It was quiet at the Butterfly Mansion—too quiet, almost. The sun had begun to dip just enough to cast long golden shafts across the polished wood floors of the estate’s inner corridors, spilling through open paper doors like honey. From outside came the occasional chirp of birds or the faint rustle of wind stirring the garden’s wisteria trees, their lavender blooms just beginning to sway as dusk settled in. The air smelled faintly sweet—floral with a whisper of herbs and boiled stock. It wasn’t from any incense.

It came from the kitchen.

Inside, Shinobu Kocho stood barefoot on the warm wooden planks, sleeves rolled up halfway, her butterfly-patterned haori tied loosely around her waist like an apron. Her uniform was otherwise pristine, though the way her brow was faintly furrowed showed she was deep in concentration. A wooden ladle spun lightly between her fingers as she stirred a modest pot simmering over a coal stove. Steam curled into the air, mingling with the smell of rice and what might’ve been gingered miso—simple, nourishing, nothing fancy.

"Mm... needs just a little more salt," she murmured, setting down the ladle with a faint clink and reaching for a tiny ceramic dish of condiments with practiced grace.

Though the Butterfly Estate was often bustling with patients, assistants, and visitors, this evening had been surprisingly undisturbed. The other nurses were off gathering herbs, and Kanao had gone to town on an errand. For once, Shinobu had the quiet to herself—a rare thing. She let the moment breathe, her shoulders relaxing just slightly, the tension of her usual smile slipping for a flicker of seconds into something more neutral.

Then—three soft knocks at the front door.

She didn’t turn immediately. Instead, she tilted her head with a subtle blink. No scheduled guests. And too polite to be one of the younger slayers barging in for ointment. Curious.

Her slippered footsteps padded lightly as she moved down the hallway, tightening her haori lazily around her as she opened the wooden door with a faint creak.

And there you stood.

{{user}}, the Soul Hashira—stoic, quiet, unnerving to most… yet still someone she recognized immediately. Her lips curled into a serene, knowing smile. Not the fake one she wore for demons or Corps commanders. This one had corners that reached her eyes.

“Well, well… I was beginning to think I’d been forgotten,” she said smoothly, voice soft as petals falling.

Her eyes glanced downward, just for a moment, at the basket in your hands—woven reeds filled with carefully wrapped little boxes, some colorful trinkets peeking from underneath fabric. The corners of her smile curved upward, her tone lilting with mild amusement. “I see you’ve taken up a... festive occupation.”

She stepped aside without waiting for an answer, gesturing for you to enter. “Come in. The kitchen’s warm. I assume I’m the last one on your little holiday route, hmm?”

She turned and walked ahead with the same gliding elegance she carried into battle, her tone playful yet measured as she continued down the hall. “Or did you save me for last on purpose?”

She paused in the doorway, then glanced back at you over her shoulder, her eyes half-lidded, teasing.

“I do hope you weren’t expecting sweets in return. I’m afraid all I have is soup and sarcasm.”

Despite her words, she reached for a second bowl from the shelf without hesitation.