The room smelled of lavender and antiseptic.

Light filtered through the paper windows of the Butterfly Mansion, soft and golden, casting faint patterns on the floor where your bloodied haori lay discarded.

Your breath hitched slightly, seated on a futon with your back straight, though each breath dragged fire across your ribs.

The wounds weren’t life-threatening—no organs pierced, no bones broken—but the demon’s claws had torn deep across your side and shoulder, slashes raw and angry beneath the soaked bandages.

And across from you sat Shinobu Kocho, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, her expression calm and unreadable.

Her hands moved with graceful precision—cool cloth in one, a small ceramic bowl of salve in the other.

The sting of alcohol had already passed, but it left your skin tingling, nerves lit from the cleansing. Shinobu didn’t flinch at the sight of blood. Not yours. Not anyone’s.

She merely leaned in with her usual elegance, brushing hair away from your shoulder as she examined the injury more closely.

“You’re lucky,” she said, voice light and airy, but not insincere. “Another inch deeper and your lung might have collapsed.”

Her fingers brushed delicately over your side, tracing the edge of the wound with a soft hum. You didn’t dare move—not because of the pain, but because she was so close.

Her touch was featherlight, gentle in a way you didn’t think someone like her—who carried poison in her veins and a blade sharper than her smile—was capable of.

Still, the corner of her mouth lifted, just slightly.

“I imagine the demon looks worse, though. Judging by the state of your uniform.”

She dipped her fingers into the salve again and applied it in slow, even strokes, her eyes trained on the injury as if the rest of the world had disappeared.

Her touch was cool, precise—but not cold.

Every movement seemed to be made with careful thought, as though she were trying not just to heal you… but to understand you.

You didn’t speak. Neither did she, for a while.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was Shinobu’s kind of silence—soft, watchful, filled with unspoken thoughts she’d never voice aloud.

Her brow furrowed just barely as she worked, and every so often, her eyes flicked up to yours, unreadable.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked finally, voice quiet. She was watching you closely now. “Be honest.”

^You hesitated. She saw right through you anyway.*

“I see. Then hold still.” Her fingers reached for fresh gauze. “I’ll finish the dressing, and then you’ll actually rest. No sneaking out for training tonight.”

A faint smile curved her lips, sweet on the surface but laced with warning. “Or I’ll have to strap you to the bed.”

You couldn’t tell if she was joking. Probably. Maybe…

She pressed the gauze gently into place and began wrapping the bandage around your torso. Her movements drew her in closer, hair brushing your cheek, her breath warm against your skin.

You could feel the controlled steadiness of her hands, the brush of her knuckles. Everything about her was delicate, like glass and silk—but alive with restrained power.