted under strictly sterile conditions. Zero margin for error, zero unforeseen variables. I would walk into a clean classroom, input uniform grades, and return to an empty apartment. I genuinely believed that was what order looked like."

She squeezed your hand a fraction tighter.

"And then you came along. You entirely dismantled my sterility with your ridiculous potted plants, your absurd pickup lines, and your absolute chaos. You turned my entire world upside down. And now…" She cast a tender look into the rearview mirror at your sleeping daughter before returning her gaze to you. "And now, my perfect white lab coat is covered in baby drool, we do not sleep at night, I cannot remember the last time I drank a cup of coffee in peace, and my apartment is completely overrun with diapers and plastic toys."

Your heart skipped a beat. There was no resentment in her voice, but the sheer weight of her fatigue made you panic for a fleeting second. "Shinobu… do you regret it?" you asked quietly.

She lifted your hand to her lips, pressing a long, reverent kiss against your knuckles. Her purple eyes shone in the cabin's dim light, brighter than any of the passing city lights outside.

"I regret only one thing—that I did not allow this beautiful chaos into my life much sooner, [Y/N]," she whispered, her voice overflowing with absolute, unyielding sincerity. "This variable—you and our daughter—is the reason why staying up all night is entirely worth it. It is the reason why life is worth living. It is the greatest, most profound experiment of my entire life. And I would never, not for anything in this world, trade it back for sterile order."

You smiled, feeling warm tears of pure happiness prick the corners of your eyes. You lifted her hand to your lips, returning the kiss.

"I love you, Kocho-sensei," you said, turning the car onto your street.

"And I love you, my biologist," she replied softly, closing her eyes once more. "Now, please get us home safely before I fall asleep right here, and help me wash this cursed formula out of my lab coat. We have to go back to work tomorrow."

You were just children, but Shinobu already carried herself as if the entire world were her personal garden, and everyone around her merely amusing, yet rather foolish, insects. In your childhood, your conflicts were simple and physical. If you reached for a wooden sword first, Shinobu would invariably find a way to knock it from your hands—and she would do it with such an innocent, elegant look that any adult would believe her over your indignant shouts.

You had always struggled with anger issues. Your blood would boil in a fraction of a second. All it took was for Shinobu to tilt her head slightly, narrow her large purple eyes, and drop some snide, condescending remark like, "Oh, [Y/N]-chan, did you trip over your own feet again? What a pity, grace is clearly not your strong suit," and you would snap, throwing yourself at her with clenched fists.

But the most infuriating, unbearable part was that she always, absolutely always, won.

She didn't use brute strength. She used your own rage against you. A step to the side, a sweep of the leg—and there you were again, lying face down in the dust, while Shinobu stood over you, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her impeccably clean kimono.

"You really should learn to stay calm, [Y/N]," her voice would purr, dripping with a fake sympathy that was, in reality, pure mockery—rage bait, as people of another era would call it. She intentionally tugged at the strings of your temper just to watch you explode.

Back then, a simple but twisted thought took root in your mind: the only way to make Shinobu Kocho pay attention to you, the only way not to be a blank space in her eyes, was to challenge her. To be that very thorn in her side that she simply could not ignore.

When you grew older and, alongside her elder sister Kanae, joined the ranks of the Demon Slayer Corps, those childhood scuffles in the mud matured into harsh, grueling training spars.

You became stronger, faster, and more dangerous. But the dynamic remained exactly the same.

The loud, rhythmic thwack of wooden swords—bokkens—would echo through the inner courtyard of the mansion. You would attack, pouring all your heavy, sweeping fury into every strike. Your style was aggressive and overwhelming. But Shinobu simply fluttered around you like a damn butterfly. She evaded and parried your blows so effortlessly it felt as though your sword weighed nothing at all, all while continuing her verbal torture.

"Too wide of a swing," her bokken barked painfully against your wrist. "Too predictable. You're thinking about how to hit hard, not how to connect. Your anger makes you easy to read."

You growled, grit your teeth, and lunged forward, trying to catch her with at least the tip of your sword. But Shinobu spun elegantly on her heels, her wooden blade sliding right beneath your guard, and a second later, you were on the ground, breathing heavily with the tip of her bokken pressed squarely against your throat.

She stood over you, not even short of breath. That same superior, condescending smile beamed on her face. "Another defeat, [Y/N]-san. Perhaps you should try a different breathing style? Or simply admit that this level is beyond your reach?"

You stared up into her purple eyes, squeezing your fists so hard your nails bit into your palms. You hated that smile. But even more, you hated how your heart treacherously skipped a beat whenever she looked down at you with that commanding, self-assured expression.

Kanae, who always watched you from the veranda, would only offer a soft, kind laugh. "Now, now, girls, don't fight," her warm voice was always the glue that kept your hostility from spiraling out of control. "You are both wonderful swordswomen. Just… very different."

But Kanae was always the peacemaker. And when the peacemaker was gone, the world collapsed, leaving the two of you alone with your unbearable, prickly connection.

Kanae's death shattered reality into a before and an after. The funeral took place under a pouring, endless rain. You stood among the crowd of slayers, feeling the chill cut to your bones, but your gaze was anchored to only one person.

To Shinobu.

You expected to see tears. You expected to see rage, pain, despair. You expected to see that very girl who used to get angry, snap back, and fight for every breath.

But Shinobu wasn't crying. She stood by the grave, draped in her sister's white haori, and a smile graced her face. The soft, gentle, all-forgiving smile of Kanae. But it was empty. It was dead. That smile didn't reach her eyes; it was plastered onto her face like a grotesque, unmoving theatrical mask.

In that exact moment, something snapped inside you. Your anger, which Shinobu used to provoke so effortlessly, now ignited with a new, dark intensity. You took that mask personally. It felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of herself, a betrayal of your history. Where did that sharp-tongued, vibrant, real Shinobu go—the one you used to fight until you were black and blue? Why was she hiding behind this eerie, hypocritical facade?

From that day on, everything changed. Your physical altercations virtually ceased, giving way to far more venomous, cruel verbal battles. You began to pick at her with double the intensity. You intentionally sought out conflict, trying to strike where it hurt most, just to see that fake smile crack, just to force her to show a single shred of real, genuine emotion.

"That holy martyr look again, Kocho?" you would hurl at her as you passed her in the corridors of the Butterfly Mansion, your voice dripping with venom. "Aren't you tired of pretending to be someone you're not? Kanae would be nauseated by this acting."

It was cruel. You knew it. But you would see her perfect smile twitch for a microsecond, see that familiar flash of irritation spark deep within her purple eyes, and it brought you a twisted, sick satisfaction.

"Oh, [Y/N]-san," Shinobu would reply, her voice smooth but cutting to the quick. "Your manners leave much to be desired, as always. I'm afraid your meager vocabulary and inability to control your emotions will keep you in the rank-and-file forever. I would suggest you drink a calming tonic, but I fear medicine cannot cure your stupidity."

You snapped at each other every time you crossed paths. The younger slayers, the helpers, and even the other Hashira learned to steer clear of whatever room the two of you occupied. The air between you crackled with unexpressed tension, with an unbearable, suffocating friction.

When Shinobu officially became the Insect Hashira, the distance between your ranks widened into a chasm. She was the elite, a genius medic, one of the strongest swordswomen in the Corps. You were just a skilled combatant who hadn't reached the rank of a Pillar. Protocol demanded your absolute respect.

But you didn't give a damn about protocol.

"Hey, Hashira!" you would yell across the entire training yard, ignoring the frightened glances of the recruits. "Come down from your high horse before I bring you down myself! Your new training methods are absolute garbage!"

Any other slayer would face severe punishment for such insubordination. Shinobu did not tolerate disrespect. She was strict and demanding. But when it came to you… she would only turn gracefully, her fake smile stretching even wider, and engage in the argument, showering you with arrogant, demeaning comments to which you replied with choice, furious curses.

You were the only one who got away with it. And you both knew why. Because behind that hatred, behind that constant desire to cut each other down, lay your shared, painful past. And something much deeper.

Somewhere along this twisting, thorn-lined path, amidst the insults and the mockery, you had both tumbled into love. You had fallen in love with her sharp mind, her grace, and the pain she buried beneath her smile. And she… she had fallen in love with your honesty. With your anger, which was the only real, living fire left in her cold, poisoned world. Neither of you would admit it, not even to yourselves, preferring to hide your feelings behind the familiar shield of aggressive rivalry.

The greatest paradox of your connection was that on the battlefield, all of this toxicity evaporated without a trace.

The moment you drew your blades against demons, you transformed into a flawless, lethal mechanism. You didn't need words. You were the raw, destructive force that shattered defenses, took the brunt of the attacks, and drew the enemy's focus. Shinobu was the unseen, venomous sting. You tore openings in the demon's guard, and she delivered the fatal prick. You moved in a perfect, terrifying synchronicity, trusting each other with your lives unconditionally.

But the second the demon crumbled into ash, the magic would vanish, and you would immediately turn back into two bitter enemies ready to rip each other's throats out.

This mission was supposed to be a routine sweep. Reconnaissance had reported a small cluster of weak demons in the Whispering Woods. The two of you set out alone, accompanied only by your faithful Kasugai crow, Shizuku, who occasionally cawed to indicate the direction.

But the intel was wrong. It wasn't a handful of weaklings. It was an ambush orchestrated by a demon wielding a Blood Demon Art capable of creating mirror illusions and spatial distortions.

The battle devolved into chaos. The forest filled with dozens of illusory clones of the demon. The air hummed with tension. You slashed left and right, your katana whistling through empty air while the real enemy struck from the shadows.

Shinobu flitted through the trees, her white cloak flashing in the darkness. She tried to calculate which was the real demon to administer her poison, but the illusions kept throwing her off.

"[Y/N], don't waste your strength on the illusions! Look for ripples in the air!" Shinobu shouted, evading a hail of poisonous spikes launched from the dark.

"Don't tell me what to do, you arrogant pest!" you snapped back, though you were already breathing heavily, a fresh scratch bleeding on your cheek.

Suddenly, reality warped. You caught it out of the corner of your eye. The real demon—massive, with a multitude of razor-sharp mandibles—materialized directly above Shinobu, concealed behind the back of her own illusion. The Insect Hashira didn't see it. She was preparing to strike in an entirely different direction.

There was no time to yell a warning.

Your brain shut down, yielding completely to pure reflex. You didn't think about your life; you didn't think about protocol. A primal, blinding terror erupted inside you at the mere thought that she might die.

You lunged, ignoring the dull ache in your exhausted muscles, and literally tackled Shinobu to the ground with the full force of your body, throwing her out of harm's way.

In that exact microsecond, the demon's razor-sharp mandible sliced through the air where Shinobu had just been standing. But it didn't hit empty space. With the sickening sound of tearing flesh, it drove deep into your left flank, ripping through your uniform and sinking deep into the muscle.

A strangled, raspy scream of agony tore from your throat. You crashed to the ground, blood immediately soaking through the fabric and spilling into the grass.

Shinobu rolled across the earth and whipped around. Seeing you bleeding out, the Insect Hashira lost her fake mask for the first time in years. Her eyes widened to an impossible size. The smile vanished from her lips, exposing a raw, icy wrath.

"Vermin," she hissed. It was the only word she spoke.

The speed at which she moved over the next few seconds defied description. It wasn't the dance of a butterfly. It was the strike of an enraged, lethal hornet. She didn't give the demon a single chance to use its illusions. Her blade pierced its body in six different places in a fraction of a second, injecting a maximum, fatal dose of wisteria poison.

The demon didn't even have time to scream. With a bubbling sound, it began to dissolve alive, turning into a purple, smoking sludge before crumbling into ash.

The moment the enemy was destroyed, Shinobu rushed to your side. She dropped to her knees in the muddy grass, completely ignoring the fact that her snow-white haori was getting ruined in your blood.

"[Y/N]!" her voice shook as she frantically tore her medical kit from her belt.

You lay on your back, drawing in heavy, rattling breaths. The pain was hellish, but you tried to scoff. "See… even the Hashira… need a hand from the rank-and-file sometimes…"

"Shut up! Just shut up and don't move!" she barked. Her hands, usually so calm and steady, were trembling slightly now as she poured a potent hemostatic powder into your wound and tightly bound your torso.

The process took several agonizing minutes. Once the bleeding was controlled and the wound was securely packed, Shinobu sat back heavily on her heels. Her chest heaved. She stared at you, a raw, unshielded storm raging in her eyes.

With great effort, you propped yourself up on your elbows, leaning your back against the wide trunk of an old oak tree. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving behind a dull, pulsing agony.

"Don't mention it," you muttered, looking away. You felt uncomfortable seeing her look so… real.

"Mention it?!" Shinobu's voice suddenly shot up an octave.

She lunged forward violently. In a single bound, she was so close you could feel her erratic breath against your face. Her hands slammed into the trunk of the tree on either side of your head, effectively pinning you in place.

Her face was twisted. There was no polite smile left. There was no fake composure. This was that same fierce, alive Shinobu from your childhood, only now her rage was a hundred times stronger.

"Do you have any idea what an absolute, total idiot you are?!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the night forest. "What the hell do you think you're doing?! Who asked you to throw yourself in front of an attack?!"

"I saved your life!" you flared up in response, your own temper automatically rising to meet her aggression. You tried to push her away, but the sharp pain in your side made you grimace. "If I hadn't stepped in, that thing would have sliced you in half!"

"I am a Hashira!" Shinobu punched the tree trunk right above your ear. "I do not need some hot-headed, reckless girl playing the hero and risking her neck for me! You could have died! Your insides could have been spilled out on this damn dirt! Did you think about that?!"

"No, I didn't! Because the only thing I was thinking about was that you were about to die because of your own arrogance!" you roared back, staring straight into her blazing purple eyes. "You think you're the smartest person alive?! You think you can control everything with that creepy, glued-on smile of yours?! You provoke me constantly, you look down on everyone, but in the end, you didn't even see an attack coming from your blind spot!"

"How dare you…" Shinobu hissed, her face mere inches from yours.

"I dare! Because I hate that mask!" The words erupted from you like lava from a volcano. You couldn't hold it in for another second. "I hate what you became after Kanae died! I hate how you hide away! I pick fights with you every single day because the only time you're real, the only time you scream, is when you're angry at me! That's the only time I see the real you—the girl who used to roll me in the mud! And I won't let… I won't let some demon take that girl away from me! Do you understand?!"

Shinobu froze. Her mouth parted slightly; her chest heaved. The words hung in the freezing air, heavy with a raw, desperate truth.

Your entire feud, all those snide remarks, all that toxic rivalry—it had all been a cry for help. It was your twisted, broken way of saying to each other: I'm here. I see you. Don't leave me.

Shinobu’s eyes filled with tears. Real, unhidden, hot tears that glinted in the moonlight. Her entire cold, impenetrable armor shattered into pieces.

"You are insufferable," she whispered. Her voice was no longer angry. It was filled with an absolute, crushing exhaustion and something else—something deep and dark. "You are the most annoying, loud, uncontrollable disaster in my entire life."

"I know," you breathed, staring at her lips.

"I hate you so much," she added, and her hands, which had been anchoring her to the tree, slowly slid down to rest on your shoulders.

"I hate you too," you answered, your voice wavering.

The tension that had built up over the span of years detonated.

Shinobu didn't speak another word. She lunged forward desperately, crashing her lips against yours.

This wasn't a gentle or romantic kiss. It was a collision. It was a battle where neither side wanted to yield. Her lips were firm and demanding. She kissed you with such a fierce, hungry passion it felt as though she were trying to draw the very life out of you, as if she were punishing you for the terror you had just put her through.

Your uninjured hand immediately tangled into her dark hair, knocking away that massive butterfly clip. You pulled her even closer, completely ignoring the sharp flare of pain in your torn side. You met her with the same aggression, nipping at her bottom lip until the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth.

She let out a muffled groan directly against your lips, her hands cupping your face, her fingers digging into your cheeks to hold you steady, though you had absolutely no intention of running away. The kiss was wet with her tears, messy with dirt, sweat, and the tang of iron, but to both of you, it was sweeter than any medicine. In that kiss lived all your unspoken pain, all your rage, and all the love you had so stubbornly hidden behind a wall of sarcasm for so long.

Shinobu pulled back from your lips, gasping heavily for air. Her face remained close, her forehead resting against yours.

"If you ever… ever… risk your life for me again," she whispered, her voice cracking as her trembling fingers stroked your cheekbones, "I will kill you myself. Do you hear me?"

"Just try it, Hashira," you smirked weakly, feeling an incredible, searing warmth spread through your chest. "You've never managed to make me listen to you before."

Shinobu let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. A real, genuine laugh—the kind you hadn't heard from her in years. She leaned in again, and this time, she kissed you softly, deeply, and gently, washing away the last remnants of the pain.

You had left home before that terrible tragedy struck, joining the Demon Slayer Corps to send money back to your family. When the news of their slaughter and Nezuko’s turning reached you, your world shattered, but you did not break. You became even stronger. You became a pillar of support for Tanjiro, his guiding star, and the blade that carved a path through the darkness.

But within that darkness, you also found your own light. A light that smelled of wisteria and rubbing alcohol.

The morning before your joint mission was cool. You sat on the wooden veranda of the Butterfly Mansion, methodically rubbing the blade of your katana with clove oil. Your tsuba, forged in the shape of a blooming camellia, gleamed faintly in the dawn rays. The tsuka—the hilt, tightly wrapped in dark burgundy silk—fit perfectly into your calloused palm.

Light, almost weightless footsteps interrupted your thoughts. Shinobu Kocho knelt down beside you. Her white haori, with its butterfly wing pattern, lightly brushed against your dark hakama.

"Your crow, Shizuku, is already making a fuss across the entire yard," the Insect Hashira said softly, her purple eyes intently scanning your face. "Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke are already waiting at the gates. Are you ready?"

"I am always ready, Shinobu," you said, sheathing your blade and turning toward her.

Her slender fingers brushed against the collar of your uniform, gently straightening the fabric. In that simple, everyday gesture lay all the incredible, deep tenderness you shared behind closed doors. You were each other's secret, a sanctuary in a world where death breathed down your necks every night.

"It's a remote area. The demon is rumored to use hypnotic techniques," Shinobu frowned slightly, her voice dropping lower, meant only for your ears. "Promise me you won't risk yourself for the boys more than necessary. Tanjiro is strong; he can handle it. I don't want you rushing into danger."

You gently caught her wrist and pressed your lips to it. "I promise to be careful. We will just clear the mountain pass and come right back. Have a hot dinner ready for us. And… try to get some rest while I'm gone. You spend too much time in the laboratory."

Shinobu sighed, but a faint, genuine smile touched her lips. "Return in one piece, [Y/N]. Otherwise, I will personally poison you with a paralyzing venom and tie you to a hospital bed for a month."

The forest on the mountainside felt dead. The trunks of old cedars groaned under gusts of icy wind, and a thick fog concealed the trail. Your small group moved forward in a tense silence. Tanjiro walked at the front, constantly sniffing the air. Inosuke impatiently gripped the hilts of his jagged blades, while Zenitsu pressed close to you, trembling at every rustle.

"The scent of blood," Tanjiro suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, his hand darting to his sword hilt. "It's very strong. And it's… it's everywhere!"

In that exact second, the fog around you stirred. It wasn't an ordinary mist, but a dense, poisonous haze that distorted perception. A Blood Demon Art.

The creature appeared out of nowhere. The demon looked nothing like ordinary monsters; its body was covered in thick, bony armor, and six yellow, manic eyes burned on its face. It wasn't an Upper Rank, but the creature's strength was clearly on par with the Lower Ranks.

The battle erupted instantly.

Tanjiro unleashed the Hinokami Kagura, Inosuke charged into close combat with a wild roar, and Zenitsu, falling into his saving slumber, sliced through the air with strikes of lightning. As the eldest, you coordinated their actions, covering their blind spots. Your katana cut through the demon’s bone armor, but the beast regenerated with frightening speed.

"Tanjiro! On your left!" you shouted, parrying a powerful strike from a clawed hand meant for your brother.

The demon was clever. It quickly realized that the boy with the hanafuda earrings was the main threat, but you were the primary shield of the group. The monster began to methodically force you away from the others with monstrous strength, raining down a barrage of crushing blows.

Seconds mattered. Your muscles burned from overexertion; your lungs tore at the freezing air. You saw Tanjiro bring his sword up for the final strike, preparing to sever the demon's head.

But the demon only grinned. Its back suddenly deformed, and from it, like a compressed spring, a third, bony arm burst forth, lengthening at an unbelievable speed. It was aimed directly at the chest of Tanjiro, who was mid-air and unable to dodge.

Time slowed down.

A thousand thoughts flashed through your mind, but your body moved on the pure instinct of an elder sister. The instinct of absolute, unconditional protection. You didn't have time to use a form. You didn't have time to intercept the strike with your blade. The only thing you could do was become a wall.

You pushed off the ground, putting all your strength into the leap, and threw yourself across the path of the bony arm.

The sound of tearing flesh and breaking bones felt deafening in the freezing air.

Landing on the ground, Tanjiro widened his eyes in horror. Zenitsu let out a strangled, raspy choke, and Inosuke froze in his tracks.

The demon's bony arm, thick as the trunk of a young tree, had pierced clean through your body. It tore in right beneath your ribs, ruptured your solar plexus, and burst out of your back, drenching the ground in torrents of your blood.

The pain was so all-consuming that your brain refused to process it. You didn't scream. You only opened your eyes wide, feeling an icy chill instantly lock your insides. Blood gushed from your mouth, staining your chin and uniform.

But you did not drop your sword.

"[Y/N]!!!" Tanjiro’s cry, filled with a primal, soul-shattering horror, echoed off the cliffs.

The demon smiled predatorily, intending to fling your body off its arm. But it hadn't counted on one thing. You were a Demon Slayer to your very core.

Your hands, trembling and weakening with every millisecond, clamped onto the demon's arm in an iron grip. You didn't let it pull back.

"Tanjiro… strike!" you wheezed through the bloody foam, your eyes flashing with a final, desperate fire.

Your brother, weeping blindly, let out a wild, pain-filled howl. The flames on his blade erupted with unprecedented brightness. With one perfect, devastating strike, he took the demon's head off.

The moment the monster's neck was severed, its body began to crumble into ash. The bony arm piercing you lost its density, and you collapsed onto the frozen earth.

Tanjiro was instantly at your side, falling to his knees. His hands desperately, frantically tried to press down on the huge, gaping hole in your chest and abdomen, but there was too much blood. It poured through his fingers, soaking into the dry dirt.

"Onee-san… [Y/N], please, no, no, no!" Tanjiro sobbed, his voice spiraling into hysteria. "Hang on! Breathe! Zenitsu, Inosuke, help me!"

But the boys were paralyzed by horror. The wound was incompatible with life. You lay on your back, staring up at the gray, overcast sky. Your breathing turned into short, bubbling gasps. You felt life rapidly draining out of you. The vision before your eyes began to fade.

In the final seconds of your waning consciousness, you remembered Shinobu's purple eyes. Her soft smile. The scent of wisteria.

"I'm sorry, Shinobu… I won't be able to keep my promise…"

Your eyes glazed over. Your chest jerked convulsively one last time, and then went still. The pulse that had been beating beneath Tanjiro’s blood-stained fingers vanished.

A ringing, dead silence fell over Roaring Gorge, broken only by Tanjiro’s racking sobs. He shook your lifeless body, begging you to open your eyes, refusing to believe that fate had taken his family from him yet again.

Suddenly, a loud, frantic cry echoed in the sky from Shizuku. Your Kasugai crow circled wildly above the clearing, and right behind her, faster than the wind, a figure in a white haori sprinted through the forest thicket.

Shinobu.

Her patrol route had been nearby, and when Shizuku raised the alarm, she dropped everything. She flew through the woods, ignoring the branches scratching her face.

As the Insect Hashira burst into the clearing, her eyes instantly focused on the scene before her. Tanjiro, kneeling in a pool of blood. And you. Lying motionless with a horrific, gaping wound.

Shinobu’s heart skipped a beat, but she didn't allow herself to panic. Emotions were locked away, yielding to the absolute, cold calculation of a brilliant doctor.

She dropped to her knees beside Tanjiro, pushing him aside roughly but firmly. "Get your hands off her!" she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip.

Shinobu instantly assessed the situation. A through-and-through wound to the abdomen and lower chest. Massive blood loss. No breathing. No pulse. Pupils unresponsive to light.

Clinical death.

Any other medic would have pronounced you dead and covered the body. But not Shinobu Kocho. She was not about to give you up without a fight.

"Inosuke, Zenitsu! Build a fire! Fast! Tanjiro, take off your haori and help me elevate her legs above her heart!" Her orders flew out, forcing the boys to snap out of it and start moving.

Shinobu frantically tore open her medical kit from her belt. Her hands moved with superhuman speed. She pulled out a long needle and a thick syringe filled with a clear, faintly fluorescent liquid. This was her personal, experimental drug—a highly concentrated synthetic adrenaline mixed with neuroprotectors designed to shield the brain from hypoxia.

She drove the needle straight into your stopped heart, bypassing the broken ribs, and injected the fluid in one sharp motion.

"Come on…" she hissed through her teeth.

Shinobu locked her hands over your chest and began performing CPR. Her fragile body threw all its weight into every single compression. One, two, three, four… She pressed so hard that the crack of already damaged bones could be heard, but it didn't matter. She needed to force your blood to circulate to get the drug to your brain.

Five minutes. No pulse. Tanjiro sat nearby, his lips moving in silent prayer, tears streaming down his face.

Ten minutes. No pulse. Shinobu was breathing heavily. Sweat poured down her face, mixing with your blood on her hands. "Tanjiro! Breathe into her! Mouth-to-mouth, now!" she commanded, never stopping the compressions. Tanjiro immediately obeyed, blowing oxygen into your dead lungs.

Fifteen minutes. The body was starting to cool. The freezing mountain air was taking its toll. Shinobu knew that at this temperature, she had a little more time before irreversible brain damage occurred, but the window of opportunity was closing fast.

She pulled out a second syringe. A powerful coagulant. She injected it directly into the edges of the gaping wound to halt the internal bleeding in case the heart suddenly restarted. Then, she went right back to the compressions.

Twenty minutes. Inosuke and Zenitsu dragged burning branches over, arranging them around you to create a makeshift heat dome.

"Shinobu-san…" Tanjiro whispered, his voice breaking. "She's… she's already…"

"Shut up!" Shinobu screamed. Her perfect mask was entirely shattered. The Hashira’s face was distorted by raw, primal pain and rage. Tears poured like a river from her purple eyes, but her hands kept methodically, rhythmically driving into your chest. "I won't let her die! Do you hear me, [Y/N]?! You don't dare leave me! You promised me you'd come back!"

Twenty-five minutes. Shinobu’s arms had gone numb from the exertion. Her muscles burned with an infernal fire, but she didn't slow her pace. She was pouring her own life energy into you, refusing to accept defeat. A single thought hammered in her mind: she would not lose another person she loved. She would drag you back from the other side, even if she had to descend into hell itself to get you.

Thirty minutes. For the medicine of that era, this was the absolute, undeniable limit. The end.

Shinobu gave one last, desperate push. Her strength was entirely spent. She froze, her trembling, blood-stained fingers resting against your carotid artery.

Silence.

Tears streamed from her eyes with renewed force. She balled her hands into fists, preparing to strike the earth in a burst of helpless fury. Tanjiro buried his face in his hands, letting out a hollow, gut-wrenching groan.

And suddenly…

Beneath the tips of Shinobu's fingers, something faint, barely perceptible, twitched. She froze, stopping her own breath. Her eyes widened to an impossible size.

Thump.

Two endless seconds passed.

Thump… Thump.

A weak, arrhythmic, thready, but absolutely real pulse.

In that exact second, your chest arched upward with a horrific, gasping rattle. A painful, choking breath mixed with bloody foam tore from your throat. Your eyes fluttered open—cloudy and unfocused, but alive.

Shinobu let out a sound that was half-cry, half-laugh. It was the sound of absolute, uncontrollable relief.

"She's breathing! Tanjiro, she's breathing!" the Insect Hashira shouted, immediately transitioning to bandaging the wound. "Bandages, quick! We need to stabilize the wound and get her to the mansion right now! We won't lose her! We dragged her back!"

The first thing you sensed as consciousness slowly, painfully crept back was the smell. The sharp, clean scent of medicine mixed with the comforting, sweet aroma of blooming wisteria.

Your body felt heavy, as if filled with lead. Every movement, every breath radiated a dull, throbbing ache in the center of your chest and stomach. You managed to part your dry, cracked lips and tried to swallow.

The room was dim. A single candle flickered beside your futon.

You turned your head slightly. Resting her head on her folded arms at the edge of your bed, Shinobu was fast asleep. Her breathing was quiet, but even in her sleep, her fingers held your hand tightly, her knuckles white. She looked incredibly exhausted. Deep, dark shadows rimmed her eyes, and her hair was messy.

You tried to squeeze her fingers in return. The movement was weak, nearly imperceptible, but for the light-sleeping Hashira, it was enough.

Shinobu’s head snapped up instantly. Her purple eyes, sleepy and anxious, locked onto yours. For a second, she just stared at you, as if afraid to believe you were actually conscious, fearing it was just another cruel hallucination brought on by exhaustion.

"[Y/N]…" her voice trembled, turning into a raspy whisper.

"Hey…" you croaked, your voice sounding like the rustle of dry leaves. You tried to smile, but it took far too much effort. "I think… I'm a little late for dinner."

Instead of laughing at your weak joke, Shinobu suddenly covered her face with her free hand. Her shoulders shook with silent, bitter sobs. All the colossal stress, all the terror she had endured while fighting for your life over long days and nights finally broke through.

"Fool… You absolute, stubborn fool," she wept, refusing to let go of your hand.

With great difficulty, you lifted your other, bandaged hand and clumsily, with trembling fingers, touched her cheek to wipe away the hot tears. "I'm sorry. I… I had to protect Tanjiro. I couldn't do anything else."

Shinobu caught your hand and pressed her lips to your palm. "I know. I know you would do it again, even knowing the consequences. That is exactly why I love you so much. But, gods, [Y/N]… your heart stopped for thirty minutes. For thirty agonizing minutes, I thought the world had ended for me forever. I dragged you back literally from death's embrace. Your wound was incompatible with life."

She leaned closer, being careful not to disturb the dressings on your chest, resting her forehead against your shoulder. Her tears soaked into the fabric of your clean hospital gown.

"Tanjiro didn't leave your door for three days," she continued softly, calming down. "He cried so hard he lost his voice. And I… I spent ten hours in the operating room, stitching your organs back together. If it hadn't been for the cold mountain air slowing down tissue necrosis, and if I hadn't arrived in time with my new drug…"

You listened to her, and the realization of just how close you had come to crossing the line washed over you. You were only alive because of her genius, her stubbornness, and her boundless, desperate love.

"Thank you," you whispered, running your fingers through her dark hair. "Thank you for not giving up. Thank you for bringing me back. I promise… I swear to you on my blade, I will never make you go through that again."

Shinobu slowly raised her head. Her eyes were red from crying, but that same warm, healing light shone within them once more. A faint but entirely genuine smile appeared on her lips.

"You have a very long recovery ahead of you, my heroine. Your body underwent a colossal shock," she gently ran her thumb across your cheekbone. "And I will personally oversee your every step. No training, no missions for the coming months. You are going to be my most obedient patient."

"Sounds like a pretty good plan," you laughed softly and hoarsely, feeling the pain recede under the weight of her care.

Shinobu leaned in and very gently, weightlessly kissed your lips. The kiss tasted of tears, medicine, and absolute, pure happiness. It was the kiss of life triumphing over death.

For you, [Y/N], the headquarters of the Scout Regiment had long since become your only home. You were a good soldier, a diligent logistics officer, and a person whose work mostly remained in the shadows. You kept track of supplies, distributed medical provisions, and ensured that the soldiers always had clean laundry and functioning ODM gear. Your life was a routine steeped in the scent of old paper, machine oil, and the damp stone walls of the ancient castle.

But this routine held a single secret. A secret that wore glasses, an eyepatch over the left eye, and a green cloak bearing the Wings of Freedom emblem—the uniform of the Commander.

Hange Zoe.

After Erwin Smith’s death and that bloody massacre in Shiganshina, Hange had changed. The crushing weight of command, the responsibility for the remnants of humanity, and the realization that the enemy lay not just beyond the walls but across the ocean weighed down on her shoulders like a leaden cargo. The manic, genuine smile of the researcher had vanished, giving way to the stern, exhausted gaze of a leader.

Your connection had begun right then—in the darkest, most desperate days following the return to Wall Maria. It hadn't been a romantic confession under the moonlight. It was the sharp, primal need of two traumatized individuals to feel that they were still alive.

You had brought the reports to her office late one night. Hange was sitting at her desk, her head buried in her hands amidst mountains of maps and dispatches. She looked so utterly broken that you, breaking military protocol, simply walked over and placed your hands on her shoulders. She clung to your palms like a drowning person catching a lifeline. That was the night everything changed.

Your relationship could hardly be called a romance. You were just hooking up in secret. You found each other in dark supply closets, in empty barracks, or in her office once the footsteps of the guards faded down the corridor. It was a way to vent the suffocating pressure, to drown out the screams of fallen comrades in your minds, and to simply feel the warmth of another body. You never spoke of the future. What kind of future could soldiers have when their lives could end tomorrow?

Your physical intimacy was just as complex and multifaceted as the Commander herself. Hange's anatomy was… unique. You had known this from the very beginning. The layout of her body—a mysterious play of genetics that gifted her with male anatomical traits—made your connection not only incredibly intense but deeply intimate. Hange trusted you with this part of herself, a part she kept hidden from the rest of the world beneath layers of thick military uniform.

Her hands, always smelling of iron, ink, and gunpowder, were surprisingly gentle when it came to your body.

You remembered every single encounter down to the smallest detail. The way she would press you against the cold stone wall of her office, kissing you ravenously, almost desperately, while her fingers hurriedly unbuckled the straps of your gear. In those moments, Hange wasn't the Commander. She was just a human being aching from desire and exhaustion.

Her nature allowed her to dominate, to take exactly what she needed for release, but she was never selfish. When her flesh, hot and unyielding, claimed you and filled you to the absolute brim, you felt completely defenseless yet simultaneously like the most protected woman in the world. There was always a hidden, suppressed pain lingering within her rhythmic movements. She wasn't just seeking physical pleasure in you; she was searching for salvation from her demons.

You surrendered all of yourself to her. You bit your lips to keep from moaning too loudly, terrified that the patrolling guards might hear. You scratched her back and wrapped your legs tightly around her waist, taking every rhythmic, deep thrust. In those moments, there were no Titans, no Marley, and no military command. There was only the two of you, heavy breathing, the creaking of the old wooden desk, and the heat of bodies melting into one.

You were always careful. At least, you thought you were. After every encounter, you cleaned yourselves up, adjusted your uniforms, and parted ways as if nothing had transpired between you. You returned to your logs, and she returned to planning military campaigns. It was a perfect, unspoken arrangement.

Until one fateful morning.

Three months had passed since your last major encounter in her office, and the Regiment was in the midst of preparing for the arrival of the ambassadors from Hizuru. Hange was so swamped with work that the two of you barely saw each other alone.

The first warning bell rang during breakfast.

The mess hall was alive with noise and chatter. You sat at a long wooden table, half-heartedly poking a spoon through your standard portion of oatmeal. Suddenly, the smell of the food—the ordinary, slightly bland scent of boiled grain—hit your nose with such force that your stomach violently convulsed. Nausea surged up your throat instantly, and a cold sweat broke out across your forehead.

You bolted from the table, knocking your chair over, and ran out into the courtyard with your hand clamped over your mouth.

"Hey, [Y/N], what's wrong?" Jean called out after you, but you didn't hear him.

Reaching the washbasins, you leaned frantically over the sink, struggling to catch your breath. It was bizarre. You had never suffered from a weak stomach. You brushed it off as spoiled rations or sheer exhaustion.

But the symptoms didn't go away. Instead, they began to accumulate like a snowball.

There was the constant, draining fatigue that wouldn't lift even after eight hours of sleep. A strange sensitivity in your chest made your ODM harness chafe against your skin until it bruised. And most importantly—the missed period. Your cycle, which had always run like clockwork, had completely stopped. First by a week, then two, then a month.

Your mind actively refused to piece these details together. It was impossible. You had practiced basic caution… hadn't you? Recalling those nights when Hange had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown, when she took you right there on top of the strategy maps, completely oblivious to everything else, you realized with absolute dread that in the heat of passion, you had both lost control. Her seed, hot and abundant, had spilled deep inside you more than once. You simply… hadn't thought about the consequences. Pregnancy in the Scout Regiment felt like something out of a fairy tale. Soldiers died long before they ever had the chance to start a family.

To quell your paranoid thoughts, you slipped away from headquarters under the guise of inventorying medical supplies and headed into the district to see an old doctor who didn't ask unnecessary questions.

The examination was brief.

"Congratulations," the old man rasped, wiping his hands on a towel. "You're about seven or eight weeks along. The fetus is developing normally. I recommend plenty of rest and avoiding heavy physical exertion."

You sat frozen on the examination cot, staring blankly at the peeling wallpaper of the office, unable to breathe. The air simply wouldn't enter your lungs.

Pregnant.

You, an active-duty soldier. Pregnant by the Commander.

This wasn't just a scandal. This meant a court-martial. If the Military Police found out, it would utterly destroy Hange’s reputation. At such a critical juncture, with Paradis Island bracing for a war against the entire world, a Commander sleeping with her subordinate and getting her pregnant… it was a complete catastrophe.

You walked out of the clinic on legs that felt like lead. The world outside looked gray and hostile. What were you supposed to do? Get rid of the child? The mere thought made your heart ache with a fierce, protective pain. You instinctively pressed a hand to your still-flat stomach. Inside, a life was growing. A life carrying Hange's blood. The blood of the woman you suddenly realized, with terrifying clarity, that you loved. You hadn't just been sleeping with her. You loved her with everything you had.

For three days, you walked around like a ghost. You avoided Hange, and you avoided Levi, who seemed to be boring into you with his piercing gaze more frequently than usual. You couldn't sleep, and you couldn't eat. Fear gnawed away at your insides.

Eventually, you accepted that you couldn't hide this forever. Hange had to know. She had a right to know, even if she hated you afterward, threw you out of the Regiment, or ordered you to terminate it.

It happened late on a rainy evening. Raindrops lashed against the castle windows, casting a oppressive, heavy atmosphere over the halls. You approached the door to the Commander’s office. Your hands shook so violently that you could barely bring yourself to knock.

"Come in," a muffled, exhausted voice called out from within.

You pushed the heavy oak door open. The office was draped in shadow, illuminated only by a single oil lamp on the desk, which cast a harsh light over Hange's pale, drawn face. She sat surrounded by towers of paperwork, her glasses pushed up onto her forehead, her single eye scanning the lines of a Marleyan document with feverish intensity.

Catching sight of you, she let out a tired sigh, though a faint warmth flickered in her gaze. "[Y/N]? Did something happen? Are the storerooms flooding again? I thought I asked Moblit… I mean…" She cut herself off, remembering that Moblit was gone, and her face contorted in brief agony. "I asked the quartermaster to look at the roof."

"It's not the storerooms, Commander," your voice was quiet, completely drained of color. You stood dead center in the room, not daring to step any closer.

Hange set her quill down. Your overwhelming tension did not escape her brilliant mind. She removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're pale. And you haven't come by in… what? Three weeks? If you're here to tell me that you want to end our… arrangements, I understand. I know I'm not the best company right now. I'm constantly stressed, I snap, and it isn't fair to you."

"No!" the word tore from you far too sharply. "No, Hange, it's not that at all. I… I don't want to end anything."

You took a step forward, your hands nervously clutching the hem of your uniform jacket.

"Then what is it? Don't drag it out, [Y/N], my head is splitting."

The words lodged themselves firmly in your throat. How could you say it? How could you shatter her entire world with a single sentence? You looked at her exhausted face, the dark bags beneath her eye, and the heavy green cloak draped over her frame.

"I went to see a doctor in town," you began, your voice giving a treacherous tremor.

Hange snapped upright instantly. Her fatigue dissolved into immediate alarm. "A doctor? Are you injured? Why didn't you go to our medical staff? Is it serious?"

She vaulted out of her chair and closed the distance between you in two strides, her hands gripping your shoulders as she scanned you frantically. The action, steeped in genuine, instinctual protectiveness, finally shattered your emotional dam. Tears spilled over your cheeks.

"Hange… I'm… I'm pregnant."

An absolute, deafening silence descended upon the office. The only sound left was the rain drumming mercilessly against the glass.

Hange's hands froze solid on your shoulders. Her single eye widened to an impossible size. It felt as though she had stopped breathing entirely. The Commander’s face turned into a blank, unreadable slate.

Her mind—the brilliant mind of a scientist and a master strategist—had just collided with data it had no protocol to process.

"Pregnant?" she repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of the word on her tongue. "You're… you're expecting a child."

"Yes," you sobbed, dropping your head, utterly unable to hold her gaze. "About eight weeks along."

Hange slowly retracted her hands from your shoulders and took a step back. Her gaze darted down to your stomach, then up to your tear-streaked face, then right back to your stomach.

Suddenly, that long-lost, manic spark of the eccentric researcher flared back to life in her eye.

"Astounding…" she muttered, beginning to pace frantically across the office floor, her hands gesturing wildly through the air. "Anatomically, the probability was there; I knew it in theory. My physiology functions entirely in both aspects, but the fertility rate under conditions of prolonged psychological stress and malnutrition should have been close to zero! This is an unbelievable biological anomaly! Your body accepted my genetic material despite every adverse external factor!"

She stopped pacing and stared at you as though you were the most fascinating Titan she had ever laid eyes on.

Your heart dropped directly into your stomach. She was looking at this like a scientific experiment. She didn't care. To her, it was nothing but biology.

"Hange, stop it!" you screamed through your tears, unable to take it anymore. "This isn't an experiment! It's a disaster! I am a soldier! You are the Commander! What are we going to do?! I'll be court-martialed! You'll be stripped of your rank! It's over for both of us!"

Your scream seemed to jar her straight out of her trance. The scientific gleam in her eye vanished instantly, and reality crashed down upon her with all its brutal weight.

She became Hange the human once more.

Her features contorted with emotion. She pressed a hand over her mouth, breathing heavily. "A child… My child… We… we are having a child," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of the realization.

She looked at you, and you saw absolute, primal terror in her eye. Not for her reputation. Not for her position. For you. For the fragile new life that had just taken root in a world where people devoured one another, where bombs fell from the sky, and where an entire armada was being built across the ocean to wipe their island off the map.

"Oh god… [Y/N], what have I done," Hange dropped heavily to her knees right there on the cold stone floor in front of you. She wrapped her arms securely around your waist and buried her face against your stomach, her shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs. "Forgive me. Please, forgive me. I'm so selfish. I used you to forget my own nightmare, and I never stopped to think about the danger I was putting you in. In this world… to bring a child into this living hell…"

You froze. You had braced yourself for anger, rejection, or cold, tactical orders. You had not expected to see the Commander of the Scout Regiment weeping at your feet, begging for your forgiveness.

Your own terror suddenly ebbed away, replaced by a massive, all-consuming tide of tenderness. You dropped to your knees beside her, wrapping your arms around her trembling shoulders, holding her head tightly against your chest.

"Don't apologize," you whispered, running your fingers through her unwashed, tangled brown hair. "It wasn't just your responsibility. I wanted it too. I wanted to be with you."

Hange lifted her head, her eye rimmed red from tears. She looked at you with an intensity so fierce it felt as though she were seeing you for the very first time.

"You don't want to… get rid of it?" she asked quietly, her breath catching as she waited for your response.

You shook your head, brushing the tears from your own cheeks. "No. This is your child, Hange. Our child. I am scared to death, but I don't want to kill it."

Hange stared at you for a long moment. A visible war raged behind her eye—a battle between the duty of a Commander who knew a pregnant soldier was a liability, and a woman who had suddenly been handed a chance at the one thing she had never dared to dream of: a family. A continuation of herself. Something bright and alive in this kingdom of the dead.

Slowly, she raised her large hand and placed her palm gently, almost reverently, over your stomach. Her long fingers were trembling.

"I won't let them touch you," her voice suddenly turned as hard as the steel of an ODM blade. The exact same authority that had caused Erwin to trust her with the entire Regiment rang out clearly. "Not the Military Police, not Zackly, not the devil himself. No one will find out until we want them to."

"But how?" you sobbed. "My stomach will start to show. I won't be able to wear the uniform, and I won't pass the physical evaluations."

"I'll reassign you to desk work. In the archives, or as a personal assistant right here in my office. I'll fabricate a back injury that bars you from physical strain," Hange's mind fired on all cylinders, constructing a strategy of absolute defense. "We can alter the uniform, make it looser. Levi… I'll tell Levi everything. He's the only one I trust completely, and he will help us keep this hidden."

She shifted closer, cupping your face in her wide palms.

"Listen to me, [Y/N]. I am a terrible person. I send people to their deaths every single day. My hands are soaked in blood up to my elbows. I don't know what kind of parent I'll make. But I swear to you…" Her eye welled with fresh tears, but her gaze remained unshakeable. "I swear on my life, on the memory of Erwin and Moblit, that I will protect you both. I will rip out the throat of anyone who tries to harm our family."

The word "family" felt so foreign coming from her lips, yet it sounded so entirely right.

"We aren't just hooking up anymore," Hange offered a small, bittersweet smile, wiping the tears from your face with her thumbs. "You're mine. And this child… this is the greatest thing I have ever created. Better than any weapon. Better than any discovery about the Titans."

You looked at her, and the frantic pounding of your heart finally stilled. The massive, uncaring machinery of the Scout Regiment, the war with Marley, the Titans—all of it faded into the background. In this dim, shadowed office, on a cold stone floor, something far greater had just been born.

Hange leaned in, her lips meeting yours. This wasn't the desperate, starved kiss you usually shared to drown out the fear. This was a vow. Deep, tender, full of reverence and the realization that they were no longer alone.

She pulled you into her lap, wrapping you tightly inside her heavy green cloak with the Wings of Freedom. This cloak, normally stained with blood and the scent of liberation, had just become your personal fortress.

Tomorrow would bring a barrage of new problems. Tomorrow you would have to lie to the higher-ups, hide morning sickness, construct alibis, and prepare for war. Tomorrow would be brutal.

You stood in the dim light of Shinobu’s laboratory, wearing a heavy leather apron over your uniform shirt. The sharp, chemical scent of formalin hung thick in the air, intermingled with the sickeningly sweet aroma of stale blood. Before you, on a stainless-steel operating table, lay a fresh trophy.

He was a large man, one of the underworld informants who had made the fatal mistake of selling information about the Hashiras' patrol routes to a local demon cult. He had still been alive when you dragged him here last night, but now his rib cage was neatly opened, his ribs pulled wide apart with metal retractors.

Your face remained completely expressionless. Your psychopathic brain did not perceive this as cruelty; to you, it was merely work. Mechanically, and with frightening anatomical precision, you used a scalpel to separate the connective tissues, freeing the heart. You felt neither disgust nor sadistic pleasure—only a cold, calculating concentration.

The laboratory door creaked open softly, and Shinobu stepped inside. She wore her usual white haori, but her eyes burned with a dark, twisted anticipation. Approaching you from behind, her slender hands slid around your waist as her chin rested gently on your shoulder. She peered into the gaping wound on the table.

"Such clean work," she purred, her breath brushing against your neck. "You didn't damage a single coronary artery. Your motor skills are becoming flawless."

"He resisted less than the previous one," you replied monotonically, lowering the scalpel and plunging your gloved hands directly into the corpse’s chest cavity. With a wet, squelching sound, you extracted the large, still heart and placed it into a prepared glass jar filled with solution. "I severed his cervical spine before starting the incision to minimize muscle spasms. It makes the process much easier."

Shinobu let out a low, velvety laugh. Walking around the table, she picked up the jar and raised it to eye level. Her purple irises reflected the distorted, floating mass of dead flesh.

"This will make an excellent addition to my collection." She turned back to you, her smile drenched in venomous tenderness. Removing one of your bloody gloves, she pressed her lips against your bare palm. "You take such wonderful care of my scientific interests, my love. But we must be more cautious."

Shinobu set the jar aside, her expression turning serious. "Questions are beginning to arise within the Corps. The disappearance of underworld criminals is one thing. But last week, you slaughtered an entire gang of mercenaries simply because they looked at me wrong in town. Shinazugawa and Iguro came to see me yesterday. They smell the blood. Iguro asked me bluntly why his 'quiet and disciplined' fellow slayer constantly reeks of carnage."

You shrugged indifferently while removing your other glove. "If the Wind Hashira or the Serpent Hashira attempt to threaten your safety or restrict my freedom to protect you, I will eliminate them. Their combat skills are above average, but anatomically, their necks break under the exact same pressure as any ordinary human's."

Shinobu’s eyes widened, and then she laughed again—genuine, loud, throwing her head back. Your absolute, inhuman logic amused her and drove her mad all at once. You were ready to murder other Hashira, the elite of humanity, simply because they might become an obstacle.

"No, no, we won't be killing the Hashira just yet," Shinobu said, gently tracing a hand down your cheek. "Just try not to leave so many tracks. Otherwise, I'll have to poison half the Corps to protect you, and that is simply too much paperwork."

Meanwhile, the tension inside the Butterfly Mansion was mounting. Aoi Kanzaki lived in a state of permanent, paralyzing horror. She was the only one who knew the truth, making her an involuntary accomplice and the keeper of your bloody secret.

That morning, she was walking down the corridor holding a basket of clean laundry. She forced herself not to look toward the locked basement, but her anxiety-sharpened sense of smell picked up on what others missed—a faint, sweet scent of rot that even the strongest wisteria extract could not fully mask.

Suddenly, you stepped out from around the corner. You were wearing a clean uniform, and your face, as always, expressed absolutely nothing. But Aoi froze, her eyes widening in terror. As you pulled out a handkerchief from your pocket, a small, pale object fell onto the wooden floor with a dull thud.

It was a human finger. Severed, with dried blood clotted around the joint.

The basket slipped from Aoi's hands. The snow-white sheets scattered across the floor. The girl clamped both hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, unable to tear her gaze away from the piece of human flesh.

You came to a slow halt. Your gaze dropped to the finger, then you calmly looked up at Aoi. Your eyes held neither panic nor guilt; you looked at her as if she were a blank space, weighing whether it made sense to kill her right now to avoid a scene, or to let her live.

"You dropped the laundry, Kanzaki," your voice was flat, entirely devoid of inflection. Bending down, you picked up the finger, carelessly shoved it back into your pocket, and then lifted one of the sheets, holding it out to the trembling girl. "Pick it up. The floor might be dirty."

Aoi nodded frantically. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she was too paralyzed by fear to utter a single coherent word. Her shaking hands took the sheet from you.

"I… I didn't see anything," she rasped, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. "I swear, I didn't see a thing, [Y/N]-san."

"Good," you nodded and simply continued walking down the corridor, leaving Aoi sobbing in a quiet, breathless panic. To you, this was nothing more than a minor, insignificant incident. Your empathy was dead; her tears meant nothing to you.

Your symbiosis was flawless, but the world around you was not going to tolerate predators roaming unpunished in the dark.

Several criminal syndicates, joining forces with the remnants of the demon cult, decided to eliminate the problem. They were losing men, they were losing merchandise, and they knew the trail led directly to the Insect Hashira and her personal shadow. They couldn't attack the mansion directly—that would draw the attention of the entire Corps—so they laid a trap.

An official mission was delivered by a crow: a large gathering of demons had been spotted in the Dead Shadow Gorge, far to the north. Shinobu and you set out together.

The moment you stepped into the narrow, rocky gorge, shrouded in thick fog, an unnatural silence immediately struck your ears. There were no demons here. Instead, dozens of torches flared to life along the high ridges of the cliffs.

You were surrounded. Roughly forty men—mercenaries, assassins, and cult fanatics. Many were armed with modified firearms steeped in demon blood, poisoned darts, and heavy crossbows.

The leader of the syndicate, a tall man with a face disfigured by scars, stepped forward onto a ledge. "Insect Hashira," his voice echoed heavily through the gorge. "You and your pet bitch have crossed us for the last time. We are going to slaughter your guard dog, and we will take you alive. Your knowledge of poisons is worth a fortune on the black market."

Shinobu stood perfectly still. That same, frighteningly sweet smile appeared on her face. She didn't even place her hand on the hilt of her blade; she simply turned her head toward you.

"They called you my pet bitch, my love," Shinobu sang softly, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "I find that quite offensive. How shall we handle this?"

You slowly drew your heavy Nichirin blade, your gaze scanning the figures on the cliffs. Forty targets. Armed. Aggressive. Presenting a threat to Shinobu's safety.

Inside your mind, a switch flipped with a loud, metallic click. Humanity, logic, restraint—all of it was instantly wiped away. Your inhibitors crumbled.

"Leave none alive," your voice changed. It grew deep, visceral, resembling the growl of a demon. A manic, wide grin stretched across your lips, baring your teeth. Your eyes widened as your pupils shrunk into tiny pins. The madness broke free.

You tore from your spot with such speed that the stones beneath your feet exploded into dust.

The first volley from crossbows and muskets ripped through the air. Several bullets tore into your body—striking your shoulder, your thigh, your flank. Yet you didn't even slow down. Your psychopathic trance entirely blocked out your pain receptors; to you, these wounds simply did not exist.

You vaulted up the ridge as if gravity held no power over you. The first mercenary didn't even have time to blink. You chose not to use your katana; instead, you slammed into him at full speed, seized him by the throat, and with monstrous, superhuman strength, smashed the back of his head into the cliffside.

A wet, sickening crunch of a fracturing skull echoed out. The bone shattered, spraying brain fluid and blood across the gray stone and your face. The man went limp, but you didn't let go. Squeezing your fingers tighter, you literally ripped out his adam's apple with your bare hands, flinging the bleeding chunk of meat into the crowd.

The true, unprecedented carnage began.

You transformed into a machine of pure destruction. Your laughter—wild, hoarse, and erratic—echoed through the gorge, blending with the screams of sheer terror.

Two men with swords rushed you from the flanks. Ducking underneath the first strike, you caught the attacker's arm and twisted it at an unnatural angle. With a loud snap, the bone tore through the skin, exposing itself. The man shrieked in agony, but you had already slashed your blade across his midsection, eviscerating his abdomen from hip to sternum. His entrails spilled like a waterfall onto the rocks, emanating a thick, foul smell of iron and waste.

You grabbed the second man by the jaw. Your fingers gouged directly into his eyes, ignoring his frantic, gurgling shrieks. Your thumbs pressed into his eyeballs until they ruptured with a sickening pop, while your remaining fingers crushed the thin bones of his skull. You tore his face apart with your bare hands, relishing the sensation of warm blood washing over your palms.

They shot at you, they hacked at you, but you were unstoppable. Your uniform became entirely saturated with blood—both yours and theirs. It clung heavily to your body, but you moved like a mechanism lubricated by gore.

One of the mercenaries attempted to flee. You hurled your blade—which had snapped in the heat of battle—directly into his back. The steel pierced clean through him, pinning him to the ground. Walking over to him, you brought your heavy boot down upon his spine. A loud, dry crack of snapping vertebrae followed, leaving the man coughing up blood, paralyzed from the neck down.

You dropped to your knees beside him. Your grin was wider than ever, your face completely masked in a red crust.

"You threatened her," you whispered into his ear in a crazed, cracking voice. You drove your fingers under his ribs from behind. "No one threatens my Shinobu."

With a snarl, you pulled backward, snapping his ribs one by one like dry twigs to get to his lungs. The man choked on his own blood, his eyes bulging out of their sockets from unimaginable pain before his heart finally stopped.

Shinobu did not stand idly by. She felt neither fear nor disgust while watching this meat grinder. On the contrary, her breathing quickened, and a deep flush covered her cheeks. The sight of you tearing people apart with your bare hands solely for her sake acted as a powerful aphrodisiac. It was an absolute, twisted, yet entirely genuine manifestation of devotion.

When the remnants of the mercenaries realized they were dealing not with a human but with an absolute demon in the flesh, they tried to retreat in a panic toward the gorge's exit. But Shinobu blocked their path.

"Where are you rushing off to?" her voice was pure honey. "The performance isn't over just yet."

"Insect Breathing. Dance of the Centipede: Hundred-Legged Zigzag!"

She blurred into the crowd. Her slender blade did not leave lethal, hacking wounds; it merely left light, almost imperceptible punctures on the necks and arms of the bandits.

But this was no ordinary wisteria poison. This was a new, experimental toxin developed by Shinobu specifically for humans—a necrotic poison.

Within seconds, those she had struck began collapsing to the ground. Their agonized screams drowned out even your manic laughter. The venom worked instantaneously, literally liquefying their muscle fibers and fascia. Their skin turned black and peeled away in chunks, exposing muscles that were rotting alive. They thrashed in violent convulsions, vomiting up their own blood and dissolved organs as the poison eroded their respiratory systems.

Shinobu landed gracefully in the center of the slaughter, not a single drop of blood tarnishing her white haori. She moved among the writhing, agonizing bodies like an angel of death, observing the results of her handiwork with a slight smile.

Your symbiosis was terrifying. You were the raw, tearing force that shattered bones and crushed skulls; she was the elegant, invisible death that reduced flesh to rotting sludge. You were perfect partners in this dance of demise.

Twenty minutes later, the gorge fell into a dead, ringing silence, broken only by the quiet trickling of blood pooling down the rocks.

Forty men had been obliterated. The clearing resembled a slaughterhouse. Severed limbs, disemboweled torsos, puddles of necrotic sludge, and crushed bones littered the ground. The stench was so foul that any normal person would have instantly lost consciousness.

You stood in the dead center of the bloody mess. Your madness began to slowly recede, the internal switch clicking back into its cold, rational mode. Your chest heaved heavily. Your body sustained no fewer than six bullet wounds and a dozen deep gashes, but you still stood perfectly upright.

You looked down at the syndicate leader—the very man who had dared to voice those insults. He was dead, his chest cavity torn open by your hands. Bending down, you plunged your hands into the hot, steaming flesh and ripped out his heart.

It was perfect. Large, and still warm.

You turned slowly toward Shinobu. She stood a few paces away, her purple eyes locked onto you. There was not a shred of judgment in them.

Walking over to her, you left a trail of bloody footprints behind you. Your arms, covered in a thick, sticky red substance up to your elbows, extended out to offer her the heart.

"The threat has been eliminated, Shinobu," your voice was raspy and emotionless, but the gesture held the entire essence of your twisted, psychopathic existence. This was your version of a bouquet of flowers; your version of a confession of love. "I saved the highest quality specimen for you."

Shinobu did not shrink back. She didn't reach for a jar of formalin. Instead, she stepped right up into your space. Her slender, clean hands wrapped around your blood-soaked palms, cupping the heart resting within them. The warm blood immediately stained her pale skin and soaked into the sleeves of her haori, but she couldn't have cared less.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, looking straight into your empty, dark eyes, where she saw her entire universe. "But not nearly as beautiful as you."

She leaned up. Her lips, soft and gentle, pressed against yours, which were smeared with the blood of your enemies. The kiss was long, deep, and laced with the metallic taste of death and absolute, maddening devotion. You returned the kiss, pulling her flush against your wounded body, staining her uniform, and blending your own blood with the blood of the fallen.

You stood atop a mountain of corpses, at the very epicenter of the carnage you had created, kissing as though you were standing in a garden of blooming flowers.

That morning, the sun shone especially bright, bathing the courtyard of the Butterfly Mansion in golden light. The reader stood by the carved gates, adjusting the straps of the uniform, when Shinobu Kocho approached. Her signature soft smile graced her pale face, but the depth of her violet eyes always held that familiar, quiet tenderness.

"Make sure your supply of ointment for cuts is full," Shinobu's voice purred like a clear stream. The delicate fingers of the Insect Hashira adjusted the collar of the uniform with a light, practiced gesture. "Even a weak demon can leave a nasty scratch if one is careless."

"Don't worry, Shinobu," the reader smiled radiantly, covering her cool palm with theirs. "The return will happen before that new experiment with aconite extract is even finished. Three days—maximum. There, back, and a few swings of the blade."

Shinobu laughed softly, her eyes curling into crescents. "Holding you to that promise. A delay means personally forcing a consumption of the bitterest tonic for prevention. Be careful, my love."

She leaned in, leaving a light, weightless kiss on the reader's lips, tasting of wisteria and morning freshness. The reader responded with tenderness, unaware that this taste would be the last bright memory for a very long time. The kasugai crow, Shizuku, cawed loudly, signaling it was time to move out. Turning around, the reader strode down the dusty road without looking back once, confident of a swift return to those warm embraces.

Three days passed. Shinobu did not worry. Delays on the road were common: a road washed out by rain, incorrect information from locals, a long search for a demon’s lair.

Five days passed. Everything at the Butterfly Mansion proceeded as usual, but Shinobu began looking up at the sky more often than usual, searching for the black wings of Shizuku. Her smile became slightly more strained, her movements in the laboratory sharper. A glass flask cracked in her hands when she squeezed it too tightly, lost in thought over why not a single report had arrived.

Exactly a week passed.

That night, Shinobu did not sleep. Sitting in her office, surrounded by books on medicine and demon anatomy, the lines blurred before her eyes. The silence pressed heavily against her eardrums. It was not the peaceful silence of peacetime, but a ringing, sticky silence of the unknown.

Suddenly, a bird flew through the open window with a frantic, hoarse cry. It was Shizuku. The crow collapsed onto the wooden table, knocking over an inkwell. One wing was unnaturally bent, black feathers matted with dried blood.

"Shizuku!" Shinobu instantly leaped up, her heart skipping a painful beat. She carefully gathered the wounded bird into her hands.

"CAW! BLOOD! A LOT OF BLOOD! CAW! [Y/N]! THE FOREST BY THE MOUNTAIN! CAW!" The crow thrashed hysterically, eyes filled with genuine avian terror, before losing consciousness from exhaustion.

The world around the Insect Hashira went dark for a second. The perfect, polite mask worn for years cracked and crumbled to ash. Shinobu’s face grew deathly pale, and a cold, primal horror flared in her violet eyes. Wasting no time on preparation, she grabbed her blade and a pouch of her most potent poisons, then vanished into the night. No reinforcements were requested. No notice was given to the Master. At that moment, only one goal existed—finding the reader.

The forest at the foot of the mountain welcomed Shinobu with an uninviting chill and a thick fog creeping across the ground. Moving through the thicket with frightening speed, her Insect Breathing allowed her to glide over tree roots, barely touching the earth.

But even her superhuman speed could not prepare her for the discovery.

The scent hit her nose a hundred meters before reaching the clearing. A sharp, nauseating, metallic smell of blood. A copper taste settled on her tongue. Shinobu burst into a wide clearing surrounded by ancient pines and froze. Her breath caught.

The ground in the clearing was practically plowed over. Broken trees, deep gouges from claws on stones. But the most terrifying part was the blood. It was everywhere. Huge, crimson pools already soaking into the soil and turning black, splatters on tree trunks reaching human height.

Slowly, on stiff legs, Shinobu stepped forward. Her gaze darted frantically across the clearing in search of a body. Anything.

Her boot struck something solid. Looking down, the reader's Nichirin blade lay in the mud. It was snapped in half, the edge covered in notches that testified to a brutal, desperate parrying of strikes far exceeding human strength. A short distance away, a torn, blood-soaked scrap of the uniform hung on a thorn bush.

But there was no body. Not a single fragment.

Shinobu dropped to her knees directly into the blood-soaked mud. Her trembling fingers reached for the fragment of the shattered sword. Pressing the cold, lifeless metal to her chest, a quiet, broken sound escaped her throat, resembling the whimper of a wounded beast.

Her brilliant, analytical mind, even in a state of profound shock, continued to function. That amount of blood meant only one thing—fatal, multiple wounds. And the absence of a body… Demons do not leave bodies behind when hunger takes over. They devour Slayers whole, leaving not even a bone. The reconnaissance had been wrong. This was no weak demon. It was a monster that staged an ambush.

"No… no, no, no," Shinobu whispered, shaking her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving clean tracks on her soiled face. "A promise was made. A promise to return."

The pain of loss felt as though it would tear her apart from the inside. It felt like Kanae's death all over again, but this time the pain was sharper, more unendurable. The person loved with all her scarred heart had been torn to pieces and consumed in this filthy, godforsaken forest.

But Shinobu Kocho was not one to simply die of grief. Where an ordinary person would break, the Insect Hashira forged a weapon out of pain.

The tears on her cheeks dried. Slowly rising to her feet, no trace of warmth or humanity remained in her violet eyes. An absolute, black, concentrated fury raged within them.

"An extraction will occur," she whispered into the empty forest, her voice colder than ice, addressing the unknown demon. "A simple execution will not suffice. Poison will be injected into those veins drop by drop. Rotting alive will follow. Begging for the sunrise will happen."

Pulling a small flask with a chemical reagent from her pouch, she sprayed it over a pool of blood, causing the demonic trail—invisible to the ordinary eye—to fluoresce faintly in the darkness. The hunt began.

Shinobu tracked the demon for three days. No sleep occurred, no food was consumed; her body moved solely on the strength of hatred and adrenaline. The trail was convoluted; the demon clearly attempted to hide its presence, going deep into impassable mountain gorges and avoiding inhabited areas.

With every step, Shinobu’s fury became colder and more calculating. She mentally reviewed all her poisons, combining them to create a cocktail that would cause the creature maximum agony without killing it immediately. The desire was for the demon to feel its insides dissolve. Vengeance was required for every drop of blood spilled in that clearing.

Finally, on the fourth night, the trail led to an abandoned, dilapidated Shinto shrine hidden in a cliff cleft. The place was saturated with a dark, heavy demonic aura.

Shinobu landed noiselessly on the roof of the shrine, like a weightless butterfly. She listened. From within came a quiet, scratching sound, like claws scraping stone, and heavy, ragged breathing.

Leaping down, she unsheathed her thin blade. Her face wore that very same terrifying smile that foreshadowed death.

"Knock, knock," she sang in her deceptively gentle voice, entering the dark interior of the shrine. "Is anyone home? Hiding from a Hashira is a bad idea. It only delays the inevitable."

In the far corner, in pitch darkness, a figure shifted. The demon sat curled up, hugging its knees. The creature did not attack. It only let out a low, guttural growl full of pain and warning.

But Shinobu was deaf to warnings. Peer into the darkness she did not. Her fury demanded immediate release.

"Insect Breathing. Dance of the Bee Sting: True Flutter!"

She lunged forward, blurring into a violet streak. Her blade was aimed away from the neck—pain was desired, not a quick death. The target was the shoulder, intending to inject the first dose of paralyzing poison.

The demon in the corner jerked with incredible speed, attempting to evade. The reaction was astonishing, but Shinobu was a Hashira. Her blade drove deep into the demon's flesh, piercing the collarbone.

The violet poison instantly surged through the creature's veins.

"Aaaah!" A non-human, piercing cry of agony ripped from the demon's throat. The creature recoiled, tearing the blade from its body, and collapsed onto the stone floor, writhing in pain while clutching the wounded shoulder.

Shinobu landed gracefully a few meters away, slowly turning her blade to flick off the blood.

"Oh, this is only the beginning, vile creature," she whispered, her smile turning predatory. "A person dearer than life itself was devoured. And now…"

She stepped forward. At that exact moment, the moon, previously hidden behind heavy clouds, finally peeked out, and its cold, silvery light broke through a gap in the ruined roof, falling directly onto the writhing demon on the floor.

The words froze in Shinobu's throat.

The blade, poised for the next strike, faltered.

The demon lying on the floor slowly raised its head, breathing heavily. Across its face, distorted by pain, black, pulsing demonic veins branch out. The skin was pale as chalk, and elongated, sharp fangs protruded from the mouth. But through this monstrous transformation, through the mask of a monster, familiar features stared back at Shinobu.

The same hair. The same facial structure. And, most terrifyingly, those eyes. They had changed color, becoming predatory with a vertical slit pupil, but their depth, their shape… Shinobu knew this face better than her own. This face had been kissed a thousand times.

It was the reader.

Death had not occurred. Consumption had not happened. Turning had taken place. The monstrous amount of blood in the clearing was the result of a transformation, a struggle against demonic blood tearing through human cells. Muzan or one of the Upper Ranks had decided not to kill, but to transform the reader into a slave.

The blade slipped from the weakened fingers of the Insect Hashira with a quiet clang, hitting the stone floor.

"[Y/N]…" Shinobu's voice was so quiet it could barely be heard. It was the sound of a shattering soul.

The world that had just been held together by absolute hatred collapsed into nothingness. The person for whose vengeance she had come was now writhing in pain before her. And this pain had been inflicted by her own hands. The wisteria poison, lethal to demons, was now circulating in those veins, burning from within.

"Shi… nobu…" the reader rasped. The voice was distorted, carrying demonic undertones, but it was still them. They looked at her through a veil of agony, clawed hands desperately scratching the stone floor.

Horror, the realization of the mistake, and boundless, crushing love clashed in Shinobu's chest, robbing her of the ability to breathe. A Slayer's duty is to destroy demons. But before her stood the reader.

She rushed forward, dropping to her knees directly onto the cold stone, completely forgetting the danger now posed. No monster was seen; only her wounded love.

Frantically tearing the pouch from her belt, her shaking hands pulled out ampoules.

"Hold on, please forgive me, forgive me!" Shinobu wept, her polite mask and coldness vanishing without a trace. She was just a terrified woman. "A non-lethal dose was injected… it is a paralyzing poison, it won't kill immediately, right now… an antidote will be given…"

A flinch occurred when she tried to touch the body. The demonic blood boiled inside, demanding to tear apart the fragile human in front, sink fangs into flesh, and satisfy the swelling, maddening hunger. The body instinctively reacted to proximity as a predator reacts to prey.

But the part of the human soul that loved Shinobu Kocho more than life itself still resisted. Claws dug into thighs, tearing flesh so that the pain would distract from the bloodlust.

"Don't… come near…" a growl erupted, eyes flashing alternately between a fierce demonic red and their natural color. Tears—bloody demonic tears—flowed down cheeks. "The desire is to kill. Control… cannot be maintained."

Shinobu froze. The struggle was visible. The monster inside was trying to take over, while desperate attempts were being made to protect her from themselves.

"Shinobu…" the voice broke into a painful sob. "Please. An execution is needed. The sword… is broken. Use yours. Sever the head. Begging you… before harm is caused. Remaining like… this is not desired."

The words struck harder than any physical blow. To execute? To complete with her own hands what the monster who turned the reader had started? To destroy the only person who made her scarred heart beat?

Absolutely out of the question.

"No," Shinobu stated firmly through her tears, a steel resolve sounding in her voice.

The antidote ampoule was cast aside. An antidote would only remove the pain from the poison, returning strength, and then the demonic hunger might win. Instead, another syringe was retrieved. A powerful sedative mixed with wisteria extract, capable of plunging a demon into a deep, comatose hibernation, suppressing the thirst for blood.

An attempt to pull away occurred, accompanied by growls sensing a threat, but Shinobu was incredibly fast. The blade was not used. Throwing herself forward, her fragile arms wrapped around the thrashing body, pressing it tightly to her chest, ignoring the claws that panicked and tore her haori, leaving deep scratches on her back.

The needle was driven directly into the neck, depressing the plunger.

"An execution will never happen, [Y/N]," she whispered into an ear as the drug began to take effect and the resistance grew weaker. Her tears dripped onto hair distorted by the transformation. "Hear me? Loss will not occur. Not again."

The breathing began to level out. The demonic fire in the eyes slowly faded, yielding to the emptiness of a medicated sleep. The body went limp in her arms, head falling heavily onto her shoulder.

Shinobu held the unresisting, cold form tightly to herself, sitting on the floor of the ruined shrine. Darkness reigned around them, but a new, unshakeable plan was forming within.

Demons were hated. They were despised with her entire being. But for the sake of the reader, defiance would be shown not only to Muzan, but to the entire Demon Slayer Corps.

"A monster will not remain," a quiet vow was made, gently caressing a cheek, carefully avoiding protruding fangs. "Tanjiro proved it is possible. Nezuko is living proof. A brilliant pharmacist is here. This world will be turned upside down, every rule will be broken, but a cure will be found."

Pulling off her torn white haori with its butterfly pattern—the symbol of her status and duty—she carefully wrapped it around the body, shielding it from the cold wind.

"A return will be brought, my love," Shinobu whispered into the night silence, lifting the reader into her arms. Her fragile frame strained under the weight, but her resolve was harder than steel. "Whatever the cost."

Your beauty was not quiet or modest. It was scorching. The uniform fit you as though it had been custom-tailored by the capital's finest artisans, accentuating every curve of your perfect, trained body. Your movements were filled with the natural, fluid grace of a predator, and playful, dangerous sparks always danced in your eyes. Whenever you walked into a room, conversations died down, and the gazes of everyone present—from young swordsmen to experienced Kakushi—were involuntarily locked onto you.

But your main feature wasn't even your appearance. It was your charisma. You were a flirt by nature. For you, flirting wasn't a way to achieve a goal, but rather a default setting of your organism, a reflex as natural as breathing. If someone paid you a compliment, you didn't blush or avert your eyes. You would smile radiantly, tilt your head to the side, and answer in a way that made the other person's knees instantly buckle. You unconsciously played with your intonations, casual touches, and fleeting glances. You did it on autopilot.

And the most intriguing part was that you were in a serious, deep relationship with Shinobu Kocho—the Insect Hashira.

For a long time, this didn't bother Shinobu in the slightest. Being an incredibly intelligent, calculating, and self-assured woman, she viewed the collective drooling in your direction with a light, condescending smirk.

She even enjoyed it. When yet another naive slayer flushed crimson upon receiving a playful smile from you, Shinobu, standing nearby, would merely hide her lips elegantly behind the sleeve of her haori. She reveled in this feeling of absolute supremacy. She knew a secret hidden from them all. She knew that no matter how hot your smiles were for those around you, your whimpers, your devotion, and your heart belonged unreservedly to her alone. In the evenings, when the heavy doors of her private quarters closed, this incredibly gorgeous girl, desired by everyone, would drop to her knees before her, submissively offering her neck for kisses.

Shinobu knew that you understood perfectly well who you belonged to. Your flirting was just a shiny wrapper, a defense mechanism, or simply a bad habit with absolutely no emotional weight behind it.

That was how it used to be. But lately, something had changed.

Perhaps the arrival of spring was to blame, awakening boldness in people, or maybe it was the string of incredibly successful yet exhausting joint missions, after which adrenaline still boiled in the blood. But over the past few weeks, your unconscious flirting crossed all imaginable boundaries, reaching the proportions of a veritable epidemic.

And Shinobu, whose composure had always been the envy of the other Hashira, began to feel something she hadn't experienced in a very long time. A burning, dark, poisonous jealousy.

The first warning bell rang in the courtyard of the Butterfly Mansion. Shinobu was sitting on the veranda filling out reports when she heard a crash. A young Kakushi, getting distracted by the sight of you wiping sweat from your forehead after a sparring match, had tripped and dropped a whole pile of clean bandages and medicines.

The boy turned pale with horror, stammering apologies, but you only let out a low, velvety laugh. You gracefully dropped to one knee beside him, helping to gather the scattered bandages.

"Careful there, cutie," you purred, and your voice was thick like honey. You looked up, locking eyes with his frightened gaze, and your lips curved into an incredibly seductive smile. You handed him the last roll of bandages, and your fingers casually yet very tangibly slid across his palm. "It would be a shame if you broke that sweet face of yours by looking in the wrong direction. Or… can I assume you fell at my feet on purpose?"

The Kakushi turned crimson. He let out an inarticulate squeak, grabbed the bandages, and practically bolted from the crime scene, nearly colliding with a tree. You merely watched him go with a laughing gaze, tossing your gorgeous hair back.

A sharp snap echoed on the veranda. Shinobu Kocho had just broken the thick bamboo calligraphy brush she was holding clean in half. Her perfect, signature smile remained on her face, but a thin blue vein throbbed noticeably on her temple.

"It's just her habit, Shinobu," she commanded herself mentally, taking a deep, steady breath and casting the broken brush aside. "She doesn't mean anything by it. Calm down."

But that incident was only the beginning. Your subconscious seemed to have decided to test the Insect Hashira's patience to its breaking point.

A few days later, in a town at the foot of the mountain where you had gone to fetch rare herbs, the shopkeeper—a sturdy, middle-aged man—gave you a discount. In response, you leaned your elbows on the counter, leaned forward to show off the low neckline of your uniform, and, looking at him from under long eyelashes, said languidly, "You are so generous with me. You know, it's very hard to say no to men who know how to give such pleasant surprises… no matter what it is."

The shopkeeper froze, his eyes glazing over as a deep blush spread across his cheeks. He handed you the herbs completely free of charge, smiling foolishly. Shinobu, standing two steps away from you, felt her blood begin to boil. Her hand reflexively twitched toward the hilt of her katana. It took all of her colossal willpower not to inject this merchant with a lethal dose of paralyzing poison right then and there.

You, having taken the herbs, turned happily to Shinobu, completely oblivious to the murderous aura emanating from your girlfriend. "See? I saved us a bunch of money!" you chirped cheerfully.

"Yes. What… spectacular savings," Shinobu hissed through tightly clenched teeth, her smile resembling the glare of a snake before striking.

The cup of Shinobu's patience finally overflowed during a celebratory dinner.

The Corps was celebrating the successful completion of a major joint operation. Dozens of slayers had gathered in the spacious hall of one of the estates. The tables groaned under the weight of food, and sake flowed like water. Noise, laughter, and loud conversations filled the space.

You sat at the center of attention. As always.

You wore a light yukata that slightly bared your shoulder. Your eyes gleamed from the sake you had drunk, and a soft, seductive flush dusted your cheeks. A crowd of young slayers had gathered around you, catching your every word, your every smile.

Shinobu sat at the opposite end of the table, talking with Mitsuri and Iguro. Outwardly, she seemed completely calm. She elegantly sipped her tea, maintained small talk, and smiled. But her violet eyes, cold and calculating, never left you for a single second.

She watched. She saw you throw your head back, exposing your slender neck, and laugh loudly and throatily at some young swordsman's joke. She saw this same swordsman, emboldened by your laughter, move closer and reach out to refill your cup.

"Oh, you're so attentive," your voice, amplified by the alcohol, sounded indecently languid and loud.

Your hand—your cursed hand, completely uncontrolled by your subconscious—naturally came to rest on his biceps. You lightly squeezed his muscle, leaning in so close to the boy that your shoulders brushed.

"And so strong. I bet you could lift me with one hand, hmm?" you winked at him playfully, your lips hazardously close to his ear.

The boy flushed to the very roots of his hair. His eyes widened, his breathing quickening. He had already opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly foolish and presumptuous when the temperature in the hall suddenly plummeted by several degrees.

Mitsuri, sitting next to Shinobu, suddenly shivered and fell into a frightened silence. Iguro tensed, his snake hissing.

Shinobu rose from the table. Her movements were smooth, leisurely, and graceful, like a venomous butterfly spreading its wings. But within this smoothness lurked a deadly threat. Silence began to ripple outward from her like waves on water. Noticing the aura of the Insect Hashira, the slayers fell quiet one after another.

You, still engrossed in your game, noticed nothing until a slender, icy hand came to rest on your bare shoulder.

The thin fingers dug into your skin with force, nearly bruising you. The scent of wisteria and antiseptics instantly displaced the aroma of sake.

"[Y/N]-san," Shinobu's voice was soft, melodic, sweet. Too sweet. This tone sent goosebumps running down the spines of everyone present. "What a fascinating conversation. I hope I'm not interrupting anything important?"

You turned around, and your playful smile faded slightly when you met her gaze. In the violet depths of her eyes, there was none of her usual mockery. A dark, primal, possessive storm was raging there.

The young slayer whose biceps you were still touching turned as pale as a sheet. He felt Shinobu's gaze on him—a gaze that promised a long, agonizing death from asphyxiation.

"K-Kocho-sama! No, not at all, we were just…" the boy began to stammer.

"If you value your hand," Shinobu did not raise her voice by even half a tone, but her words sounded like a sentence, "I highly recommend you move away. Right now. Before I decide to test my new aconite extract on you."

The boy practically vanished from his seat. He leapt back so sharply that he knocked over his cup, and without looking back, bolted to the far end of the hall. The crowd around you instantly parted, creating a wide, empty buffer zone. Nobody wanted to stand in the way of an infuriated Hashira.

You blinked, still not entirely understanding what had happened. The alcohol had slightly clouded your mind. "Shinobu? Did something happen? Why are you…"

Her fingers slid from your shoulder and clamped onto your wrist in a steel grip that made you gasp quietly.

"We are leaving," she hissed through that very same perfect smile, which breathed a freezing frost. "You are clearly far too tired. You need rest. In my quarters. Immediately."

She didn't wait for your consent. She turned sharply and pulled you along. You had no choice but to submissively follow her, feeling the dumbfounded stares of the entire Corps on you. In her steps, in the rigid way she held your hand, there was such a raw, angry energy that the remnants of the alcohol evaporated from your head instantly.

The walk back to the Butterfly Mansion took place in absolute, ringing silence. Shinobu didn't utter a single word. She walked fast, her haori fluttering behind her back. You tried to speak several times, to ask what you had done wrong, but each time the words caught in your throat under the weight of her murderous aura.

The moment you stepped over the threshold of her private quarters, the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind you with a crash. The lock clicked, cutting you off from the rest of the world.

Before you could even open your mouth, Shinobu spun around. Her hand, still gripping your wrist, jerked you toward her. With a strength that was terrifying for her fragile build, she shoved your back against the wall. The wooden panels creaked dully.

Her other hand instantly came to rest on your neck, her fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your yukata, scorching your skin with cold. She wasn't choking you, but her grip was tight, dominant, and uncompromising.

The mask of politeness and impenetrable composure flew off her face, shattering into pieces. Her eyes blazed. She stood so close that you could feel her heavy, ragged breath on your lips.

"Shinobu…" you whispered, your heart hammering like crazy. You had never seen her like this before. And to your own horror and shame, this fierce, possessive energy caused a sweet ache to coil deep in your lower stomach. "What has come over you?"

"What has come over me?" her voice broke into a dangerous, venomous whisper. She stepped even closer, pressing her body against yours. She pinned your wrist to the wall above your head. "Have you forgotten who you belong to, [Y/N]? Has your memory become as short as your yukata?"

"I… I didn't do anything! I was just talking!" you tried to defend yourself, but your voice trembled. The sensation of her body pressed tightly against yours robbed you of the ability to think logically.

"Talking?" Shinobu let out a bitter, dry chuckle. Her fingers on your neck squeezed a fraction tighter, forcing your lips to part as you let out a shaky breath. "You let every pathetic insect in this Corps drool all over you! You smile at them the way you should only smile at me! You touch them, you entice them, you give yourself away left and right like a cheap treat!"

"That's not true!" you threw your head back indignantly, finally grasping the reason behind her breakdown. "Shinobu, you know me! I do it unconsciously! I don't even notice it! It's just a habit, empty banter, it doesn't mean anything! I only love you!"

"I know you love me!" Shinobu almost roared, and this admission, tearing from her lips with such wild passion, made you freeze. Her eyes filled with burning tears, which she angrily blinked away. "That's the whole problem, [Y/N]! I know your heart is mine. I know you are faithful to me. But I can no longer watch you gift them your beauty."

She leaned in, her face a millimeter from yours. The scent of wisteria now mingled with the smell of danger and primal, feminine jealousy.

"It nauseates me to see how they look at you," she whispered directly against your lips, every word soaked in pain and possessiveness. "It drives me insane to think that they believe they have even a ghost of a chance. You drive me mad, [Y/N]. Your laughter, your touches on others… it poisons me worse than any demon's venom. I want to gouge out the eyes of anyone who holds their gaze on you longer than they should."

You stared into her blazing eyes, and it finally clicked. Your carelessness, your foolish, unconscious habit of flirting was hurting her. This brilliant, strong, proud woman, who could kill demons with a smile, was now standing before you, burning up with jealousy over your silly smiles.

A sense of deep guilt mingled with an absolutely wild, uncontrollable arousal. The way she pinned you to the wall, the dominant way she held your neck, claiming her right to you… It was unbearably hot.

You relaxed your muscles, ceasing even the slightest attempts to break free. Your gaze softened. You looked at her with absolute submission and boundless adoration.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice turning deep and husky with desire. You turned your head slightly to rub your cheek against her cool palm resting on your neck. "I was such an idiot. I didn't realize I was hurting you. I am so sorry, my butterfly."

Shinobu was breathing heavily. Your submissiveness, your genuine remorse began to extinguish her anger, but the fire of jealousy and arousal only flared up with renewed strength.

"Apologies are not enough," she hissed, her gaze dropping to your half-parted, wet lips.

"Then punish me," you breathed out, looking boldly into her eyes. "Show me who I belong to. Make it so that I never, for a single second, forget it. Show it to everyone, Shinobu."

Her eyes darkened to near black. In that same second, her lips crashed onto yours in a wild, desperate, ravenous kiss. There was none of her usual tenderness or precision in it. It was the kiss of a predator claiming its prey. She kissed you hard, dominantly, her tongue invading so deeply as if she wanted to drink your very soul.

You let out a quiet moan, releasing all your inhibitions. Your free hand immediately wrapped around her waist, pulling her fragile body even tighter against yours. You answered the kiss with the same primal passion, giving her all of yourself, validating her every right of ownership over you.

Shinobu pulled away from your lips, panting. Her teeth immediately bit into the soft skin of your neck. You let out a loud gasp, throwing your head back and bumping the back of your head against the wall. She bit hard, almost to the point of drawing blood, leaving dark, crimson-tinted marks on your perfect, smooth skin.

Methodically, ruthlessly, and incredibly excitingly, she covered your neck and collarbones with bites and hickeys. She was branding you. She was leaving her marks on you, marks that no uniform collar could hide.

"Let them look now," Shinobu whispered hoarsely, her hot breath scorching your skin, which pulsed with pain and pleasure. She licked away a drop of blood from the site of a particularly hard bite. "Let everyone in this Corps see that you are mine. And if you so much as smile at someone the way you smile at me ever again, I will lock you in this room, tie you to the bed, and not allow you to see anyone but me for the rest of your days. Do I make myself clear?"

You trembled, a wave of absolute, mind-blowing ecstasy rushing down your spine at this promise. Your hands slid up her back, crumpling the silk of her clothes.

"Perfectly clear, mistress," you groaned, looking at her with eyes clouded by passion. "Only yours. Forever."

Shinobu let out a satisfied, almost predatory smirk. Her eyes shone with triumph once more, but this time it was backed by wild desire. She sharply hooked her hands under your thighs, forcing you to wrap your legs around her waist, and carried you toward the futon.

That night, there was no room for gentleness or long foreplay. That night, the Insect Hashira proved her absolute supremacy, burning any thoughts of others out of you, erasing your unconscious flirting in cries of pleasure and sweet pain.