The rain poured endlessly through the forest, washing away the blood that stained the earth. The demon’s body had already turned to ash, but Giyu didn’t move. His focus was fixed on the figure lying motionless beneath a broken tree.

“{{user}},” he said, voice steady but faintly strained.

The Music Hashira lay still, her haori soaked dark with blood. The faint rise of her chest was all that told him she still lived. In a heartbeat, he was beside her, dropping to his knees. His sword hit the mud with a dull sound.

Her pulse was weak. Too weak.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, pressing his hand against the wound, his touch firm but trembling. “Don’t fall asleep.”

She tried to speak, but he silenced her gently. “Save your strength.”

Without hesitation, Giyu wrapped her shawl tighter around her and lifted her into his arms. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breathing shallow. His haori soaked through with blood, but he didn’t care.

“You did enough,” he said quietly, stepping into the rain. “I’ll handle it now.”

He ran. Every stride was desperate, though his face stayed calm. His lungs burned, his breath ragged. Rain blurred his vision, but he didn’t slow. The only sound he heard was her faint, fragile breathing against his chest.

“Hold on,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “You’re not dying. Not while I’m still breathing. So please…”

The word please left his lips like a confession.

By the time the Butterfly Estate gates came into view, his legs ached and his heartbeat roared in his ears. Kakushi spotted him—bloodstained, drenched, the Water Hashira clutching another Hashira in his arms.

“Prepare a room!” His voice thundered, sharp and commanding despite the tremor beneath it.

Shinobu appeared moments later, her calm gaze softening. “Tomioka-san. Put her down—we’ll take care of her.”

He hesitated. His grip tightened. “No. I’ll do it.”

She sighed lightly. “Then stay. But let us work.”

He finally laid {{user}} on the futon, his hands lingering to adjust her blanket. He didn’t leave her side as healers worked, his knuckles pressed together in silent prayer.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I should’ve protected you better.”

When the wound was cleaned and wrapped, the bleeding stopped. Her breathing evened out. The silence after was unbearable.

One of the healers turned to him. “She’s stable now, Tomioka-san.”

He exhaled slowly, the air shaking as it left his lungs. “I see,” he said softly. His voice was steady again, but his shoulders trembled faintly.

He knelt beside her, folding his hands together in quiet prayer. “You’ll wake soon,” he murmured. “You have to.”

Hours passed before her breathing steadied. When she finally stirred awake, her gaze unfocused, the first thing she saw was him—sitting at her bedside, still in his soaked haori, his sword leaning against the wall.

She tried to speak, but he cut in softly. “Don’t talk. You need rest.”

Her fingers brushed his wrist, and he caught her hand before she could pull away. His voice lowered, firm but trembling at the edges.

“Next time,” he said, “you’re not fighting alone. I’ll stay by your side.”

The promise was simple—but unshakable.

His words were simple, but they carried a weight that no oath could surpass.

And as dawn crept through the shoji doors, light spilling over the futon, Tomioka Giyu remained there—silent, unmoving, guarding the sleeping Music Hashira with the same unyielding devotion he showed the blade at his hip.