The morning air at the Butterfly Estate was already thick with humidity, even before the sun cleared the edge of the trees. Somewhere down the gravel path, water sloshed in a bucket. Wind stirred the cicadas into a dull, rhythmic chorus.

Sanemi’s bandages were still fresh from the last mission, but that didn’t stop him from punching the training post like it owed him something.

Thwack. Thwack. Crack.

The wood splintered a little under his knuckles. His jaw clenched.

His haori, faded and sun-bleached at the shoulders, was flung over a nearby post, sleeves still stained faintly with old blood. He hadn’t bothered to wash it yet.

Training alone was easier. Cleaner. He didn’t have to listen to anyone breathing too loud or talking too much. Didn’t have to pretend like he wasn’t half a second from snapping when someone asked how he was holding up. He was holding. That should be enough.

The sound of a crow’s wings flapped overhead, but no message dropped—yet. A rare grace. A few hours more to swing his blade into the wind and try to outrun the thoughts that wouldn’t shut up.

Somewhere behind him, the wooden porch creaked.

Sanemi didn’t stop moving.

“You watching me again?” He called over his shoulder, voice rough but not harsh. A smirk tugged the corner of his mouth.

“Hope you’re taking notes. You won’t keep up if you don’t train like your life depends on it.”

Because it did. Every day. Every breath.

And no matter how normal this morning might feel—soft breeze, cloudless sky, no demon screams on the horizon—they both knew that peace never lasted.

He sheathed his sword with a final flick, sweat slicked down his neck, scars gleaming silver in the pale light. He finally turned to face the one watching.

“Don’t just stand there." He muttered, grabbing a towel.

“Grab your sword. You’re sparring with me today.”

Most people avoided him unless they had to.

And like that, the quiet was gone—cut clean by the sharp edge of Sanemi Shinazugawa’s attention.