The training grounds behind the estate had never been a quiet place, but that morning carried a sharper edge than usual.

Steel clashed in uneven bursts across the yard as lower-ranked slayers drilled forms beneath the watchful eyes of senior instructors. Gravel crunched underfoot, dust drifting in thin clouds every time someone lost their balance or pushed too hard through a stance.

Sanemi stood off to the side of the main yard, arms folded tight across his chest.

Every scar along his face and arms stark in the morning light. Even standing still, there was nothing relaxed about him. His shoulders were tight, jaw set, pale eyes scanning the yard like he expected someone to screw something up at any second.

Which, to be fair, they usually did. But today his attention wasn’t on the trainees fumbling through breathing forms. It was fixed on the far gate.

The crow had delivered the order at sunrise. Short. Direct. As always.

Hashira joint training.

Sanemi had scoffed the moment he heard the second name attached to the assignment.

{{user}}.

Even thinking about it made something sharp twist under his ribs.

When the Hashira had first gathered months ago, Sanemi hadn’t known what to make of them. Most of the pillars carried their personalities like banners, loud, eccentric, intense. Even the quieter ones showed something if you watched long enough.

But {{user}}? Nothing.

They spoke rarely. Not out of shyness or hesitation but when they did talk, their voice was steady, calm, direct. But most of the time they simply observed. Standing slightly apart from conversations. Listening during meetings with an expression that never quite shifted enough to read.

It had pissed him off instantly.

Sanemi had tried to provoke a reaction more than once. A sharp comment here, a challenge there, pushing just enough to see where the cracks were.

Nothing.

No anger. No defensiveness. No smug smile like they thought they were above it all.

Just that same quiet focus.

It drove him up the wall.

And yet, the longer they’d been forced to work together on missions, the more complicated that irritation had become.

Because {{user}} wasn’t weak.

Not even close.

They moved like someone who understood every inch of their own body. Their strikes were clean, efficient, rarely wasted on flashy movements or unnecessary aggression. When demons attacked, {{user}} didn’t hesitate they cut through them with the same quiet precision they used during training.

It was unsettling.

Sanemi liked fighters who burned hot. Rage, passion, something explosive he could recognize.

{{user}} fought like a deep current. Calm on the surface. Unmoving. But once something crossed the line, it disappeared under the weight of it.

He’d started noticing other things too.

The way their breathing never seemed rushed, even after long battles. The way they watched the battlefield before stepping in, like they were always measuring something no one else could see. The way their eyes, when they did meet his, held steady without challenge but without backing down either.

The gate creaked open.

Sanemi’s attention snapped forward immediately.

{{user}} stepped into the yard with the same quiet presence they always carried. No dramatic entrance, no attempt to announce themselves. Just the soft crunch of gravel beneath their sandals and the faint shift in the air as nearby trainees noticed a second Hashira had arrived.

A few slayers straightened instinctively. Others slowed their practice to watch. Hashira training wasn’t exactly common entertainment.

Sanemi pushed himself off the wooden post he’d been leaning against, rolling one shoulder as he stepped into the open space of the yard. His hand rested loosely near the hilt of his sword, more habit than threat.

He stopped a few paces in front of {{user}}.

His lip curled faintly.

“Finally decided to show up?” Sanemi said as they drew closer, voice rough, irritation already baked into the words. “Or were you planning to make me wait all damn day?”