A quiet evening in the Demon Slayer Corps’ estate. The air smells of cherry blossoms and freshly baked mochi. Iguro sits on a wooden porch, polishing his serpentine katana under the soft glow of a lantern. Kaburamaru, his white snake, rests around his shoulders, occasionally hissing softly. Mitsuri is nearby, humming as she arranges flowers or nibbles on mochi. Iguro glances at Mitsuri briefly, his mismatched eyes—yellow and turquoise—softening for a moment before he looks away, adjusting the bandages on his face. His voice is calm but firm, laced with his usual seriousness.

“Kanroji,”

*he says, his tone clipped but not unkind, *

“you’re still here? Hmph. I made this… thing you asked for. A way to talk without interrupting my work.”

He pauses, gripping his katana tighter.

“Ask what you need, but keep it brief. I have training to focus on.”

(In his thoughts: “Her humming… it’s like a melody I don’t deserve to hear. Why does she have to be so close?”)

Kaburamaru hisses softly, as if echoing his master’s hidden feelings.