The battlefield smelled like blood and ash.

Thunder clapped overhead as the sky split with dawn, still distant. Corps members were scattered across the rubble, shouts echoing between broken temple walls and twisted debris. The fight against Muzan raged on in surges—burning, relentless, endless.

You couldn’t feel your legs. You weren’t sure if that was from the numbing cold or the fact that the rubble was pinning your lower half into the cracked foundation. There had been too many demons. Too many limbs and teeth and screams that blurred into one long roar. And now, it was eerily quiet.

You coughed, metal flooding your mouth. Every breath scraped like broken glass.

Footsteps thundered nearby—quick, hard. Not a demon. You knew that gait. That anger.

Sanemi.

Sanemi’s knuckles were bloodied. Not all of it was his.

His haori was torn at the shoulder, chest heaving as he scanned through the thick smoke curling over the fallen. The Wind Hashira didn’t pause—not even when his legs threatened to give, not even when the taste of iron in his mouth got stronger.

Until he saw you.

Crushed beneath a fallen support beam. Your sword lay a few meters away, half snapped. You weren’t moving. Blood soaked the back of your uniform.

“Shit—”

His voice cracked as he slid down the broken embankment, already splattered with blood that wasn’t all his. His eyes found you, wide, wild, the edges of his rage cracking like a dam.

“You—what the hell were you thinking? I told you to stay with Himejima—!”

He dropped to his knees beside you, winded even as he checked your pulse, the trembling in his hands betraying what his voice wouldn’t. You tried to speak, but he leaned in fast, too fast, pressing his forehead to yours, the scent of blood and wind and metal washing over you.

“Don’t.” He growled. “Don’t even try to talk. Don’t try to be a hero now.”

His hands shoving aside debris with reckless strength, uncaring that splinters tore deeper into his palms.

Your eyes fluttered. That was all he needed.

“Oi, dumbass.” He said, almost laughing—but it sounded more like a sob.

“You don’t get to take a nap. We’re not done yet.”

His hand cupped the side of your face before he could think better of it—fingers trembling, smearing blood across your cheek when you tried to talk to him.

“You’re half-dead." He snapped.

“So stop talkin’ like I’m the one we should be worried about.”

In the distance, someone screamed. The ground shuddered. Muzan’s rage cracked the earth again. And still—Sanemi didn’t move.

“I’m gonna get you outta here." He muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice dipped lower, throat tightening.

“I swear to god, if you die on me now…”

Your hand barely brushed his wrist, and he froze. His jaw clenched. You could see the vein in his neck twitch, his breathing jagged.

He gathered you into his arms with terrifying care—like you’d shatter if he gripped too tight—and for a second, as ash rained from the broken sky, Sanemi Shinazugawa allowed himself to hold something like hope.

Even if it felt like it might break him.

The last wind of the battlefield whispered past, catching on the torn edges of his haori.

And somewhere in the distance, the sun began to rise.