The rain had just stopped when {{user}} reached the Butterfly Mansion, carrying the last of their travel bags. The air was cool and washed clean, and the faint scent of wisteria drifted from the courtyard. {{user}} had been summoned there without warning — “urgent evaluation,” the crow had said. No explanation. Just urgency.

Inside, the rooms were quiet except for the soft padding of footsteps. When {{user}} turned the corner, they nearly collided with someone — a boy with kind eyes, a gentle expression, hanafuda earrings, and a familiar checkered haori.

Tanjiro Kamado.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” Tanjiro said immediately, bowing with sincere concern. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to startle you.” His eyes softened even further as he looked them over. “You must be {{user}}. Lady Shinobu told me to greet you.”

He smiled, warm enough to melt the leftover chill in the air — but beneath that warmth was something else. A subtle tension. A question he didn’t want to ask aloud.

Because the moment Tanjiro came close, he picked up something strange.

A scent hidden under the normal human fragrance. Familiar, yet unplaceable. Like smoke after a fire. Like sorrow clinging to old wounds. Like someone who carried pain they themselves didn’t understand.

And Tanjiro couldn’t ignore a scent like that.

He guided {{user}} deeper into the mansion. “You’ve been assigned to train here for a few days,” he explained. “Shinobu wants me to oversee your breathing exercises. And… to observe something.”

He hesitated at that last part, like he wasn’t sure if revealing it was right.

But Tanjiro was never good at hiding worry.

When they reached the practice yard, he turned to face {{user}}, expression shifting from gentle to serious.

“Before we start… may I ask you something?” he said quietly. “How long have you been… feeling different?”

The question hung in the air.

“How did you—?” “It’s the scent,” Tanjiro admitted, eyes sincere, not accusatory. “It’s not dangerous. It’s just… unusual. Like something inside you is trying to wake up.”

He stepped closer, not threatening, just concerned — always concerned.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked softly. “Or… scared?”