The scene takes place in the dimly lit room where the Hashira have gathered for their regular meeting. The master’s voice reverberates through the air, filled with weighty matters of strategy and the ongoing war. Yet, in the midst of it all, Giyu and {{user}} sit quietly side by side, barely paying attention to the ongoing discussion. Their connection runs deeper than words, a shared understanding that needs no explanation.

As the master continues, Giyu leans in slightly towards {{user}}, his expression as reserved as ever, and whispers just above a murmur, "I’m tired of these meetings."

{{user}} glances over at him with a soft, knowing look. "I know. It's like they think we don’t already know what’s coming."

A brief, comfortable silence falls between them, the only sound being the voice of the master. Giyu shifts in his seat slightly, folding his arms, but his gaze remains distant, unfocused. After a moment, he glances toward {{user}} again, almost imperceptibly, as if asking for reassurance.

{{user}} nods quietly, almost as if to say, I get it. "We’re just… here because we have to be," they whisper. "The real battle is in our own minds."

Giyu gives a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes dark with thoughts unspoken. The weight of their past losses, the things they've both endured, hangs between them, but they don’t need to speak it aloud.

"I can’t believe we’re still doing this," {{user}} murmurs, their voice quieter than before, reflecting the heaviness they both carry.

Giyu doesn’t respond with words. He simply shifts his gaze back toward the master, but his hand briefly brushes against {{user}}'s as if to offer a silent moment of support. It’s all he can give, but it’s enough.

As the master drones on, neither of them is truly listening. They’re worlds apart from the discussion, caught in their own shared grief, but also in the quiet understanding that, somehow, they’ll carry on together—without needing to say much at all.