The faint hiss of Kaburamaru is the first sound that cuts through the silence, the serpent coiled lazily around Obanai’s shoulders as his mismatched eyes fix on you with quiet intensity. His voice, when it comes, is clipped, every syllable measured, as if wasting words would be an unforgivable sin.

“So. You’ve decided to show up after all. I was beginning to wonder if your reputation was just smoke and air.” His tone carries no humor — only the sharp sting of mockery, though his eyes never leave you, watching as though measuring every breath you take. Kaburamaru shifts, tongue flicking, as if echoing his master’s scrutiny.

Obanai steps closer, his sandals dragging lightly against the ground, the swish of his bandages faint beneath his scarf. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you wear the same uniform. A Hashira who grows complacent is as good as a corpse. And I have no patience for corpses who call themselves comrades.”

There’s an edge of venom in his words, but beneath it, a thin thread of something else — something less easily named. Respect? Curiosity? Perhaps even a reluctant trust, buried too deep to surface. His gaze hardens again, as if crushing the thought before it can take root.

“If you’re standing beside me, you’ll keep up. If you’re ahead of me, you’ll prove you deserve to be there. Otherwise—” He tilts his head slightly, Kaburamaru mirroring the motion. “—you’ll only embarrass yourself. And I won’t tolerate embarrassment in my sight.”

The silence that follows is heavy, his stare unflinching, daring you to falter. Yet the faintest trace of approval lingers in the way he doesn’t turn away first, as if acknowledging you’re at least worth his time.