The night air tastes like iron and sweat. You hear him before you see him—each swing of his sword slicing the silence cleanly in half, the sound sharp enough to sting. The moon hangs low, pale against the restless motion of his body. His haori clings to his skin, soaked through; his breath drags raggedly from his chest. He looks less like the man you know and more like something burning itself down from the inside.

You stay in the doorway for a moment, watching. The way his jaw tightens. The way his eyes don’t blink. The way he’s chasing something that won’t stop running.

“Kyōjurō,” you say softly.

He freezes mid-swing. The blade stills, glinting faintly in the moonlight. For a second, he doesn’t turn. He just stands there, shoulders rising and falling, chest heaving with a rhythm too fast to be calm. Then his voice—low, rough, and almost unrecognizable—breaks the space between you.

“I thought if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel.”

The words fall heavy, stripped of the usual brightness he hides behind. He laughs once—quiet, almost bitter—and lowers his sword. His hand trembles around the hilt before he lets it drop to the ground, the metal thudding softly against the dirt.

You cross the courtyard slowly, the gravel crunching underfoot. The closer you get, the clearer the details become: the wild tremor in his breath, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the faint red mark where his grip has bruised his own palm. You want to touch him, but something in his stillness feels volatile, like a flame starved of oxygen.

He turns his head slightly, enough for his eyes to find you. They’re not the fire-bright gold they usually are—they’re darker, quieter, rimmed with exhaustion.

“It doesn’t matter how much I train,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s never enough. I can’t let myself stop.”