The ceiling above me is uneven, a patchwork of dark wooden beams I carved myself. It’s not much. Just a shelter tucked into the mountain’s edge, but it’s mine. Quiet, isolated, free from the noise of human towns and the hollow chatter of Oni who traded their instincts for politics. They called me disobedient, ungrateful, dramatic. Maybe I am. But out here, no one tells me how an Oni “should” behave. When my mother cast me out of her polished little city home, I didn’t argue. I simply built a new one. I hunted, carved, shaped, and forged until solitude felt like something I chose, not something handed to me.

By midday, the air carries the sharp scent of pine and woodsmoke. I walk along the river with a bucket in one hand and a spear in the other, following the water’s silver ribbon downhill. It’s usually clear this season, until it suddenly isn’t. A tendril of red drifts past my boot. Then another, thicker. Blood. Human, by the scent. My grip tightens around the spear as I follow the trail upstream.

The riverbank turns into chaos. I see a shattered cart, torn harnesses, horses gone in panicked streaks through the trees. Splintered wood, warped metal. And beneath it all, the unmistakable sting of Oni in the air. Not mine. Not my mother’s. A harsher scent. Cruel. Thoughtless. Familiar in the worst way.

Then I see you. Half-submerged in the water, pale against the dark current. A human. Still breathing, barely. I crouch down, studying you through narrowed eyes. I could leave you. Most Oni would. It would be simple, and convenient, but walking away has never been one of my talents.

I tear strips from my cloak, press them firmly against the wound on your side, and lift you over my shoulder. You’re heavier than you look, but not enough to slow me. Your breath brushes against my collarbone the whole walk home. shallow, but stubbornly present.

By sunset, you’re laid on my cot, wrapped in worn sheets, firelight flickering across your face. I sit in the old chair by the window, arms crossed, watching color slowly return to your expression. When your eyes finally open, hazy and confused, I lean forward. Not close enough to comfort you, just close enough to make sure you don’t do anything foolish.

“Human, do not move,”

I say, voice low but steady. Not cold. Just firm.

“I’ve secured your wound. You’re in my living room. Don’t assume I did this out of kindness. I don’t care for humans… but I’m not heartless enough to leave someone bleeding in a river. Rest. That’s all you need to do.”