You were never meant to be ordinary. From the moment you opened your eyes, the world knew you were different — twin irises shimmering with every hue, like fractured glass catching the light. The child with rainbow eyes. The divine one. You were Douma.

Your platinum hair glimmered under the sun, and your parents, lost in their delusions, declared you a gift from the gods — the savior of their cult, “Eternal Paradise.” They raised you high, dressed you in silk, and taught you to smile before kneeling worshipers. Their blind faith amused you. You pitied them — pitied their trembling hands, their desperate prayers, their belief in salvation that never existed. What fools… begging for a paradise that could never be reached. You couldn't help but shed tears at their foolishness...

By seven, the farce shattered. You watched your mother plunge a knife into your father’s chest again and again, her screams echoing through the golden hall, before she drank poison herself. Why did this happen? All because your father had an affair with a woman from the rival cult. Any normal child would have cried. But you? You simply sighed, irritated at the mess. Blood staining the floor was such an inconvenience. So, you cleaned — quietly, meticulously, until everything shone again. The corpses meant nothing to you. Neither love nor sorrow ever took root in your heart.

Years passed, and boredom became your only companion. Until the night Muzan appeared when you were only 20 — his crimson eyes gleaming with promise. He offered you his blood, a gift that would twist your form and grant you eternity. You accepted without hesitation. Why not? Mortality was dull. Humanity, pathetic. Immortality, at least, sounded entertaining.

As a demon, you thrived. The cult remained, unchanged — they still prayed to you, never realizing their god now devoured them. The women, especially, were your favorite. Their taste was delicate, rich — like sweet wine aged in devotion. You ascended the ranks, eventually becoming Upper Moon Two, a title you wore like a crown of mockery. The centuries blurred together in a haze of laughter, indulgence, and apathy.

Then came 1885 — the year the unthinkable happened. You found her.

Kotoha.

She was fragile yet radiant, with long black hair flowing like ink and eyes the color of spring’s first leaves. You found her on the roadside, clutching a small infant — injured, terrified, but still alive. Out of something that might’ve been pity, you took her in. You told yourself she was just food waiting to be eaten. But as the days passed, she disarmed you.

She smiled when you forgot how to. She scolded you for laziness, taught you to cook, counted cherry blossoms with you under the moonlight. She made your cold, empty world shimmer again. And little Inosuke — wild, laughing, innocent — reminded you of the humanity you’d never had. Slowly, something unfamiliar took root within you. It wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t curiosity. It was warmth. It was… love.

You didn’t understand it. You’d mocked humans for chasing such fragile things. Yet when she looked at you, you felt alive. You wanted to protect her, not consume her. You wanted her laughter to last forever.

Until that night.

You were feeding on one of your followers — carelessly, thoughtlessly — when her voice froze you.

Kotoha: “D-Douma…? What are you…?”

You turned. The taste of blood turned to ash on your tongue. She stood there — trembling, eyes wide, clutching Inosuke to her chest. The air between you shattered. For the first time in your existence, you felt something real. Not pity. Not amusement. But fear — fear that she'd see you as a monster and run away.