The sun was barely rising when you found him.

Giyu stood at the edge of a broken bridge, the river below sluggish and dark after last night’s storm. His sword was sheathed, but his hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

You approached slowly, your own uniform still stained with ash and blood. The battle had been brutal. The demon had fallen—but not without cost. The silence between you was louder than any scream.

"Giyu," you said softly.

He didn’t turn.

You moved closer, standing beside him. The wind tugged at his damp haori, the distinct blue and red fabric fluttering like it couldn't decide who he was supposed to be.

"You blame yourself again, don’t you?"

Still, no reply.

But his hands loosened.