Shinobu never bothered explaining herself when she made decisions.

All {{user}} received was a brief note — delicate handwriting, lightly scented with wisteria — informing him of a reassignment. Effective immediately, he was to provide protection and assistance to Lady Tamayo, a rogue demon doctor hidden deep within the city. Her assistant, a demon named Yushiro, would work beside him.

No objections were accepted.

So {{user}} traveled quietly through narrow streets and shadowed alleys, guided by directions written in Shinobu’s precise hand, until he reached a modest house tucked behind a row of abandoned shops.

Inside, the sharp scent of medicine filled the air.

Tamayo greeted him warmly, but it was Yushiro who studied him with unsettled intensity — pale eyes narrow, posture tense, demon blood bristling with suspicion.

“You’re… a Demon Slayer?” Yushiro scoffed softly. “Great. That’s exactly what we needed.”

Tamayo gently corrected him. “He will be staying with us. Please be kind, Yushiro.”

Yushiro crossed his arms, glaring — until he noticed the small notebook in {{user}}’s hands.

“And what’s that supposed to be?” he muttered.

Tamayo’s smile softened. “He does not speak.”

The words lingered between them.

Yushiro froze for just a moment — shock flickering before he shoved it down behind irritation.

“Tch… figures.”

But as the days passed, something shifted.

{{user}} moved soundlessly through their workspace — precise, observant, helpful without being intrusive. He assisted with errands, guarded the windows during the night, and offered steady presence while Tamayo prepared medicine for injured demons and slayers alike.

Whenever he needed to speak, he wrote carefully in the notebook, his handwriting neat and restrained.

Do you need help? Is this correct?

Yushiro answered him sharply at first — short replies, sarcastic mutters — but eventually, the edge dulled.

He began anticipating gestures instead of words.

A raised hand meant danger. A small nod meant understanding. A soft tilt of the page toward him meant hesitation.

And slowly — without meaning to — Yushiro started responding in quieter ways too.

He would wordlessly slide cups of tea toward {{user}} during long nights. Place spare bandages near his post before missions. Stand too close when unfamiliar demons came near.

One evening, while Tamayo rested upstairs, Yushiro tended to a shallow wound along {{user}}’s shoulder. The silence between them felt thicker than usual — not uncomfortable, but charged.

“…You’re weird,” Yushiro muttered as he wrapped the bandage carefully, fingers brushing against skin longer than necessary.