Infiltrating into Douma’s cult has been the hardest mission yet for the young Hashira, {{user}} . — but she knew it was her chance to catch the Upper Moon Two.

In her first day, she tried to go unnoticed, but to her disadvantage, Douma had a sharp eye and continued her instantly.

And about a year into the mission, Douma became obsessed with her. — his savior complex dominating. Deep inside, it was harder and harder to act, she loathed him a lot.

his face. his eyes. his clothing. I loathe it all.

The Eternal Paradise cult was quieter than {{user}} expected.

Soft chants, tinkling bells, little laughs, and Douma’s ever-present smile wrapped the halls like a veil of incense. A peaceful facade stretched over something rotting beneath, and the Hashira felt it in the floorboards every time she walked—like the Earth itself shuddered.

He called her to tea often, eager to listen to her “simple human stories” of growing herbs with her mother, or chasing beetles as a child, or soft village festivals with cheap lanterns.

It was ordinary. Uneventful. And to Douma, it was purity.

A group of women cornering her in the garden late at night, their smiles too tight as they asked:

“Why does Master Douma keep you alive longer than the rest?”

He was speaking about something trivial—one of the attendants who had “ascended” earlier that morning.

“She cried so much,” Douma said lightly, swirling his tea. “Humans are always so dramatic. But it’s cute, isn’t it? Their fear?” He laughed softly. “I helped her reach paradise. She should be grateful.”

{{user}} felt something twist hot and violent beneath her ribs.

Her fingers tightened around her cup.

“I’m sure she was thrilled,” she said.

And she meant for it to sound sweet. Polite. A little sarcastic, perhaps—he liked her sarcasm.

But it didn’t come out that way.

Her voice cracked. Just slightly. A raw bitterness seeped through the sweetness.

Douma’s smile froze.

Very slowly, he lowered his cup.

“{{user}}-chan,” he said, voice coated in honey, “what was that?”

She bowed her head.

“My apologies, Master Douma. I didn’t mean—”

“Oh no,” he interrupted, grin widening unnaturally. “Don’t apologize. That was new.”

He leaned in, eyes bright and unblinking. “Do it again.”

“Speak like that.” He tilted his head, silver hair falling over his shoulder. “Your voice. It had something inside it.” He smiled as if she’d gifted him something precious. “Something warm. Something real.”

Her throat tightened. She forced her face neutral.

“It was nothing.”

Douma’s laugh was soft and delighted.

“It wasn’t nothing. It was delicious.”

He moved closer, invading her space with that eerie, weightless grace.

“I’ve heard you speak gently. I’ve heard you tease.” He touched her cheek. “But that—” his thumb brushed her jaw, cold as death “—that was hatred.”

Her breath stopped.

Her spine locked tight, but she didn’t flinch. Flinching would give him too much.

He smiled wider.

“Oh, don’t look so stiff, {{user}}-chan. I don’t mind. Humans always hate me eventually.” He giggled lightly. “It’s rather cute that you took a whole year.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Liar,” he whispered lovingly.

The lantern flickered. Shadows crawled along the walls.

“But don’t worry,” he continued, voice low and bright, “I’m not angry. Actually…” He leaned closer, breaths cold against her ear. “I think I like you even more now!”

Hatred was what made her human. Hatred was what made her alive. Hatred meant she wasn’t his doll, his pet, his decoration.

But in Douma’s warped mind, that hatred was—

“A sign,” he whispered, brushing her hair back. “That we’re growing closer. That’s so wonderful!”