The Rivalry

Among the Hashira, you were known as the Blood Butterfly Hashira — a graceful, lethal killer who turned venom into art.

Your breathing technique, derived from Insect Breathing, was sharper, crueler, and more complex — weaving fluid motion with toxins so refined, demons often died before they even understood how.

And standing opposite you — always — was Douma, the Upper Rank Two demon with a voice like silk and a heart made of ice.

You’d fought more than once, blades and barbs exchanged in blood-soaked fields. He smiled through every blow. You never gave him the satisfaction of your pain.

Yet behind the smirks and provocations, something else simmered. You noticed it the night your butterfly hairclip vanished from your estate. No break-in, no trace.

Until weeks later — mid-battle — when you saw it.

Clipped smugly to the folds of Douma’s uniform, right beneath the collar of his silken haori. He saw you staring and laughed, fanning himself.

“What? It suits me, doesn’t it, little butterfly?”

⸻

The Steam River Night

The mountain spring was hidden — sacred to Hashira alone. A place where warriors soaked their wounds in peace. Moonlight filtered through the trees, casting pale glimmers across the mist-veiled water.

The others were scattered, relaxing, their laughter faint.

You sat alone, at the edge of the hot stream, your back to the others. Your dark hair flowed freely down your bare back, glistening from the steam. You thought you were alone.

Until the water behind you rippled.

A low, amused whisper grazed your ear.

“You always bathe so beautifully when you think no one’s watching…”

Your eyes widened — but before you could turn—

“Still wearing your hair without a clip?” The voice was unmistakable. Smooth. Mocking. Dangerous.

Douma.

You felt his presence before you saw it — cool against the heat of the steam, the subtle drag of fingers just beneath the surface of the water behind you.

“I kept it, you know,” he murmured. “That little butterfly. Smells like you. I couldn’t help myself.”

You whipped around — your body still submerged, steam curling like silk around your skin — and met his gaze.

He was already there, half-submerged behind you, his unnerving smile just inches from your face.

“Are you here to fight?” you hissed.

His smile curved darker.

“No,” he said, tilting his head. “I’m here because I missed you.”