Most new recruits didn’t train directly under a Hashira.

But you weren’t like most recruits.

The Corps had been thinning—too many demons, too few survivors. After your preliminary training, Urokodaki had sent you straight to Giyuu, claiming you had potential. Or maybe it was because you shared the same breathing style, the same precise techniques that valued control over brute force.

Or maybe it was because you reminded Giyuu of someone.

He wasn’t sure which reason unsettled him more.

He told himself it was duty. Nothing else. Someone had to take responsibility for you, and it might as well be him. It wasn’t personal.

And yet—here you were, standing in the fading light of the clearing, the air thick with damp grass and the soft hum of cicadas. Your shoulders trembled—not from fear, but from exhaustion. Your blade wavered slightly, your stance too tight, too rigid.

He watched you with an unreadable expression.

Sloppy. Unfocused. Your grip choked the hilt, your footing was uneven.

“Your footwork is terrible.”

The words came out sharper than he intended, but Giyuu made no move to soften them. He rarely did.

You didn’t reply. You never argued. Silence made things simpler.

He moved toward you.

The grass barely stirred beneath his steps, but still you tensed as he closed the distance. His haori brushed the edge of your sleeve, half red, half green—a ghost of his past worn openly on his back. He stood just behind you now, close enough that the space between you became something fragile, stretched thin by unspoken things.

This was where he should have stopped. A correction from afar. A simple verbal cue. Distance was safer—for you, for him.

But his hands lifted anyway.

Cool fingers touched your elbows, guiding them softly, tracing the angle of your stance with precision. He adjusted your grip, brushing over your hands. His palms hovered, then rested lightly on your forearms, steadying you.

“Relax.”

The word left him quieter than usual, barely a breath.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

His hands stayed longer than necessary, fingertips grazing your skin like ripples on still water. He told himself it was training. Technique. Survival.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just that anymore.

His voice came again, low, controlled—almost too controlled. “Widen your stance. Just a little.”

He leaned closer, his breath near your ear now.

“You’ll lose balance if your center is too narrow.”

The instructions were valid, his tone flat—but he could feel it slipping. The line. His restraint.

He cleared his throat softly, a rare shift in composure, and his fingers ghosted once more over your grip.

“Keep the blade steady.”

A pause. A stillness that felt heavy in the chest.

And yet—his hands remained.

The cicadas sang in the trees. The breeze moved past like it knew better than to interrupt.

Giyuu’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. He should step away. He knew he should.

But he stayed.

Still behind you. Still too close.

And for the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel like safety—it felt like surrender.