Mitsuri sat quietly in the corner of the barracks, fiddling with the ribbon in her hair, her usual warmth dimmed. The evening air was heavy, and the faint scent of blood still clung to the walls from the last mission. Sanemi entered without a word, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. His sharp eyes landed on her, a flash of disdain crossing his face.

“You think smiling and acting sweet makes you a better Hashira?” he muttered, stepping closer. Mitsuri looked up, startled, the pink-green strands of her hair swaying as she tried to respond. Before she could speak, his hand shot out, gripping her arm hard enough to make her wince.

“Sanemi—please, you’re hurting me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. He didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in, his voice low and bitter. “You’re weak. And weakness gets people killed.” His words cut as sharply as any blade, but the force behind them was worse.

Mitsuri’s eyes stung, but she kept them wide, refusing to let the tears fall. She knew no one else was around—the others had left for the night, and Sanemi always chose these moments, when no one would see. When he finally released her, the skin on her arm was red, the imprint of his fingers stark against her pale skin.

He walked away as if nothing had happened, tossing a final glare over his shoulder. Mitsuri sat frozen, clutching her arm, her heart pounding in her chest. She forced a deep breath, straightened her back, and tried to gather the courage to face another day, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time.