When Tomioka Giyu pushed open the wooden door of the base, the hinges creaked softly, breaking the stillness inside.
The chill on his body hadn't yet faded, mixed with the smell of blood and damp earth—a sharp, unpleasant scent even to himself.
But in the next moment, a faint fragrance drifted into his nose, clean and light, carrying a trace of mint that cut through the grime and fatigue.
It was the scent of the flower oil Kocho Shinobu always used in her hair—a fragrance he could never mistake.
Giyu stopped for a second and looked up.
By the window sat a low table, and beside it, a girl in the Butterfly Mansion uniform was seated, absorbed in the book in her hands.
Sunlight filtered through the paper screen, casting a soft glow on her purple-black hair. Her profile still carried the softness of youth, yet faint traces of sharpness hinted at what she would become.
It was Kocho Shinobu.
She looked even slimmer than he remembered her at thirteen. Her delicate fingers turned the pages lightly, careful not to crease them.
When she heard the sound of the door, she lifted her head. Surprise flickered briefly across her violet eyes before she stood and bowed slightly.
"Welcome back, Tomioka-sama."
Her voice was light and clear, carrying the brightness of a young girl, though calmer and gentler than it would one day become.
Giyu looked at her. The weight pressing on his heart since the Hieda Town incident—the exhaustion, the emptiness—eased just slightly at the sound of her greeting.
He nodded in reply, stepped inside, and quietly closed the door behind him.
Shinobu's eyes quickly swept over his form, and her brows knit together.
"You're hurt…"
Only then did Giyu glance down at himself. His dark-blue haori was caked with mud and frozen snow. Several dark patches stained it deeply—dried blood.
The wound on his shoulder had stiffened in the cold, and pain pulsed there again.
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
"It doesn't look fine at all."
Shinobu walked toward him, carrying a small medical box.
"Please sit, Tomioka-sama. I'll treat your wound."
"That's unnecessary."
He tried to refuse. He wasn't used to troubling others—especially anyone from the Butterfly Mansion.
But Shinobu had already opened the box, taking out alcohol and bandages. Her tone left no room for argument.
"Tomioka-sama, you're a Hashira. Your condition affects everyone around you. If your wound gets infected, it could impact your missions. Treating you is part of my duty."
Her calm, steady eyes met his. Whatever words he had been about to say were swallowed back down.
He sat beside the table, removed his soiled haori, and revealed the black uniform beneath—its shoulder darkened by dried blood.
"Suzuki Jiro sent a crow with a message to the Butterfly Mansion," Shinobu said as she carefully cut away the torn fabric around his shoulder.
"He reported that your two subordinates had… fallen, and that you might be injured. So I came here to check your condition—and to treat his injuries as well. He's resting now. His recovery's going well."
At the mention of Tanaka Hei and Sato Shin, Giyu's eyes dimmed. He said nothing.
When the alcohol-soaked cotton touched his wound, a sharp sting ran through him.
His shoulder tensed involuntarily, and this time, instead of his usual silence, a faint hiss escaped his lips.
Shinobu paused for a moment, glancing up at him.
"It hurts, doesn't it? I'll be gentler."
Her touch softened, her fingers cool but steady, the careful movements strangely comforting.
Giyu's gaze lingered on her face—focused, patient, lit by the pale sunlight. Her long lashes lowered as she worked, concealing whatever emotions lay beneath.
He suddenly remembered the Shinobu of another time—the one who always spoke sharply, brow furrowed, yet in the end had used her own body as poison to take down an Upper Moon.
Her gentleness had always been hidden deep, something one could only feel after a long time.
And that hidden warmth—he had always… liked it.
But this Shinobu, sitting before him now, though still distant in demeanor, carried an unguarded earnestness—an unpolished kindness that reached him more directly.
"Tomioka-sama," she said suddenly, breaking his thoughts.
"You look pale. Have you been pushing yourself too hard?"
He blinked, snapping out of his reverie, and met her curious violet eyes—only to realize he had been staring at her all this time, his expression likely softer than he intended.
He turned away quickly, looking out the window. "I'm fine."
Kocho Shinobu lowered her head and continued wrapping the bandage, the corner of her mouth twitching ever so slightly.
This Tomioka Giyu really was a strange one.
The first time she met him at headquarters, she thought he was cold and distant—like a block of ice that would never warm up no matter how long you held it.
But this time, he didn't seem quite so hard to approach.
He still didn't talk much, but the way he looked at her earlier—there had been something in his eyes she couldn't quite name. Something complicated. A little tired. A little… gentle?
And now, though he was clearly injured, he wasn't acting like the other swordsmen who either stubbornly insisted they were fine or complained loudly. He just sat quietly and let her work, the tight line of his jaw the only sign of the pain he was enduring.
"About what happened in Hieda Town," Shinobu said softly, "Suzuki Jiro mentioned a bit of it. I don't know the full story, but… please, don't let it weigh on you too much."
Giyu's body went rigid.
"The duty of the Demon Slayer Corps is to slay demons," she continued as she tied the bandage neatly. "That's never been wrong. As for people's choices… they're often complicated. We can't make everyone understand what we do. All we can do is carry out our duty."
Her tone was calm, but her words flowed through him like cool water, washing away the last of the turmoil in his heart.
He turned his head slightly to look at her.
She had finished treating his wound and was packing the medical box, her movements quick and practiced.
Sunlight brushed her cheek, revealing the faint down of youth, and her steady eyes held no trace of pity—only quiet understanding.
"Thank you," Giyu said quietly.
Shinobu looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she gave a small nod. "Mm."
"The wound isn't too deep," she said after a moment. "But you should avoid any strenuous movement. I'll stay here for a few days to monitor your recovery—and to check on Suzuki Jiro as well."
"Sorry to trouble you."
"It's no trouble. It's my job."
Shinobu stood and walked to the window, picking up the book she had been reading earlier.
"Then please rest, Tomioka-sama. I won't disturb you."
With that, she sat back down on the cushion by the window, turning a page quietly. Her face angled toward the sunlight, she said nothing more.
The room grew still again, broken only by the faint rustle of paper and the occasional sigh of wind outside.
Giyu leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
The pain in his shoulder had dulled, and the storm in his chest had quieted.
He could smell that faint floral scent in the air, mixed with the soft trace of ink and paper—a calm, comforting fragrance.
He didn't fall asleep right away. He simply listened.
Shinobu read quietly, her movements light. Sometimes she would pause, tapping a page with her finger as if deep in thought.
After a while, Giyu opened his eyes and looked at her.
Her dark violet hair shimmered faintly in the sunlight, her back straight and poised with a quiet strength that didn't match her age.
He suddenly wanted to tell her that one day, she would become incredible—that she would grow into the Insect Hashira, protect countless lives… but fail to protect her own.
But he couldn't say it.
Some truths, when known too soon, only hurt more.
As if sensing his gaze, Shinobu turned her head slightly, her brows lifting. "Tomioka-sama? Is something wrong?"
Giyu shook his head. "No."
She arched an eyebrow but didn't press him further, returning to her book. A faint, barely noticeable curve tugged at her lips.
Yes, Tomioka Giyu was getting stranger by the minute.
Still… she stole a quick glance at him from the corner of her eye.
He was leaning against the wall, eyes closed, his expression softer than before—no longer as stiff or weary as when he'd first arrived.
Maybe… he wasn't so difficult after all.
Shinobu looked back down at her book, though her mind had already wandered elsewhere.
Outside, the snow had stopped. Sunlight streamed through the paper window, scattering warm patches of gold across the floor.
The base was quiet again. Only the sound of two steady breaths mingled in the silence—close, yet carefully distant.
And Giyu thought to himself, that this kind of quiet… wasn't so bad.