Chapter Text
For the next three days, Shinobu’s condition showed little improvement. Her fever lingered stubbornly, her head burning as if the Sun itself had lodged behind her eyes. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Normally, a Bukuryo herb mixture would ease a fever within a day or two—but this time, it took nearly four before her temperature finally began to settle. Even her own body refused to follow the rules she had written for it.
Those days blurred together into the most exhausting monotony she had ever known. Despite the war being over, she still woke before dawn every morning, her body obeying habits carved into her by years of bloodshed. There was no crow’s call, no urgency—only the quiet reminder that she no longer had a reason to rise so early. And yet, she couldn’t stop.
She needed Kanao’s help for everything. To eat. To sit. To be carried to the bathroom. The triplets took turns watching over her, hovering quietly nearby in case she needed anything she could not reach for herself. As more patients were discharged from the Butterfly Estate, Aoi and Kanao spent longer hours at her side, gently massaging her aching limbs, soaking her feet in warm water, tending to her with a patience that felt undeserved.
The sickness itself was tolerable. What crushed her was the stillness—the helpless waiting.
Shinobu had always chosen solitude. As a Hashira, she wielded it like a blade—stepping away when she wished, burying herself in research, controlling every distance she kept. Now, solitude was forced upon her, heavy and suffocating, and she lacked the strength to escape it.
Her body disobeyed her. Her will meant nothing.
The realization hollowed her out. Being unable to command herself—to stand, to move, to endure—felt worse than dying ever had.
-----------------
When Shinobu opened her eyes on the fourth day, sunlight had already claimed the room, slipping through the wooden window in quiet golden bands.
For a long moment, she simply stared.
She had slept through dawn.
That realization alone sent a strange ripple through her chest—something between disbelief and relief. It had been years since her body had allowed her that kind of rest.
She lifted her hand, touching her forehead cautiously. The fever had broken. The unbearable heat was gone, leaving behind only a faint warmth that no longer felt threatening.
As she turned her head, her gaze instinctively searched for the familiar small figures of the triplets.
Instead, she found Kanao sitting beside her.
The sight loosened something inside her. Shinobu smiled, soft and unguarded.
“Good morning, Kanao,” she said quietly. “How are you?”
Kanao didn’t answer at once.
She leaned in, placing her hand against Shinobu’s forehead, eyes focused with careful concentration. Only after confirming the drop in temperature did she allow herself to relax.
“I’m alright,” Kanao said, smiling now. “And you’re better.” She paused, then added firmly, “But please—stay lying down.”
She stood. “I’ll get Aoi. She needs to give you a report.”
“Alright,” Shinobu said quietly, dipping her head in agreement.
The wait was short.
Soon, the shoji door slid open, letting in soft light along with Aoi and Kanao. Aoi entered with purpose, holding a report paper and several unfamiliar pieces of medical equipment. Kanao followed, silent as always, carrying a stack of books held carefully against her chest.
They settled beside Shinobu’s futon, close enough that she could feel their presence without needing to look. The room fell still for a moment.
Then Aoi spoke.
Aoi lowered the report slightly, her gaze steady but somber.
“You were lucky, Shinobu,” she said quietly. “Douma didn’t damage your nervous system—only because Mitsuri intervened when she did.”
She drew in a slow breath.
“If she had arrived even a second late…” Aoi hesitated, then forced herself to continue. “You would’ve needed years of rehabilitation. There was a significant chance you’d never regain full mobility. You might have been confined to the futon.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Shinobu stared at the ceiling, the words echoing inside her skull.
A second.
That was all that had separated her from a life without movement. Without work. Without choice.
Her throat tightened as the realization sank in. Death she had prepared for. Pain, she understood. But this—this half-life, trapped in her own body—was something she had never accounted for.
Her fingers dug into the blankets, grounding herself.
“…So that’s how close it was,” she whispered.
She closed her eyes, the image of Mitsuri—bloodied, trembling, refusing to let go—rising unbidden in her mind.
For the first time, gratitude felt frighteningly close to guilt.
Aoi’s voice faded into the background.
All Shinobu could think of was Mitsuri.
The warmth she had felt before losing consciousness suddenly made sense—the arms around her, the soft pink blur, the strength holding her together when her own body had already given up.
Mitsuri had seen her breaking.
And instead of letting her go, she had run toward her.
The realization hit harder than fear ever had. Mitsuri hadn’t saved her out of duty. Or strategy. Or obligation.
She had saved her because she loved her.
Shinobu’s chest tightened painfully. Her fingers trembled against the blanket as guilt seeped in, slow and merciless. She had planned to die. Planned to leave Mitsuri behind with nothing but grief and an uncertain promise of a next life.
And yet Mitsuri had still chosen her.
“…You’re cruel,” Shinobu thought weakly, the words forming silently. “Saving someone who doesn’t know how to live.”
Before she can fully comprehend that information
Aoi continued, her tone firm but careful.
“Please don’t try to stand up yet,” she said. “You still need to rest. For now, just do light exercises—ankle pumps, knee lifts. Nothing more. Don’t even think about standing until your body is ready.”
Shinobu nodded in understanding, her expression calm.
Only because she forced it to be.
Aoi then handed her the report. “These are your blood results from the past four days,” she continued. “The concentration of wisteria poison in your system is still quite high—around ten kilograms’ worth.”
Ten.
The number registered instantly.
Shinobu’s mind moved faster than her body ever could. Thirty-seven kilograms, she thought. That was the amount I calculated. The threshold that would kill an Upper Moon instantly.
Tamayo’s modifications had slowed the poison absorption inside her body. Reduced collateral damage. Enough to keep her alive—but not enough to make her immune.
So even ten kilograms was still poisoning her. Ten kilograms was what remained because Douma never finished absorbing her.
“You’ll need to continue taking Bukuryo and additional medicines for a few more days,” Aoi added. “We can’t rush this.”
Shinobu nodded again, slower this time.
Her body still burned—but not nearly as much as the guilt settling in her chest.
After taking back the report, Aoi reach out for the equipment and handed it to the Insect Hashira.
“I think you know what this is,” Aoi said, handing the device over. “A portable dry spirometer. We have a lot of them in our inventory.”
She continued, voice calm. “Your breathing has been shorter than usual these past three days. This is just to make sure everything’s okay. Kanao will collect the data for us over the next few days.”
Shinobu took it—and froze.
The weight. The shape. The familiarity struck all at once.
She had used this exact tool during the war years, standing over bloodied futons, issuing calm instructions while others fought to breathe. Back then, she had never questioned it. She had been the doctor. The one in control.
Somehow, she had forgotten that familiarity—until now.
Until she was the patient.
“…Okay,” Shinobu said softly, giving a slow nod.
The word carried something fragile beneath it—acceptance, and the quiet ache of remembering who she used to be.
“The Kamaboko squad is here,” Aoi said, already rising to her feet. “I need to take care of them now.”
Shinobu smiled faintly, her voice weak but warm. “Please send them my regards. And… tell Inosuke and Zenitsu not to fight each other.” She let out a small, breathless laugh.
Aoi smiled back. “I will.”
After handing the spirometer to Kanao, Aoi slipped out of the room, the shoji door closing softly behind her. The quiet that followed felt heavier than before.
Kanao reached for the stack of books beside her and brought them closer to the futon.
“These are the books I mentioned the other day,” she said. “Two books… and one diary. They were from Kanae’s room.”
She laid them out carefully where Shinobu could see.
“The one on the left is the cookbook.”
Shinobu’s gaze drifted toward it.
The cover was pale—washed greens fading into soft blues—washi paper worn thin with age. The surface bore faint traces of mica, catching the light just enough to shimmer when she shifted her head. The binding was traditional fukurotoji, the folded pages stitched neatly along the spine, the thread slightly darkened by time.
It was unmistakably old. And unmistakably Kanae.
Her chest tightened.
Kanae had loved books like these—had insisted on keeping the traditional bindings, even when newer editions were available. Said they felt warmer. Kinder. More alive.
Shinobu swallowed.
She had never opened Kanae’s drawers. During the war, there had been room only for poisons, calculations, and death—never for a cookbook or diary.
She had never expected to live long enough to need memories.
Now they lay before her, fragile and real.
Kanae planned to come back, Shinobu thought distantly. To cook. To live.
And Shinobu had planned to die.
Shinobu remained motionless, her thoughts still tangled in the past, when Kanao gently continued.
“The one in the middle is a medical notes book,” she explained. “There are a lot of herb names, treatment methods, and procedures for caring for patients. You can read it when you’re stronger.”
Shinobu felt her breath hitch.
Medical notes—written not for battle, not for vengeance, but for healing. For people who would live long enough to need care.
The realization settled heavily in her chest.
“…I will,” Shinobu whispered at last.
“And the final one,” Kanao said quietly, “on the right… is her diary.”
She drew a careful breath. “It’s a ren’yō nikki” Her fingers tightened slightly. “I don’t know what’s written inside. I never read it. But I thought—maybe one day, you would want to.”
Her gaze softened. “I know memories hurt. Sometimes just seeing them is enough to reopen old wounds. So please, don’t rush.” She looked directly at Shinobu. “You once taught me how to face my origins—how to confront the truth of growing up in an abusive family. I’m only here because you believed I could survive that. I believe you can survive this.”
Shinobu turned her eyes to the diary.
It was thicker than she expected, heavy with years. The yellow cover had faded unevenly, the washi beneath worn smooth by time. Its watoji binding remained intact, silk thread still firm despite age.
A multi-year diary.
Kanae hadn’t written this for closure. She had written it believing there would be more tomorrows.
The diary was thick, its spine slightly bowed from years of use. The yellow cover had faded unevenly, the washi paper beneath softened by age. The binding was careful and traditional, silk thread still holding the folded pages together. The title stared back at her.
Our Diary.
Shinobu felt something in her chest give way.
Her gaze lingered on the diary, then drifted away, as if looking at it for too long might unravel something she had spent years stitching shut. Our Diary. The words felt unbearably intimate—too forward for something she had never believed she would survive long enough to read.
She thought instead of the nights spent hunting demons. Of endless trails of blood and ice, of names etched into memory only long enough to be crossed out. Each mission had been a step toward Douma. Every wound, every sleepless night, every refinement of poison had pointed in the same direction.
Vengeance had given her clarity.
It had stripped the world down to something simple: hunt, kill and endure.
There had been no room for diaries then. No space for reflection. Only the next target, the next calculation, the certainty that if she kept moving forward, the pain would not have time to catch her.
And now Douma was dead.
The end she had honed herself toward was taken from her—claimed by Suri’s stubborn love, freely given to someone who was never certain she deserved—leaving her alive when she had never planned to be.
For something far more frightening than any demon.
A life.
“You should rest,” Kanao said softly. “Your eyes are half-open.”
Shinobu blinked, her thoughts scattering. “Ah… I’m sorry,” she said, her voice faint.
Kanao stepped closer and set the books down carefully. “I’ll leave them on your table,” she said. “You can look at them whenever you’re ready.”
Her voice lowered. “You’ll need to stay in your room a little longer. Even without the fever, your body is still fragile.”
“…Alright.”
Kanao remained there, kneeling quietly at her side. She watched until Shinobu’s breathing evened out, until her eyelids finally stayed closed. The sleep that followed was light, unsettled, and tinged with emptiness—but Shinobu no longer fought it.
She rested, not because she forced herself to, but because she allowed herself to.
--------------------------------
The fifth and sixth day passed with oppressive sameness like the previous five. Shinobu’s life shrank to a narrow loop of sleeping, waking, and being fed—always okayu or plain porridge, always warm, always tasteless. Between meals came examinations, murmured notes, and the careful pressure of Kanao’s hands working circulation back into feet that still felt like they belonged to someone else.
Sometimes Aoi joined them, her presence brisk and efficient, never allowing Shinobu to forget that recovery was a process—not something that could be bullied into submission.
She overheard Inosuke and Zenitsu arguing loudly in the hallway more than once, demanding to see her. Aoi shut that down immediately. Shinobu suspected it was less about her health and more about preserving the estate’s structural integrity.
On the sixth day, she was… better. Not well—but better. She spent more hours awake than asleep now, her thoughts lingering longer in the present instead of slipping immediately into dreams. Boredom, unfamiliar and unwelcome, crept in.
That boredom eventually drove her to Kanae’s books.
She told herself it wasn’t something sentimental. She just needed something, anything to occupy her mind. And if she was being honest, she wanted to test her body.
Standing hurt. But it worked.
Walking did not.
Her feet remained numb, useless beyond bearing weight for a moment or two. So, she dragged herself instead, scraping her heels softly against the tatami as she moved between the futon and the table.
Undignified.
Effective.
She chose the least dangerous option first on the afternoon: the cookbook, then the medical notes. Familiar territory. Safe ground.
She wasn’t ready for anything else.
Not yet.
The medical notes were thinner than the diary, but denser pages filled edge to edge with careful observations and measured handwriting. Shinobu opened the cover slowly.
The scent reached her first.
Old paper, faintly sweet, tinged with dried herbs. The pages were softer than modern prints, worn thin by repeated handling. Kanae’s handwriting flowed across them in neat, rounded strokes—less sharp than Shinobu’s own, gentler somehow, as though the words themselves had been written with patience rather than urgency.
Shiso (Perilla) appeared early in the notes.
Useful not only for flavor, Kanae had written, but for protection. Green shiso was recommended for meals served to patients with weakened immune systems—its antimicrobial properties subtle but reliable. Red shiso followed, noted for its antioxidants and its ability to restore appetite and color, both in food and in people who had lost too much blood.
Shinobu paused.
Kanae had always thought about food and medicine as the same thing.
Yomogi (Japanese Mugwort) filled nearly a full page. Kanae described its use in baths to stimulate circulation, in teas to ease menstrual pain and fatigue, and in moxibustion to draw warmth back into aching joints. There were small annotations in the margins—use sparingly for those with fever; excellent for chronic exhaustion.
Shinobu swallowed.
Chronic exhaustion.
Dokudami (Fish Mint) was labeled affectionately as the ten-medicine plant. Kanae had listed its detoxifying properties with enthusiasm, noting its effectiveness when brewed into tea for patients recovering from prolonged poisoning or inflammation. A smaller note followed: strong smell—warn patients first.
Shinobu almost smiled.
Ginger (Shōga) came next, familiar and grounding. Kanae’s notes emphasized its warming nature, its ability to stimulate digestion and strengthen resistance against colds. She’d even added suggestions for pairing it with rice or broth to make medicine feel less like punishment.
And finally—
Kikyō (Balloon Flower Root).
Kanae’s handwriting slowed here, strokes more deliberate. The root was praised for respiratory health, for soothing coughs and clearing congestion. She’d included preparation methods, dosage cautions, and a note on its bitterness.
Some medicines don’t taste kind, Kanae had written. But they let people breathe again.
Shinobu closed the book.
She knew all of this already. Every principle, every method, every quiet assumption woven into the pages—none of it was new to her. She had taught the same ideas, spoken the same truths to Kanao and Aoi, written her own notes with steady hands and practiced certainty.
And yet—
It felt unfamiliar in her grasp.
It struck her then how different these notes were from her own.
They were not written with the sharp economy of a battlefield doctor, nor with the cold precision of someone counting down toward an inevitable end. There was patience in every line, consideration in every margin—space left not for contingencies, but for care.
These were the notes of someone who expected time to stretch forward, not run out.
Someone who planned to heal people slowly, thoroughly—without ever wondering if tomorrow would be the last chance.
Shinobu lowered her gaze, fingers resting against the worn paper.
Kanae had written these believing she would be there to see the results.
Shinobu had not.
For years, her own notes had been shaped by a different certainty—precise, ruthless, written with the knowledge that time was borrowed. Healing, if it happened at all, had to be immediate. There was no room for slow recovery, no patience for bodies that needed months instead of days.
She had never planned to watch people heal at this pace.
She had only planned to reach Douma.
To let her body be consumed once her work was finished.
Lingering, staying long enough to see wounds close and breath steady—had never entered her calculations. It had seemed unnecessary. Almost indulgent.
Shinobu lowered her gaze, fingers tightening against the edge of the book.
Kanae had written for a future she believed she would live in.
And Shinobu had written as though she would not survive her own victory.
She paused for a while then reached the cookbook.
The cookbook, unlike the medical notes, was deceptively thin.
At first glance, Shinobu thought it unfinished—pages left blank, recipes sparse compared to the careful density of Kanae’s other writings. But as she turned each page, she realized it wasn’t neglect.
It was intention.
Kanae hadn’t tried to record everything she knew. She had chosen instead to return to the same handful of recipes again and again, refining them in small ways, adjusting portions, temperatures, and timing. There were margins crowded with tiny notes, arrows pointing to alternate steps, reminders written in softer ink, as though added later, after lived experience.
There were many recipes listed in passing—soups, pickles, simple stews—but only three appeared in full detail.
Onigiri.
Okayu.
Ginger tsukudani.
Shinobu lingered over the pages, fingers brushing the paper with care.
The onigiri section came first. Kanae had written about rice texture at length—how freshly steamed grains should still hold warmth when shaped, how salt should be dissolved in water before touching the rice so the flavor stayed gentle instead of sharp. There were notes about fillings meant to last through long days: umeboshi for preservation, grilled salmon flaked finely, kombu simmered down until sweet.
In the margin, written smaller, almost playfully:
Good for busy days. Easy to eat even when you forget you’re hungry.
Shinobu’s throat tightened.
The okayu followed. Page after page devoted to what most would dismiss as “just porridge.” Kanae described ratios with care—when to thin it with broth, when plain water was better, how long to let it simmer so the grains broke just enough without losing their shape.
For fever.
For exhaustion.
For days when the body refuses to listen.
Next to one variation, Kanae had added a small note, penned lighter than the rest:
Nobu eats this more easily when ginger is added.
Shinobu had to pause then, her vision blurring for a moment before she could continue.
The final recipe—ginger tsukudani—was written with the most revisions. The sweetness adjusted slightly between entries, the soy reduced in one version, the ginger sliced thinner in another. Kanae had written reminders to blanch it once if the bite was too sharp, twice if serving it to someone recovering.
At the very edge of the page, almost hidden, was one last note:
Shinobu’s favorite. Don’t tell her—it’ll embarrass her.
Shinobu closed the book slowly, resting her palm on the worn cover.
So many recipes, and yet Kanae had returned only to these three. Food meant for long days, for sickness, for quiet persistence. Not celebration dishes. Not feasts.
Meals meant to keep someone alive when living felt difficult.
Shinobu exhaled shakily, holding the cookbook to her chest—not as a relic of the past, but as proof that Kanae had always been thinking ahead.
Thinking of her.
Even with these notes, what Shinobu had first taken as neutral somehow still carried the ache of her older sister’s bright nature.
Kanae had a way of doing that, of making even the most practical things feel light-hearted, gentle, almost hopeful. Where Shinobu would have written something about porridge like plain, efficient, convenient for eating quickly between poison research, Kanae instead filled the margins with warmth: reminders about comfort, patience, and care. Food was never just fuel to her. It was reassurance. It was an act of quiet kindness.
That had always been Kanae’s way.
She fought demons while still believing, impossibly, that peace might be reached without bloodshed—that one day, humans and demons might somehow coexist. She carried that hope even knowing she could be vanquished the very next day, never once allowing the certainty of death to harden her heart. Tomorrow was never a threat to Kanae; it was always a possibility.
Shinobu was not like that.
To her, death had always been the only solution to the demon question. Final. Absolute. Necessary. Where Kanae sought an end without hatred, Shinobu sharpened hers into something precise and merciless. She had never believed in a future that didn’t require sacrifice—her own included.
For years, Shinobu told herself she wanted to be like Kanae.
Now she understood how shallow that wish had been.
She had copied the shape of her sister’s smile.
Mimicked the tone of her voice.
Reproduced the gestures that made others feel at ease.
But she had never inherited what made them real.
Kanae’s kindness was instinct.
Shinobu’s was rehearsal.
The weight behind her eyes throbbed relentlessly, pressing until her thoughts blurred together, until even consciousness felt like work. She tried to breathe—to ground herself—but each breath came up short, clipped, wrong. No matter how carefully she inhaled, her lungs refused to fill the way they should.
Her mind betrayed her by drifting back to the spirometer Aoi had brought.
Two liters per second.
The number burned.
That was normal for an ordinary person. Acceptable. Forgivable.
But she wasn’t ordinary. She had never been ordinary. As a Hashira, her lung capacity should have soared past three, past four—proof of discipline, of strength, of a body honed for battle.
Instead, the device had told her the truth with cruel indifference.
Her body was failing her.
Anger flared briefly, sharp and useless, before dissolving into something far worse—fear. Not of death, but of weakness. Of permanence. Of a future where this was no longer temporary.
Her head swam. It was too much—too soon.
She shut the thought down before it could consume her, pushing the books away and sank back into the futon, drawing her black-purple hair over her face as though it could shield her from the past. She slept without resistance, without argument.
----------------------------------------
When she opened her eyes again, sunlight stood high and unforgiving.
It was noon on the seventh day.
The realization felt strange, distant. She had slept for nearly a full day.
Maybe it was the ache of memory.
Maybe it was exhaustion still clinging to her bones.
Maybe it was the ten kilograms of wisteria poison refusing to release her.
Her body, at least, had not asked permission.
When Kanao entered the room that day, she brought something different, something that broke the quiet routine of the past six days.
Instead of the familiar bowl of porridge, she set down a medium plate of onigiri. Plain rice, lightly salted. No garnish. No filling. Just simple food, piled a little higher than expected for someone as small as Shinobu. It wasn’t elaborate, and it wasn’t meant to be. But it felt deliberate.
“I thought… you might want to eat more,” Kanao said quietly. “You didn’t have dinner yesterday.”
Her voice carried no judgment, only careful observation, the kind that came from watching someone too closely for too long.
Shinobu only nodded in response. Words felt unnecessary. She took the onigiri and began to eat, Kanao remaining seated beside her, close but unobtrusive, like an anchor she hadn’t asked for but didn’t push away.
True to Kanao’s prediction, Shinobu finished every last grain of rice.
The realization came slowly, almost with amusement. So, this was how Mitsuri felt—this constant, unrelenting hunger, the body demanding more than the mind expected. The thought brought a faint, private smile to her lips.
It was the first solid meal she had eaten since waking from her coma nearly two weeks ago.
And for the first time, her body felt less like something she was dragging behind her—and more like something that still wanted to live.
Shinobu remained focused on the onigiri in her hands and didn’t notice Aoi take a seat beside Kanao until the shoji slid open again. By the time her attention lifted, Aoi had already finished clearing the meal.
The room was still warm with the lingering scent of rice. Kanao entered first, her steps soundless, followed closely by Aoi. Both girls stopped beside Shinobu and lowered their heads in unison, a folded report held carefully between them—like they were about to confess to something they had done wrong.
Aoi remained silent, fingers curled too tightly around the paper.
Kanao spoke instead, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Please read it… but don’t panic.”
Shinobu accepted the report. Her hands didn’t shake, but something in her chest tightened so abruptly it stole the edge of her breath. Her eyes moved quickly—too quickly—across the page, until one line forced them to stop.
Permanent lung tissue damage.
The words didn’t blur. They didn’t soften. They simply were.
For a moment, Shinobu said nothing.
Kanao spoke quietly, her head still bowed.
“Douma’s ice power damaged your lungs,” she said. “Not just the surface—deep tissue.” Her fingers tightened lightly in her sleeves. “The scars won’t heal.”
Shinobu’s gaze remained steady, fixed somewhere past Kanao’s shoulder. She nodded once, slowly, as if acknowledging a familiar fact rather than something newly carved into her body.
“I see,” she said.
Kanao drew a careful breath before continuing. “You’ll live. But movement will be… different now.” She hesitated, choosing her words. “You won’t be able to push yourself the way you used to.”
Shinobu’s fingers curled faintly against the futon.
“…Different how?” she asked, her voice mild, almost clinical.
“Long periods of exertion will steal your breath,” Kanao replied. “Walking too fast. Carrying heavy things. Climbing stairs without stopping.” She paused. “Even turning too quickly, if you don’t pace yourself.”
Shinobu blinked.
Once.
Her chest felt tight—not painfully, not yet—but enough that she became suddenly, acutely aware of every inhale. She tried breathing a little deeper. The air came, but slower than she expected.
“So,” she murmured, “my body will argue with me.”
Kanao nodded. “Yes.”
A silence settled between them.
Shinobu let out a slow breath through her nose, measured, controlled. She had always been proud of how little space she took up, how efficiently she moved through the world. Speed had been instinct. Endurance, a given.
Now even standing would require permission.
“I understand,” she said, softly but firmly.
Kanao lifted her head a fraction. “There are ways to adapt,” she added quickly. “Breathing exercises. Ribcage training. You can improve efficiency, even if the damage stays.”
Shinobu tilted her head slightly. “Compensation,” she said.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Shinobu rested a hand lightly against her chest—not in pain, but in quiet assessment. The steady rhythm beneath her palm felt unfamiliar, like a body she was meeting for the first time.
“And if I don’t listen?” she asked.
Kanao’s voice softened. “You’ll exhaust yourself faster. You’ll struggle to recover.”
Shinobu smiled faintly—thin, fleeting. “How troublesome.”
But the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
She lowered her hand, folding it neatly in her lap.
“…Then I’ll listen,” she said at last. “Even if I don’t like it.”
Kanao exhaled, relief barely concealed.
Shinobu looked down, breathing slow and deliberate now.
She would live.
But it would no longer be effortless.
And somehow, that frightened her more than dying ever had.
Shinobu nodded.
Her expression didn’t change, but something inside her split cleanly in two.
“So this,” she said quietly, “is the price for surviving.”
The thought surfaced before she could stop it—if Mitsuri had arrived sooner—and it struck her hard enough to steal her breath. Anger flared, sharp and instinctive, only to be crushed beneath shame that hurt worse than the diagnosis itself. Mitsuri had torn her back from death with her bare hands. To resent the timing of that miracle felt obscene.
She kept her gaze forward.
If she looked down now, if she let herself react, she might cry. Might scream. Might undo the fragile progress she had clawed back over the past two weeks with shaking hands and forced breaths. Part of her—the ugliest, most honest part—whispered that it would have been easier to die whole in Douma’s grasp than to live like this, fractured and restrained. Why did the brief, stolen laughter of the past week have to shatter now? She wondered bitterly. Why did the fate she had feared above all others have to come true?
She said nothing.
Kanao continued, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. She spoke of adaptation. Of training the ribcage. Of learning to function rather than recover.
Function.
The word settled heavily in Shinobu’s chest.
“And winter?” Kanao added softly.
The young girl paused for brief moment before continuing. “Cold air will hurt. You’ll need scarves. High collars. Warm liquids. Illness will linger longer. Your throat will be vulnerable.”
Aoi’s voice cut in, blunt and unyielding. “You can’t push through this.”
That did it.
A hollow ache spread through Shinobu’s chest, slow and merciless. Pushing through pain had been her entire existence. Speed. Endurance. Precision sharpened by recklessness.
Now even breathing demanded restraint.
Shinobu drew in a careful breath—testing herself.
The air came, but not freely. There was resistance there, faint but unmistakable, a quiet reminder that her body no longer belonged solely to her will.
Kanae would have wanted this life.
The thought hurt more than it comforted.
Shinobu glanced briefly at the girls in front of her—at Kanao’s trembling resolve, at Aoi’s clenched hands—and then looked away just as quickly. This space inside the room was her familiar territory. This was where she had always endured quietly, carried the weight alone, and never let it show as a Hashira.
She folded the report with deliberate care and set it aside.
For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed her mind that it would be easier to let go now—to stop fighting, to surrender to exhaustion and pain. But the idea died almost as soon as it surfaced. To choose death now, after being given a second chance, would not be peace. It would be cowardice. Kanae would never forgive that choice. Neither would the girls who had waited, watched, and worked tirelessly to pull her back from the edge.
“…I understand,” Shinobu said at last, her voice barely audible.
And she meant it in the only way she knew how—not with acceptance, not with peace, but with silence. With restraint. With the resolve to keep living for Kanae, for Mitsuri, and for the girls of the Butterfly Mansion—even if every breath from now on reminded her of what surviving had taken from her, her very own identity as the Insect Hashira.
Aoi reached out and took the report from Shinobu’s hands.
“Sanemi is at the mansion,” she said after a moment. “He wants to speak with you. To check on you.” She hesitated. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Shinobu answered. “Let him in. I don’t want him to worry anymore.”
Neither Aoi nor Kanao lingered. They slipped from the room and slid the shoji closed behind them, leaving Shinobu alone with the silence—and with the news still pressing against her chest, raw and unyielding.
-----------------------------
“Why didn’t you tell us about your plan with Douma?” Sanemi asked, not shouting—just tired. “Why keep something like that to yourself?”
Shinobu didn’t answer right away. Her fingers twisted together in her lap.
“Because I know how people look at broken things,” she said softly. “They don’t see value. They see risk.” She lowered her head. “If the Corps knew… they’d lock me away. Or cast me out.”
Sanemi clicked his tongue. “You really think that’s all you are?”
“I can’t fight the way you do,” she said, voice thin. “I can’t behead demons. I never could.”
“So what?” he snapped. “You think strength only comes from a sword?”
She finally looked up at him, eyes glassy.
“You’re the reason demons fear the Corp” Sanemi continued. “You changed the battlefield itself. You gave us options where none existed.”
Shinobu swallowed. “I still feel… replaceable.”
Sanemi shook his head. “No.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “If you were replaceable, Tamayo wouldn’t have trusted you. Muzan wouldn’t be dead. And Tanjiro wouldn’t still be human.”
That landed.
“You saved us from a future where we’d be trapped in another thousand-year war,” he said quietly. “A war against a Demon King even worse than Muzan.”
His jaw tightened. “You saved kids who’ll never even know your name—and that’s exactly why it matters.”
Shinobu’s breath broke. “Then why do I feel so empty?”
Sanemi looked away for a moment. “…Because you survived.”
Sanemi shook his head slowly.
“Your life was never just yours,” he said. “You made it about vengeance. About carrying Kanae’s death like a sentence you had to serve alone.”
He looked at her sharply.
“You decided we weren’t family. That we wouldn’t understand. So you never gave us the chance.”
Shinobu flinched—but didn’t deny it.
“You kept Kanao and Aoi at arm’s length because you thought being older meant being stronger,” he continued. “Like pain is something only adults earn.”
His voice cracked. “That’s bullshit.”
He took a breath.
“None of us judged you. Not once. Not for your size. Not for your physique. Not for the way you fight.”
He scoffed bitterly. “You think trauma has a ranking?”
“Muichiro watched his brother die. Giyuu couldn’t save his sister.” His teeth clenched. “I buried Genya with my own hands.”
Sanemi stepped closer.
“We all wanted to survive. Not because we’re cowards—but because surviving means the sacrifices meant something.”
His gaze hardened—not with anger, but conviction.
“Death happens. That doesn’t make survival shameful. Living on is how we honor every Slayer who never got the chance.”
Shinobu’s voice trembled.
“But what if I can’t anymore? I can’t even breathe the way I used to.”
“You’re not the only one carrying injuries that’ll never heal,” Sanemi said quietly. “Giyuu lost his right arm in the final battle. Tanjiro lost an eye—and one of his arms withered beyond saving.”
Shinobu stiffened.
“And yet,” he continued, “if you look closely… Tanjiro never lost that smile of his. Not once.”
Sanemi’s gaze drifted to the floor, voice lowering.
“When Giyuu went to visit Tsutako’s grave, I went with him. I watched him smile—really smile—for the first time in years. Not since Sabito died.”
His throat tightened. “He told me he was glad he survived. Glad he could keep living to honor both of them.”
He looked back at Shinobu.
“He said his sister didn’t die in vain—because every day he kept fighting, he fought for her.”
Sanemi stepped closer.
“You’re the same, Shinobu. You carried Kanae for four straight years. No rest. No mercy for yourself.”
His voice softened. “Now it’s your turn to honor her by living. By laughing. By loving the girls at the Estate… and Mitsuri.”
Shinobu froze.
“…How long,” she whispered, “have you known she loved me?”
Sanemi scoffed.
“Long enough. More than a year. Mitsuri closely watched you like it was the only thing that matter— missions, meetings, everything.”
His lips twitched. “Everyone noticed how you both softened when you were together.”
““She told me she’d confessed before the battle, and even then her joy felt like a farewell I hadn’t yet learned how to recognize.”
“But Obanai—”
“Knew,” Sanemi cut in. “Long before you did.”
He exhaled. “Mitsuri couldn’t bring herself to reject him. Thought kindness meant silence.”
“So I pushed him to confess,” he admitted. “Me and Tengen both did.”
His expression turned serious.
“If her heart was ever going to speak, it would’ve been then.”
“And it did.”
“And… how was she able to save me?” Shinobu asked softly.
The question barely carried, like she was afraid of the answer.
Sanemi hesitated. “You remember Yushiro. Tamayo’s assistant.”
After a brief pause, Shinobu nodded.
“He managed to interfere with Nakime’s vision early on,” Sanemi continued. “Turned parts of the castle against her. How it works—ask him yourself. Even I don’t fully get it.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“But the important part is this: he opened a portal.”
Sanemi looked at her carefully. “Straight from Mitsuri’s position… directly to yours.”
Shinobu’s breath stuttered.
“No warning. No one else knew. Not even Muzan,” he said. “Yushiro told me he saw everything through Nakime’s eyes.”
Sanemi’s voice dropped.
“He saw Mitsuri the moment the portal opened.”
A pause. “He said she was already enraged.”
Shinobu’s fingers clenched in her sleeves.
“Not reckless. Not panicking,” Sanemi added. “Enraged.”
His jaw tightened. “She saw the way Douma was crushing you.”
Shinobu’s breath came sharp and shallow.
“She didn’t even hesitate,” Sanemi added. “Didn’t stop to think. She went straight for him.”
Shinobu shook her head weakly.
“…I was supposed to die.”
Sanemi snapped back instantly.
“She didn’t care about your plan.”
The words hit harder than any accusation.
“She cared about you.”
Shinobu’s hands trembled as tears finally spilled over, her shoulders curling inward as guilt crushed down on her chest.
Sanemi noticed it the moment it happened.
A single tear slipped free from the corner of Shinobu’s eye—silent, uncontrolled, more honest than anything she had said aloud.
He stood immediately.
“…I should go,” he said gruffly, turning his back just enough to give her dignity. “The sun’s already set.”
After a pause, softer: “Take your time. We can talk about everything else when you’re ready.”
He hesitated at the door.
“I’ll call Kanao for you.”
And then he was gone, the shoji sliding shut with a quiet finality that left the room wrapped in stillness.
----------------------
When Kanao returned, she carried a simple tray.
Omurice. Plain. Warm. Familiar.
She didn’t speak as she set it down, only knelt beside the futon and waited. Shinobu ate quickly—not out of hunger, but obligation—each bite mechanical, silent, her thoughts still tangled in images of pink hair and fury and arms that had refused to let her go.
Kanao did not interrupt.
Did not ask questions.
Did not rush her.
When the plate was finally empty, Shinobu set it aside with trembling fingers.
“Kanao,” she said quietly.
Kanao leaned in at once.
“…Can you carry me to the bathroom?” Shinobu hesitated, then added, barely above a whisper, “And after that… to Kanae’s room. I want to stay with Mitsuri tonight.”
Kanao blinked—just once—then nodded.
“Okay.”
No surprise.
No hesitation.
She slipped one arm behind Shinobu’s back, the other beneath her knees, lifting her slowly—carefully—like she was afraid a single wrong movement might undo her. Shinobu instinctively curled inward, fingers clutching weakly at Kanao’s sleeve, her forehead brushing against Kanao’s shoulder as the world shifted beneath her.
Every step was unhurried.
Kanao adjusted her grip whenever Shinobu’s breathing changed, pausing when she felt even the slightest tremor. The trip to the bathroom was short, but exhausting—Shinobu’s body sagged against her, heavier than it should have been, fragile in a way Shinobu had never allowed herself to be before.
--------------------------------------
Afterward, Kanao carried her again—this time down the familiar hallway, past doors Shinobu hadn’t entered for so long.
Kanae’s room.
The air inside was different. Softer. Warmer. Like it remembered how to be kind.
Mitsuri lay still, her face relaxed in sleep, long lashes resting against pale cheeks. Shinobu’s breath caught painfully at the sight.
Kanao lowered her beside Mitsuri, arranging the futon so their shoulders touched. Shinobu turned immediately, as if drawn by gravity alone, and reached for Mitsuri’s hand.
It was warm.
Alive.
Her fingers closed around it, weak but desperate.
Kanao pulled the blanket over them both, then hesitated—before placing one last careful adjustment, ensuring Shinobu was fully supported, fully safe.
“I’ll stay close,” Kanao said softly. “Just call.”
She slipped out quietly, closing the door behind her.
Shinobu turned fully onto her side, pressing closer to Mitsuri, her forehead resting against Suri’s shoulder. Her breath finally broke then—silent tears soaking into the fabric as she clung to the woman who had chosen her life over everything else.
“I don’t think I deserve this life you gaved me,” Shinobu whispered.
Her voice came out broken, carried on breaths that refused to fill her lungs. Each inhale was shallow, incomplete—each exhale trembling.
“I’m more damaged now than I was before the battle,” she admitted. “At least back then, I knew how to move forward.”
She pressed closer, as if seeking warmth, grounding—anything real.
“I can’t even breathe properly anymore,” she said. “I don’t know if I can walk at your pace… or meet the future you’re hoping for.”
Tears slipped down silently, dotting Mitsuri’s shoulder, her patient yukata, the place where Shinobu’s forehead rested. They fell slowly, rhythmically, until the effort of holding herself together became too much.
“I wish you were awake,” she murmured faintly. “I wish you could tell me it’s okay.”
Her strength finally gave out then.
The exhaustion returned, heavy and familiar, pulling her under just as it had on the first day she opened her eyes in the Butterfly Estate. Her breathing stayed shallow, but it softened as sleep claimed her.
The tears didn’t stop.
But this time, she slept holding Mitsuri’s sleeve—anchored by her warmth, comforted by the quiet knowledge that she wasn’t alone anymore.