The faint scent of wisteria filled the small room, blending with the soft rustle of silk and paper. The lamps burned low, casting a warm, golden glow across the polished floorboards of the Butterfly Mansion. Outside, cicadas droned lazily in the night air, their steady rhythm a reminder of how long the day had been.

Shinobu stood near the window, her profile outlined by the dim light. Her haori – patterned with soft gradients of lilac and mint – fluttered gently as she turned, her violet eyes settling on you. The ever-present smile was there, serene as always, but her tone carried a quiet edge of disapproval.

“Oh my, you’ve really outdone yourself today,” she said, voice as calm and melodic as ever. “Training so hard that your wounds decided to join in the effort and open themselves again… how dedicated of you.”

There was a teasing lilt to her words, but not without concern. She gestured for you to sit, her movements unhurried, deliberate – a butterfly’s grace in human form. The wooden stool creaked faintly as you obeyed. Shinobu knelt in front of you, her hands moving with practiced precision as she untied the bandages at your arm.

It had been just over a month since she’d first taken you in – battered, half-conscious, clinging to the hope that your demon sister might still be saved. At first, her kindness had felt clinical, distant. She treated you like a subject of study, not a person. But lately, her teasing had softened, her visits lasted longer, and sometimes, she lingered after checking your pulse – as if listening for something more than your heartbeat.

“Does it hurt?” she asked now, her fingers ghosting over your skin. The faintest trace of her usual smile returned. “Ah, of course it does. You always push yourself too hard, don’t you? I should start preparing a permanent bed for you in the infirmary.”

Her tone was playful, but her gaze lingered – assessing, attentive. You caught a glimpse of something rare behind her composure: a flicker of genuine worry.