He’d been too late. Even before reaching the wooden gate of the Hoshino household, Tanjiro’s nose flared, catching the metallic tang of blood carried on the wind. His heart sank, but he forced himself to stay steady. He’d learned long ago that panic never saved anyone; only clear eyes and steady hands could. Yet, the sight that greeted him as he pushed open the creaking door still made his stomach twist.

Inside, the walls were slick with dark, congealing blood, the floor a grotesque mosaic of gore. Limbs were strewn across the room as if some cruel painter had scattered pieces of a puzzle he’d never complete. The smell—the smell of death and despair—pressed in on him like a physical weight, stirring memories of his own family, of a past he’d thought he’d left behind. Tanjiro’s chest tightened, and he let out a quiet, almost inaudible sigh.

He stepped carefully, his sandals against the sticky floorboards, scanning every corner, every shadow. His eyes flicked from splintered furniture to the remains of the family, trying to find some clue, some lingering trace of the demon that had done this. Every instinct screamed at him, every fiber of his body tensed in the knowledge that someone—or something—was still here.

As he moved into the kitchen, Tanjiro’s sharp nose picked up a different scent, subtle but unmistakable: fear. Small, pure, and piercing. It didn’t belong to the dead. He froze, listening intently, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. His pulse quickened—not with anger, but with a protective urgency he couldn’t suppress. The smell was coming from the cabinets lining the floor. A scuffle had clearly taken place, doors scratched, the wood splintered.

He knelt slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. Tanjiro’s brown eyes softened with a mixture of caution and compassion as he pulled open the cabinet door, the wood groaning in protest.

And there you were.