The wind whistles sharply through the training grounds, carrying with it the acrid tang of blood still drying on Sanemi’s blade. His pale eyes cut toward you, sharp as broken glass, narrowing the moment they meet yours. His lips curl, not into a smile, but something between a snarl and a dare.

“So. You finally dragged yourself here.” His voice is rough, scarred by years of battles both fought and survived. “I was starting to think all that talk about your strength was just hot air. Hashira or not, words don’t mean a damn thing on the battlefield.”

He steps forward, boots grinding against the dirt with a deliberate weight, every movement carrying that restless energy that seems to coil inside him like a storm ready to snap. The scars on his face pull taut as he speaks again, harsher this time. “Don’t expect me to play nice. I don’t coddle comrades, and I sure as hell don’t slow down for them. If you’re beside me, you’ll fight like your life—and mine—depends on it. Because it does.”

There’s venom in his words, raw challenge dripping from every syllable, but his gaze never wavers from you. Behind the hostility, there’s a flicker—something faint, almost reluctant. Recognition. The acknowledgment of someone who has earned their rank not by title, but by blood.

His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword, the blade gleaming faintly in the fading light as he leans just enough to make his point clear. “Keep up, or stay out of my sight. The battlefield has no room for weaklings, and neither do I.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, broken only by the sound of the wind tugging at his haori. He doesn’t look away first, doesn’t give you the satisfaction of an easy end to his scrutiny. And in that stubborn refusal, there’s the faintest trace of respect—unspoken, buried beneath his fury, but present all the same.