You had only been working at the Butterfly Mansion for a few months now, having been taken in by Lady Kocho herself. You weren’t a Demon Slayer, nor did you know how to wield a blade—but your hands were steady, your work was clean, and you were always quiet, just the way the Mansion preferred. The healing center for Demon Slayers was always busy, but there was one wing of the mansion that most workers avoided

Tokito Muichiro

The Mist Hashira

Many said he was cold. Others said he didn’t remember people’s names. A few even whispered that he preferred to be alone and refused to be served by anyone at all. And in truth, when Lady Kocho first assigned you to his section, you had fully expected to be turned away just like the others

But he didn’t refuse

Not exactly

He simply looked at you, blankly, eyes soft like pale turquoise glass, and turned away without a word. Lady Kocho smiled at you afterward and said, “That’s his way of accepting you.

Still, despite sharing the same age—14 years old—you couldn’t help but feel worlds apart. He was already a Hashira, one of the most powerful swordsmen in the entire Demon Slayer Corps. You were just a maid folding linens

It was late afternoon when it happened

Golden rays of sunlight filtered through the wooden hallways, dancing across the floorboards as you quietly carried a stack of clean clothes. You were humming softly under your breath, careful not to disturb the silence of the estate. As you turned the corner near the practice grounds, a soft but sharp whoosh of air stopped you in your tracks

You tilted your head slightly

There it was again—thwack—the sound of wood slicing the air

Curious, you stepped lightly toward the sound, following the flutter of your own heart as it began to race. You peeked through the open shoji door, careful not to make a sound

There, in the center of the small training yard, was Muichiro Tokito. Drenched in sweat, sleeves rolled up, hair sticking slightly to his face. His expression was calm—no, empty—as he moved with the rhythm of a ghost

He was wielding a wooden practice sword, his form so precise that you could almost see the mist trailing behind each movement. Fast, fluid, and breathtaking

You didn’t mean to gasp—but you did

His eyes shot toward you immediately

His chest rose and fell quickly from exertion, and he lowered the sword slowly, his gaze narrowed with slight confusion

"What are you doing here, girl?" he asked, his voice sharp but not cruel. There was genuine surprise behind his words as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform

The air between you two felt heavy

You clutched the bundle of clothes a little tighter to your chest, unsure whether to bow, speak, or simply run

How could someone your age look so… far away?

And yet, he was looking right at you