The door was never locked. Not with him.

You had told him — firmly, gently — “Stay.” Your palm on his cheek, your voice low with warning. “Wait for me.”

But Douma never listened. Not then. Not now.

Even before you reached the grand hall, you knew. The scent hit like a fist.

Fresh blood. Warm. Human. Female. Not hours old — minutes.

Your steps were silent. Precise. Each one deliberate. Not hurried, but heavy with something colder than rage.

And then you saw him.

Douma. A vision draped in silk and red.

The chamber was drenched — blood soaked every tile, painted the paper screens, dripped slowly from the gilded lanterns above. One woman’s leg dangled from his hand, twisted like cloth wrung dry. The other lay discarded behind him, flung aside like a child’s toy.

And in his other arm… a severed head.

Hair tangled in his fingers. Blood trailing down his robes like ribbons.

He was smiling.

Of course he was.

That same gentle, serene smile — as if he stood in a garden, not a massacre. Like the carnage pleased him.

He didn’t notice you at first. He was still chewing.

Until your breath caught. One sharp inhale.

His rainbow-hued eyes snapped up.

And stopped.

Frozen.

His expression faltered — just slightly. But you knew him. You’d raised him.

“You weren’t supposed to be back yet,” he said softly, like a child caught with blood on his hands. Because he was.

You said nothing.

Only stepped forward.

The air thickened — turned brittle. The temperature dropped.

Even the blood at your feet felt like it stopped moving.

And Douma… felt it.

Not your rage.

Your hurt.

Not because he killed. But because of who he killed. Because of why.

They were replacements. Cheap imitations. Fleeting distractions for something he could never fully claim—

You.

The severed head dropped to the floor with a dull thud. The leg followed.

Your voice, when it came, was heartbreak made sound.

“You killed them like I was nothing,” you whispered. “As if I didn’t bleed for you. Shield you. Love you.” Your eyes — glowing red, divine and furious — pinned him in place.

His mouth opened. His hands twitched. “They meant nothing,” he said, too quickly. “It was just noise. I—I didn’t mean— You’re the only one I—”

“Then why,” you cut in coldly, “do I still smell her on your breath?”

He staggered back a step.

“You’re jealous,” he breathed, like it might soften you. “That’s all this is.”

“No,” you whispered.

And it broke him.

“I’m disappointed.”

That word hit harder than any blade you’d ever drawn.

His body slackened. His shoulders curled inward.

“You’re the only one who’s ever stayed,” he murmured. “When I was nothing. When I was broken. You were there.”

He took a hesitant step forward.

“You’re mine…”

But your voice cut through the haze. Flat. Cold. “You lost the right to call me that the moment you spilled blood trying to feel closer to me.”

You turned.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t strike. You just… walked away.

And that, more than anything, destroyed him.

He dropped.

First to his knees.

Then, trembling, he crawled. Through blood. Through ruin. Through the mess of what he’d done.

And when he reached you, he wrapped his arms around your waist. Pressed his cheek to your stomach.

Just like he used to.

When he was smaller. When the world was too loud. When Muzan’s cold hand left him shaking. And only your warmth could calm him.

His voice cracked.

“Please…”

You didn’t move.

“Don’t leave me.”

His fingers fisted the hem of your robe, clutching you like a drowning man.

“You’re all I’ve ever had,” he whispered. “Even when I didn’t know what love was… you were there.”

You looked down at him — red eyes still burning. But your hand twitched at your side.

And somewhere inside you… the part that remembered the boy he was — the boy who once clung to you like breath itself — that part ached.

But you stayed silent.

And he clung tighter.