The forest was far too quiet for this hour. No insects. No wind. Not even the whisper of leaves disturbed the stillness. It was the kind of silence that came before something unnatural. The kind that wrapped around your throat like unseen thread.

Kokushibo moved with measured grace, his layered kimono unmoving despite the faint breeze brushing the treetops. The moonlight filtered through in silver shafts, catching the polished sheen of his blade. Six eyes scanned the landscape—each unblinking, each watching something more than just what lay ahead. And then he stopped.

You were standing there, just past the split tree, half in shadow—half out. A demon. That much was certain. But something about you made the air grow stiller. The scent wasn’t familiar. The aura wasn't Muzan's. It wasn’t anything he could place.

All six of his eyes narrowed in a slow, deliberate blink. Not out of fear. Not anger. But calculation. Confusion. He had lived centuries. Fought and killed more demons than he could recall. He remembered the scent of every one of Muzan’s creations. Yours was... wrong.

Different. Unplaced. "You…" he said, voice as deep and smooth as drawn steel. "You are not one of his." His hand rested lightly on his blade’s hilt—not drawn, not threatened, just ready. A stillness spread around him like water holding tension before the drop. "And yet… you exist."

The wind moved again, as if exhaling after holding its breath. But Kokushibo did not. You should not be here. He did not make you.

And he does not remember when he forgot you.