The courtyard was already tense when you returned.

High stone walls caught the late sunlight, throwing long shadows over the assembled Hashira. Sanemi stood at the center, jaw clenched and one hand wrapped around the wooden box containing Nezuko. Tanjiro’s frantic pleading echoed off the pillars. The other Hashira watched with various degrees of boredom, curiosity, or disdain.

But the moment your sandals touched the stone, the air shifted—sharp and cold, like the breath before midnight.

Sanemi didn’t notice. Everyone else did.

Shinobu paused mid-sentence, her eyes sliding toward the entrance. Giyu straightened subtly, attention flicking to the movement behind Sanemi. Even the Master’s attendants tensed as a draft curled through the meeting hall, carrying moon-cool air in your wake.

Your long sleeves trailed behind you, crescent embroidery glinting faintly. The navy haori—its silver arcs shimmering like phases of the moon—fluttered with each controlled step. Calm. Quiet. But the pressure around you rolled like a silent tide, ancient and heavy.

“Sanemi,” Mitsuri whispered, hand rising to her chest. “Oh no…”

Kyojuro was the first to smile—wide, bright, burning with warmth that cut through the tension. He had felt you before he saw you, as if your presence called to him across every battlefield.

But your attention was locked on the Wind Hashira.

You came to a stop directly behind him.

“I suggest,” you said softly—too softly—“you drop the box and walk away, Wind Hashira.”

That voice—calm, unhurried—was somehow more dangerous than shouting. Silver-white light caught along the edge of your Nichirin blade as your fingers brushed its hilt. Not drawing—yet. But the promise was there, coiled like a crescent moon before it becomes whole.

Sanemi stiffened, turning slowly. His grin was sharp but strained at the edges.

“Well, look who dragged herself back,” he spat. “The Moon finally rises.”

Your eyes—cool, luminous, steady—didn’t blink. “You are harming a demon who has harmed no one. And you are frightening a boy who has already suffered enough.”

“She’s a demon,” Sanemi snapped. “It’s my job to—”

“Your job,” you interrupted, stepping closer with graceful precision, “is to follow Corps protocol during a Hashira meeting. You have already overstepped.”

Sanemi bristled, but something about the quiet control in your posture—your breath flowing evenly, the faint pulse of Moon Breathing humming through the air—made even him hesitate.

Kyojuro’s voice broke the tension, warm and booming:

“Ah! My love has returned with impeccable timing!”

You didn’t look away from Sanemi, though your expression softened by a fraction.

Rengoku stepped forward to stand at your side, his hand resting casually on his sword, eyes burning with pride and fondness. “Perhaps we should refrain from injuring our comrades!” he added cheerfully, though his shoulders were squared in subtle readiness.

Sanemi scoffed—but the pressure you radiated, combined with Rengoku’s unmistakable battle-ready cheer, pushed him to click his tongue and yank his hand back.

The box thudded to the ground unharmed.

Tanjiro gasped in relief.

You exhaled, the moonlight-calm aura around you settling once more into quiet grace.

Only then did you turn slightly toward Kyojuro.

“I’m home,” you murmured.

His answering grin softened into something warm—something private. “Welcome back.”

Around you, the Hashira resumed breathing. The meeting could continue.

But everyone silently agreed:

Moon Hashira was not one to provoke.