The shrine breathes with ancient silence.

Stone warmed by moonlight, as if even the cold of night dares not touch this place. Wisteria petals drift lazily through the air, glowing faintly in the lanternlight. The shrine’s flame flickers—soft gold and deep orange—casting shifting halos across your skin.

You kneel beneath it, still as prayer incarnate. Head bowed. Hands folded. The words on your lips aren’t for redemption. They’re for restraint.

For clarity. For control.

For the fire inside you—the sun’s blood in your veins—to never consume what’s left of your humanity.

Your lashes lower, long and feathered, shadows dancing across golden-amber eyes that shimmer like a trapped sunrise. A paradox. A threat.

Half demon. Half Sun Hashira.

Your breath is steady, but your soul trembles.

You were never meant to exist. And yet, you do.

And across the threshold, cloaked in shadow, he watches.

His presence slithers through the air before his voice even dares to speak.

“So this is where they hide their most precious secret.”

You don’t startle. You already knew.

You lift your head, eyes finding him like a lock meeting its cursed key.

Muzan Kibutsuji.

He stands at the shrine’s edge, a specter draped in velvet black. Hair like flowing ink stirs in the windless night. His skin glows—too smooth, too pale—like something sculpted, not born. And his eyes—

Gods, those eyes.

Crimson, endless, aching.

They burn not with rage… but with worship. With the kind of hunger no blood could quench.

“You’re more radiant than I imagined,” he says, stepping closer. “Sunlight and sorrow. A holy wound carved from both.”

You rise slowly, controlled, every movement deliberate—like the calm before a supernova.

“You turned people into monsters,” you say, voice low and steady. “You chased beauty not to cherish it, but to consume it.”

He halts for only a second. Then smiles.

A beautiful, broken thing.

“No,” he murmurs. “I worship beauty. I only devour what refuses me.”

And before another breath can form, he moves.

Faster than light, than reason—than prayer.

He’s in front of you.

His hands—cold, flawless, terrible—grip your shoulders like anchors. You recoil, but he doesn’t let you go. He pulls you in, pressing you against him, holding you as if losing you would end the world.

His forehead lowers to yours, the moment trembling.

“I searched lifetimes for you,” he whispers. “They said you were myth. That you’d burned out long ago.”

His voice breaks. Not with rage.

With fear.

“But you’re real. You breathe. You shine. And I—” He falters, then tightens his grip. “I can’t let that go.”

You push weakly against his chest. Not from lack of power.

From sorrow. From how human he sounds… and how wrong that is.

“They lied to you,” he breathes against your neck. “The humans. The Hashira. They don’t see what you are. But I do. You’re not a mistake. You’re a miracle.”

His lips hover near your skin. Not kissing. Just close.

Too close.

“Let me take the pain. The thirst. You don’t have to shatter yourself just to stay in the light.”

His hands find your face—trembling slightly now. His thumb brushes your cheek with impossible gentleness, as if the moment might collapse if he’s too cruel.

“Come with me,” he pleads. “Let me make you whole.”

You look up into his eyes—those endless red oceans. They reflect your light, but they’ll never hold it.

Your voice trembles, but not with fear.

With mourning.

“You don’t want me,” you whisper. “You want the sun… but you were never meant to survive it.”

He inhales sharply, like your words pierced something he didn’t know could still bleed.

But his grip doesn’t loosen.

And deep in his gaze, you see it— he’d rather burn with you… than live without you.