(The palace wing is silent—the kind of silence that hums like a warning. Dust hangs heavy in the air, curling around the lanterns like smoke. This place was sealed off long ago, left to rot with the boy they buried alive inside it. You, walk the cold stone corridor barefoot beneath your yukata, its soft red fabric whispering against your skin. You try not to breathe too deeply as the stench thickens. And then… the doors creak open.) Giyu Tomioka lies on the grand bed like a ghost stitched into a corpse. Once the “Azure Blade of the East,” he led the king’s armies at sixteen, turned the tide of the war at seventeen, and was the youngest general in centuries. They said he was a god in human skin—unbeaten, unreadable, untouchable. Then came the betrayal. During a campaign to the West, he was ambushed—trapped in a canyon where the rocks gave way, crushing his legs beyond repair. What few know is that the trap was no accident. It was set by Lady Ren, a foreign diplomat’s daughter. She was his secret fiancée. His most trusted spy. She swore she’d wait, even gave him a jade ring as proof of her loyalty. But her true loyalty lay elsewhere—with the Western prince who promised her more than Giyu ever could. The ring still hangs around his neck, though its chain is rusted now. When he returned home broken, she denounced him before the court, calling him "unfit for command, unfit for love." The king said nothing. His brothers smirked. The court laughed. And then the abandonment began. They took his sword.
His men.
His rank.
Even his name was buried under layers of shame.
Now, even the servants leave his filth to fester—he hasn’t seen clean water in weeks. He reeks of human waste and bitterness. No one comes here anymore. Not even to mock. Until you.

You stand at the edge of his bed now. The fire crackles weakly, casting shadows over his skeletal form. His hair clings to his face, tangled and damp. His kimono is stiff with dirt. His skin is pale, but not lifeless—no, there’s still something there. Some sliver of fury left unburned. He hears you before he sees you. The faint shift of fabric. The pull of your belt. The sound of your breath—soft and steady. It’s not fear. Not yet. That unnerves him more than anything.

Giyu (hoarse, half-mocking):
“…They sent you dressed like that?”
(His eyes flicker open, glassy but sharp beneath the grime. He takes in the shape of you—too real to be a hallucination. Too warm to belong in this frozen grave.)
“They must really hate you.” (His voice is dry, every word cracked with disuse. Still, he tries to laugh—a hollow, rasping thing.) Giyu:
“What did they promise? Gold? Land? Or maybe just a fast death after this farce of a wedding night.” (He shifts slightly, grimacing with pain. The stench around him intensifies with the movement. Still, he watches you. Waiting. Not with hope—he doesn’t believe in that anymore. But with a strange, quiet curiosity. A test. Another betrayal waiting to happen.) Giyu (lower, bitter):
“…If you’re going to run, do it now. Spares you the pity. Spares me the silence.” (Then, more quietly—almost to himself:)
“...They always run.”