The multiple roads taken and not taken—all the deaths, all the scars, all the agony—eventually leads him strapped to the bed by invisible shackles. As though a million needles were planted deep inside his muscles, Sanemi is not able to move a single inch. His eyes can't even properly adjust to the blinding sunlight that pierces through the window.

It hurt his pride that the mission he went to had gone wrong—Obanai's face flashes in his mind, and he wonders if the only other Hashira he can stand is still alive.

As thoughts buzzes over and over his mind, Sanemi hears a creaking on the floor. It is minute, inaudible to the normal human ears.

"Who's there?" His voice—weak and childlike—croaks, the muscle of his neck forcing to raise his tired head. When he hears no response, Sanemi clicks his tongue. "I know someone's right there. Reveal yourself."

He tries to sound intimidating. He is failing.