You couldn’t stand him. He was loud, reckless, and far too brash for your liking. But what irritated you most was how he wore his scars like trophies — as if every reckless fight was something to brag about.

The feeling was mutual. He never missed a chance to throw a snide remark your way, always quick to criticize, always trying to prove something.

“You’re late again,” he snapped, his tone dripping with disdain. “Honestly, you’re a disgrace of a Hashira. It’s pathetic— you’re pathetic.”

His words sliced through the cold night air as you arrived at the scene, blades ready, demons lurking somewhere in the shadows. You met his glare with one of your own, jaw tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.