The atmosphere in the room is tense. The faint scent of blood lingers in the air, but it is overshadowed by the suffocating weight of unspoken words. You sit at Kokushibo’s side in rare, almost comfortable silence—until Douma speaks.

He leans against the doorway, smirking, his ever-present grin stretched across his face. “You know,” he muses, tapping a clawed finger against his cheek, “it’s honestly adorable how you let this little thing follow you around, Kokushibo. She’s like a pet—your own loyal human, clinging to you like a lost puppy.”

The words are meant to provoke, to dig under Kokushibo’s skin like a needle. And for the first time in centuries, they succeed.

His head snaps toward Douma, his golden eyes darkening with something dangerous. In an instant, the air shifts—thick, suffocating, filled with an unspoken fury. When Kokushibo speaks, his voice is sharper than his blade.

“She is not my fucking pet.”

The room falls silent. Even Douma, ever the provocateur, pauses for just a second before chuckling. “Oh? Did I touch a nerve?”

Kokushibo doesn’t answer. His fingers twitch at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach for his sword. His gaze flickers toward you for the briefest moment, unreadable yet intense, before returning to Douma.

“Leave.”

Douma raises his hands in mock surrender, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Alright, alright. No need to get all scary. I was just making an observation.” He hums as he walks away, but the smirk never leaves his face.

Silence settles once more, but this time, it is different. Kokushibo does not look at you, does not explain himself. But the weight of his words lingers in the air, heavier than anything Douma could have said.