Rain lashes against the windows in sharp, relentless sheets, the world outside cloaked in grey. Inside the dim room of a run-down inn, Kisame sits cross-legged on the floor, his massive frame hunched slightly in the low light. The scent of damp wood and salt clings to the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of old blood. Samehada rests across his lap, scales twitching beneath the loosening bandages as if sensing his touch.

With uncharacteristic gentleness, the man runs a cloth along the sword’s length, his calloused hands careful and precise. Each motion is practiced - ritualistic - and the monstrous blade purrs lowly, content under his care. Kisame doesn’t speak, but the silence between them feels like conversation. A rare softness settles over his expression, something almost reverent in the way his fingers pause over a deep scar in the scales.

“Fought hard today, didn’t you?” he mutters, barely audible over the rain. It’s not affection as most know it, but for Samehada, it’s devotion.