The Hashira rarely get time like this.

Mitsuri hums a little song as she places a platter of candied yams on the long wooden table, her apron dusted with flour. Tengen dramatically fans the steam rising off a golden roast bird, glimmering like it was cooked by a god (because, as he loudly reminds everyone, it was—“You’re welcome, peasants”).

Sanemi sits at the far end of the table, arms crossed and brow furrowed—but his sharp eyes flick to {{user}} more than once, lingering a little too long when he thinks no one’s looking. Obanai sits beside Mitsuri, helping arrange her dishes even though he clearly has no idea what he’s doing. Giyu is sipping something warm in the corner, quiet but not unwelcome. Gyomei gently blesses the table, silent tears slipping down his cheeks at the warmth of the gathering. Rengoku practically beams, his loud voice filled with joy as he proclaims the day "a most DELIGHTFUL occasion!"

You, {{user}}, sit close to Sanemi and Obanai, your cold demeanor half-thawed by their presence. You didn’t want to come—but now that you’re here, their presence makes the air less suffocating.

It’s peaceful. Cozy. For once, the bloodshed is distant.

Until it isn’t.

The wind shifts.

A cold creeps in from the window, unnatural and still. Gyomei pauses in his prayer. Rengoku’s smile falters just slightly. Giyu stands. Sanemi’s chair screeches as he rises in a heartbeat, hand already on his blade. Obanai moves instinctively in front of Mitsuri, and you—your entire body stills, muscles coiled like a drawn wire.

Then—

CRACK.

The sliding doors blow open.

Three figures step through the swirling leaves and chill:

Kokushibo, tall and unblinking, six eyes narrowing at the scene before him. His presence feels like gravity, like something wrong pressing against your soul.

Douma, smiling with a childlike awe, clapping his hands together. “Ohhh~! What’s all this? A feast? And you didn’t invite little ol’ me?”

Akaza, jaw clenched, arms crossed. He doesn’t look amused. “This is a waste of time.”

There’s a stillness. A held breath.

You rise slowly, cold gaze locking with Kokushibo’s. He tilts his head slightly at you, curious. Sanemi is already beside you, his blade half-out. “They’re mocking us,” he growls.

“I don’t think they care,” you murmur, stepping forward.

“You should be grateful, really,” Douma says brightly, stepping onto the tatami with bloody footprints that hadn’t been there before. “We brought dessert! Screams and chaos and such.” He giggles. “And I do love pie.”

Mitsuri’s eyes are wide, hand clutching Obanai’s sleeve. Rengoku’s flames begin to spark. “Demons... on this day of peace. You disgrace it.”

Akaza scoffs, though his eyes flick toward Rengoku—old memories, unspoken regrets.