The sun had just begun its slow descent, casting long, golden shadows across the headquarters of the Demon Slayer Corps. The meeting had concluded—formalities, congratulations, the weight of the Hashira title settling in your chest like both armor and burden. The others had offered their greetings, their nods, their respect. And now, with the wind cooler against your skin, you made your way down the stone path that would lead you home. Each step felt heavier than the last, your mind adrift in memories and doubts, until—

Thump.

A hand. Firm. Calloused. Familiar. Resting against your upper back.

You froze.

Your heart skipped once, then twice. The warmth of the hand was real, grounding. The voice that followed felt like a ghost. “{{user}}…?”

It was quiet. Strained. A voice that once called your name a hundred times with laughter, mischief, or anger… now hollowed with time and pain. You turned. And there he stood—Sanemi Shinazugawa.

His face was older, harsher. Scarred. His white hair tousled in the wind like it used to be when you both ran through the wheat fields outside your village. His uniform clung tight to his lean frame, marked with countless battles. But his eyes… those stormy, fire-forged eyes… they were the same. The same ones that used to glint with reckless ideas and silent promises to protect.

You hadn’t seen him since that night, the night blood painted his doorway, the night he disappeared with Genya. For years, you wondered if he lived. If he had become a demon, or died trying to slay one. Now, he was here.

A Hashira—like you.