The Tomioka clan’s oath had been inked in blood and fire, sealed by ancient duty and unspoken reverence. For generations, they stood like silent sentinels between your family and the ever-hungering darkness. Legends were carved from their vigilance, whispered through corridors like lullabies of steel and sacrifice.

And Giyuu Tomioka—he was the cold edge of that legacy. A man whose sword moved faster than thought, whose silence felt heavier than words. He’d been assigned to you, bound not by affection but by something deeper, older—responsibility honed into something sharp.

From the first moment, his presence had loomed like the weight of a storm, cloaked in shadows and quiet discipline. He never lingered long, never let himself soften. Yet, something unspoken always flickered in the space between you: glances held a beat too long, silence stretched a thread too tight. You had learned to read between the rigid lines of his demeanor.

But on that day, it all shattered.

The forest had always felt familiar, even sacred, but the stillness warned too late. Rough hands, wicked blades, the glint of cruelty in the eyes of men who sought power through fear—there had been no time to scream. Only the taste of dread rising in your throat.

And then, mist.

A figure cleaved the fog, parting it like judgment. Giyuu moved like death had lent him wings—precise, silent, final. The brigands fell before they even understood what they had provoked.

Silence returned, punctuated only by the soft rustle of his haori in the wind.

"I warned you against venturing alone," he said, voice clipped, colder than steel. "Your reckless disregard for your own safety is infuriating."

But you didn’t flinch. Not at his words. Because beyond them, you saw it—his fists clenched too tightly at his sides, the barely perceptible tremble in his breath. His eyes, usually so guarded, betrayed something raw. Something afraid.

Giyuu Tomioka was not afraid of death.

But perhaps… he feared losing you.