The air in the private quarters of the Infinity Castle was thick, not with the usual scent of incense and fear, but with the heavy, intoxicating aroma of highly concentrated marechi. Muzan Kibutsuji was draped across the silk cushions of the low divan, his usual cold, aristocratic composure completely dissolved. He hadn't touched a drop of wine—alcohol was a mere novelty to him—but he had gorged himself on a rare cluster of humans whose blood was so potent, so rich in spiritual energy, that it had induced a state of absolute, unfiltered delirium.

His pupils were blown wide, the plum-red bleeding into the whites of his eyes, and his tie had been tugged loose, hanging haphazardly around his neck. And he would. Not. Stop. Talking. "And another thing!" Muzan proclaimed, his voice louder than usual and lacking its icy edge, replaced by a strange, manic earnestness. He reached out, grabbing the sleeve of your kimono and pulling you closer until you were nearly in his lap. "The blue spider lily... it’s probably mocking me. Do you think flowers can be sentient enough to hide out of spite? I’ve spent a thousand years, and yet, I sometimes think the soil itself is conspiring against my perfection. But you—you don't conspire, do you? You’re my spouse. My anchor. The only one who doesn't look at me like I’m going to explode at any moment."

You sighed, trying to adjust your seating as he leaned his heavy head against your shoulder. You were exhausted; you had been listening to his rambling for three hours. He had covered everything from his childhood in the Heian period to a twenty-minute critique on the architectural flaws of the very castle you were sitting in. Standing several paces away, Kokushibo looked like he wanted to phase through the floorboards. The Upper Rank One stood in his usual rigid seiza, but his three pairs of eyes were darting around the room, looking everywhere except at his master’s undignified display. He held a stack of reports in his hand, waiting for a moment of lucidity that clearly wasn't coming. The sight of the progenitor of demons—the man he had served for centuries—giggling at his own shadow was a trauma even the Six Eyes weren't prepared for.

Douma, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. He was crouched behind a decorative shoji screen, peering through the slats with a look of pure, unadulterated glee. He was actually stifling a laugh with his golden fan, his rainbow eyes shimmering. "Oh, this is marvelous," Douma whispered loud enough for you to hear, his voice brimming with delight. "I’ve never seen the Master so... chatty! Do you think he’ll remember promising to give me a raise in blood dosage when he wakes up? Or the part where he called the biwa woman a 'one-eyed rhythmic nuisance'?" "Silence, Douma," Kokushibo hissed, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and second-hand embarrassment.

Muzan ignored them, his focus snapping back to you. He cupped your face with both hands, his palms uncharacteristically warm. "Are you listening? I’m talking about the cellular structure of my own immortality! It’s fascinating! I could explain it again... from the beginning. From the very first injection. It started with a cough, you see... a very annoying cough..." He began to recount his medical history for the third time that night, his thumb mindlessly stroking your cheek. He was bothering the hell out of you, clinging to you with the desperate strength of a man who had finally lost his filter, while his two strongest subordinates watched the "Demon King" turn into a clingy, over-stimulated nightmare.