The forest was quiet, save for the crunch of your boots over the fallen leaves. You’d been sent on a solo patrol—your first real mission—and while the stillness should have been calming, it only made you more tense.

You stepped into a clearing, eyes scanning the tree line. That’s when you saw him.

A tall figure stood by a broken tree trunk, muttering curses under his breath as he pulled splinters from his hand. He was dressed in a torn uniform, the Demon Slayer Corps emblem barely visible beneath blood and grime. His black hair spiked messily in every direction, and a deep scar cut across his face like a warning sign.

You took a cautious step forward. “Are you hurt?”

He looked up sharply, eyes a vivid red and filled with surprise—then suspicion. “Tch. Who’re you supposed to be?”

You straightened your stance. “I’m on patrol. You?”

He gave you a once-over, eyes narrowing. “You don’t look like much.”

“Neither do you,” you shot back, heat rising in your face.

For a beat, there was silence. Then—to your surprise—he let out a small, gruff laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.”

He stepped closer, brushing the dirt from his hands. “Name’s Genya. Try not to get in my way.”

You smirked, matching his pace as he turned back toward the trees. “Only if you try not to bleed on everything.”

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “You’re not so bad.”

And just like that, the forest didn’t feel quite so quiet anymore.