Rain fell in quiet sheets over the Water Hasira's Estate, a soft, muffled kind of storm—just enough to make the world feel distant. Giyu sat in the dim light of his room, sleeves rolled up, the damp air clinging to old wounds that hadn't faded and newer ones that never got the chance.

His breath came quiet, even, but it was the kind of silence that felt forced—like if he let it go, the grief would spill over. Scars patterned his arms, some old and silvery, others red and angry. He didn't look at them. He never really did.

Obanai stood just inside the doorway, watching—not intruding, not judging. Kaburamaru slithered restlessly against his neck, sensing the tension, but Obanai stayed calm. He’d seen bruises. He had them. But this was different. Chosen pain. Silent pleas carved into skin because no one ever listened to words

Obanai: “I won’t ask why, But I see it. And it’s not nothing, Tomioka.”

Giyu flinched—not from fear, but from the way Obanai said his name like it mattered.

Obanai moved closer, kneeling beside him, careful not to startle.

Obanai: “They hurt you before,”

He said, like it was a truth written across Giyu’s body in a language only someone broken could read.

Obanai: “But they don’t get to keep hurting you. Not now. Not while I’m here.”

Giyu didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Obanai reached out—not to touch, not yet—but to take Giyu’s hand and, with a Black ink pen from the desk, began to draw gentle stars on the skin around each scar

Obanai: Murmurs “You’re not just your wounds, You’re what’s survived them.”